would follow the ending of the story, old M. D'Hemecourt would all at
once speak up and say, laying his hands upon the narrator's knee,
"Comrade, your throat is dry, here are fresh limes; let my dear child
herself come and mix you a lemonade." Then the neighbors over the way,
sitting about their doors, would by and by softly say, "See, see! there
is Pauline!" and all the exiles would rise from their rocking-chairs,
take off their hats and stand as men stand in church, while Pauline came
out like the moon from a cloud, descended the three steps of the café
door, and stood with waiter and glass, a new Rebecca with her pitcher,
before the swarthy wanderer.

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 Café des
Exilés 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 Café des Exilés, 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.