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 Café des Exilés sometimes took upon her lap--that
is to say door-step--but whose favorite resort was the old Café des
Réfugiés 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 Café des Exilés; 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 Café des Exilés 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 Café des Réfugiés also
would appear. A small gate in the close garden-fence let them into a
room behind the café proper, and by and by the apartment would be full