fifteen or twenty minutes, and then, thinking he could step around to
the Café des Exilés and return before the expiration of the allotted
time, hurried out.

Meanwhile that peaceful habitation sat in the moonlight with her
children about her feet. The company outside the door was somewhat
thinner than common. M. D'Hemecourt was not among them, but was sitting
in the room behind the café. The long table which the burial society
used at their meetings extended across the apartment, and a lamp had
been placed upon it. M. D'Hemecourt sat by the lamp. Opposite him was a
chair, which seemed awaiting an expected occupant. Beside the old man
sat Pauline. They were talking in cautious undertones, and in French.

"No," she seemed to insist; "we do not know that he refuses to come. We
only know that Manuel says so."

The father shook his head sadly. "When has he ever staid away three
nights together before?" he asked. "No, my child; it is intentional.
Manuel urges him to come, but he only sends poor excuses."

"But," said the girl, shading her face from the lamp and speaking with
some suddenness, "why have you not sent word to him by some other
person?"

M. D'Hemecourt looked up at his daughter a moment, and then smiled at
his own simplicity.

"Ah!" he said. "Certainly; and that is what I will--run away, Pauline.
There is Manuel, now, ahead of time!"