The last laugh that was ever heard in the Café des Exilés sounded softly
through the room.

"Lads," said the Irishman. "Fill yer dlasses. Here's to the Café des
Exilés, God bless her!"

And the meeting slowly adjourned.

Two days later, signs and rumors of sickness began to find place about
the Café des Réfugiés, and the Mexican physician made three calls in one
day. It was said by the people around that the tall Cuban gentleman
named Benito was very sick in one of the back rooms. A similar frequency
of the same physician's calls was noticed about the Café des Exilés.

"The man with one eyebrow," said the neighbors, "is sick. Pauline left
the house yesterday to make room for him."

"Ah! is it possible?"

"Yes, it is really true; she and her husband. She took her mocking-bird
with her; he carried it; he came back alone."

On the next afternoon the children about the Café des Réfugiés enjoyed
the spectacle of the invalid Cuban moved on a trestle to the Café des
Exilés, although he did not look so deathly sick as they could have
liked to see him, and on the fourth morning the doors of the Café des
Exilés remained closed. A black-bordered funeral notice, veiled with
crape, announced that the great Caller-home of exiles had served his
summons upon Don Pedro Hernandez (surname borrowed for the occasion),