And yet, when they were girded for stern criticism, there was his friendly hand held out to them at the church door, his fine eyes smiling at them as though he could read every thought in their craniums, his clear voice sending a blessing after them. How could you sit in harsh judgment on a man like that?

Oui, he had a voice, to be sure. Even the grandmères stopped saying their beads when young Père Dagobert began singing the Mass. The grandpères sighed a little, and wiped their watery eyes. The silly jeunes filles knelt enchanted, their mouths open, rising to their feet like slim young machines at the proper time — fascinated, entranced, hypnotized! And the prim, placid mesdames, those cool-headed young matrons who kept so firm a hand on the reins of their several households, whose judgment was so sound, whose scheme of life was so precise and so beautifully ordered—were they quite as cool and unemotional as they made out?

The sunshine was very golden and lovely. The River dappled and shimmered. There were mocking birds in the magnolias and the live oaks. The orange trees were in flower, and the mint and sweet marjoram were fragrant in the borders. There was jasmine pouring over green lattices, and peach blossoms and scarlet pomegranate blooms. The world was a wonderful place, and Sunday was a wonderful day, especially early in the morning...when young Père Dagobert was singing the Mass.

But gradually the newness of things wore off, and the handsome Capuchin drew his people gracefully into his way, without their realization or protest Pere Dagobert was like no one on earth. He was Pete Dagobert.

Sometimes he was pastor of the parish Church of Saint-Louis, and sometimes he was not. Occasionally one or another of the friars would take the services, while Père Dagobert lolled luxuriously on the shady galleries of the Capuchin plantation up the river. Returning, he would speak pridefully of the fine growths of indigo and oranges and figs.