And yet I know not how to describe the forbearing, unspoken tenderness with which all these exiles regarded the maiden.  In the balmy afternoons, as I have said, they gathered about their mother’s knee, that is to say, upon the banquette outside the door.  There, lolling back in their rocking-chairs, they would pass the evening hours with oft-repeated tales of home; and the moon would come out and glide among the clouds like a silver barge among islands wrapped in mist, and they loved the silently gliding orb with a sort of worship, because from her soaring height she looked down at the same moment upon them and upon their homes in the far Antilles.  It was somewhat thus that they looked upon Pauline as she seemed to them held up half way to heaven, they knew not how.  Ah, those who have been pilgrims; who have wandered out beyond harbor and light; whom fate hath led in lonely paths strewn with thorns and briers not of their own sowing; who, homeless in a land of homes, see windows gleaming and doors ajar, but not for them,—­it is they who well understand what the worship is that cries to any daughter of our dear mother Eve whose footsteps chance may draw across the path, the silent, beseeching cry, “Stay a little instant that I may look upon you.  Oh, woman, beautifier of the earth!  Stay till I recall the face of my sister; stay yet a moment while I look from afar, with helpless-hanging hands, upon the softness of thy cheek, upon the folded coils of thy shining hair; and my spirit shall fall down and say those prayers which I may never again—­God knoweth—­say at home.”

She was seldom seen; but sometimes, when the lounging exiles would be sitting in their afternoon circle under the eaves, and some old man would tell his tale of fire and blood and capture and escape, and the heads would lean forward from the chair-backs and a great stillness 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 cafe 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 Cafe des Exiles did I omit to say that these make-believe adventures were heard with every mark of respect and credence; while, on