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What tales that would have been tear-compelling, nay, heart-rending, had they not been palpable inventions, the pretty, womanish Mazaro from time to time poured forth, in the ever ungratified hope that the goddess might come down with a draught of nectar for him, it profiteth not to recount; but I should fail to show a family feature of the Cafe des Exiles did I omit to say that these make-believe adventures were heard with every mark of respect and credence; while, on the other hand, they were never attempted in the presence of the Irishman. He would have moved an eyebrow, or made some barely audible sound, or dropped some seemingly innocent word, and the whole company, spite of themselves, would have smiled. Wherefore, it may be doubted whether at any time the curly-haired young Cuban had that playful affection for his Celtic comrade, which a habit of giving little velvet taps to Galahad’s cheek made a show of.

Such was the Cafe des Exiles, such its inmates, such its guests, when certain apparently trivial events began to fall around it as germs of blight fall upon corn, and to bring about that end which cometh to all things.

The little seed of jealousy, dropped into the heart of Manuel Mazaro, we have already taken into account.

Galahad Shaughnessy began to be specially active in organizing a society of Spanish Americans, the design of which, as set forth in its manuscript constitution, was to provide proper funeral honors to such of their membership as might be overtaken by death; and, whenever it was practicable, to send their ashes to their native land. Next to Galahad in this movement was an elegant old Mexican physician, Dr.–,–his name escapes me–whom the Cafe des Exiles sometimes took upon her lap–that is to say door-step–but whose favorite resort was the old Cafe des Refugies in the Rue Royale (Royal Street, as it was beginning to be called). Manuel Mazaro was made secretary.

It was for some reason thought judicious for the society to hold its meetings in various places, now here, now there; but the most frequent rendezvous was the Cafe des Exiles; it was quiet; those Spanish Creoles, however they may afterward cackle, like to lay their plans noiselessly, like a hen in a barn. There was a very general confidence in this old institution, a kind of inward assurance that “mother wouldn’t tell;” though, after all, what great secrets could there be connected with a mere burial society?

Before the hour of meeting, the Cafe des Exiles always sent away her children and closed her door. Presently they would commence returning, one by one, as a flock of wild fowl will do, that has been startled up from its accustomed haunt. Frequenters of the Cafe des Refugies also would appear. A small gate in the close garden-fence let them into a room behind the cafe proper, and by and by the apartment would be full of dark-visaged men conversing in the low, courteous tone common to their race. The shutters of doors and windows were closed and the chinks stopped with cotton; some people are so jealous of observation.

On a certain night after one of these meetings had dispersed in its peculiar way, the members retiring two by two at intervals, Manuel Mazaro and M. D’Hemecourt were left alone, sitting close together in the dimly lighted room, the former speaking, the other, with no pleasant countenance, attending. It seemed to the young Cuban a proper precaution–he was made of precautions–to speak in English. His voice was barely audible.

“—- sayce to me, ‘Manuel, she t-theeng I want-n to marry hore.’ Senor, you shouth ‘ave see’ him laugh!”

M. D’Hemecourt lifted up his head, and laid his hand upon the young man’s arm.

“Manuel Mazaro,” he began, “iv dad w’ad you say is nod”–

The Cuban interrupted.

“If is no’ t-thrue you will keel Manuel Mazaro?–a’ r-r-right-a!”

“No,” said the tender old man, “no, bud h-I am positeef dad de Madjor will shood you.”