As he moved off, M. D’Hemecourt resumed:  that in a last extremity he had opened, partly from dire want, partly for very love to homeless souls, the Cafe des Exiles.  He had hoped that, as strong drink and high words were to be alike unknown to it, it might not prejudice sensible people; but it had.  He had no doubt they said among themselves, “She is an excellent and beautiful girl and deserving all respect;” and respect they accorded, but their respects they never came to pay.

“A cafe is a cafe,” said the old gentleman.  “It is nod possib’ to ezcape him, aldough de Cafe des Exiles is differen from de rez.”

“It’s different from the Cafe des Refugies,” suggested the Irishman.

“Differen’ as possib’,” replied M. D’Hemecourt He looked about upon the walls.  The shelves were luscious with ranks of cooling sirups which he alone knew how to make.  The expression of his face changed from sadness to a gentle pride, which spoke without words, saying—­and let our story pause a moment to hear it say: 

“If any poor exile, from any island where guavas or mangoes or plantains grow, wants a draught which will make him see his home among the cocoa-palms, behold the Cafe des Exiles ready to take the poor child up and give him the breast!  And if gold or silver he has them not, why Heaven and Santa Maria, and Saint Christopher bless him!  It makes no difference.  Here is a rocking-chair, here a cigarette, and here a light from the host’s own tinder.  He will pay when he can.”

As this easily pardoned pride said, so it often occurred; and if the newly come exile said his father was a Spaniard—­“Come!” old M. D’Hemecourt would cry; “another glass; it is an innocent drink; my mother was a Castilian.”  But, if the exile said his mother was a Frenchwoman, the glasses would be forthcoming all the same, for “My father,” the old man would say, “was a Frenchman of Martinique, with blood as pure as that wine and a heart as sweet as this honey; come, a glass of orgeat;” and he would bring it himself in a quart tumbler.

Now, there are jealousies and jealousies.  There are people who rise up quickly and kill, and there are others who turn their hot thoughts over silently in their minds as a brooding bird turns her eggs in the nest.  Thus did Manuel Mazaro, and took it ill that Galahad should see a vision in the temple while he and all the brethren tarried without.  Pauline had been to the Cafe des Exiles in some degree what the image of the Virgin was to their churches at home; and for her father to whisper her name to one and not to another was, it seemed to Mazaro, as if the old man, were he a sacristan, should say to some single worshiper, “Here, you may have this madonna; I make it a present to you.”  Or, if such was not the handsome young Cuban’s feeling, such, at least, was the disguise his jealousy put on.  If Pauline was to be handed down from her niche, why, then, farewell Cafe des Exiles.  She was its preserving influence, she made the place holy; she was the burning candles on the altar.  Surely the reader will pardon the pen that lingers in the mention of her.