“——­ sayce to me, ‘Manuel, she t-theeng I want-n to marry hore.’  Senor, you shouth ‘ave see’ him laugh!”

M. D’Hemecourt lifted up his head, and laid his hand upon the young man’s arm.

“Manuel Mazaro,” he began, “iv dad w’ad you say is nod”—­

The Cuban interrupted.

“If is no’ t-thrue you will keel Manuel Mazaro?—­a’ r-r-right-a!”

“No,” said the tender old man, “no, bud h-I am positeef dad de Madjor will shood you.”

Mazaro nodded, and lifted one finger for attention.

“——­ sayce to me, ‘Manuel, you goin’ tell-a Senor D’Hemecourt, I fin’-a you some nigh’ an’ cut-a you’ heart ou’.  An’ I sayce to heem-a, ’Boat-a if Senor D’Hemecourt he fin’-in’ ou’ frone Pauline’”—­

“Silence!” fiercely cried the old man.  “My God!  ’Sieur Mazaro, neider you, neider somebody helse s’all h’use de nem of me daughter.  It is nod possib’ dad you s’all spick him!  I cannot pearmid thad.”

While the old man was speaking these vehement words, the Cuban was emphatically nodding approval.

“Co-rect-a, co-rect-a, Senor,” he replied.  “Senor, you’ r-r-right-a; escuse-a me, Senor, escuse-a me.  Senor D’Hemecourt, Mayor Shanghness’, when he talkin’ wi’ me he usin’ hore-a name o the t-thime-a!”

“My fren’,” said M. D’Hemecourt, rising and speaking with labored control, “I muz tell you good nighd.  You ’ave sooprise me a verry gred deal.  I s’all investigade doze ting; an’, Manuel Mazaro, h-I am a hole man; bud I will requez you, iv dad wad you say is nod de true, my God! not to h-ever ritturn again ad de Cafe des Exiles.”

Mazaro smiled and nodded.  His host opened the door into the garden, and, as the young man stepped out, noticed even then how handsome was his face and figure, and how the odor of the night jasmine was filling the air with an almost insupportable sweetness.  The Cuban paused a moment, as if to speak, but checked himself, lifted his girlish face, and looked up to where the daggers of the palmetto-tree were crossed upon the face of the moon, dropped his glance, touched his Panama, and silently followed by the bare-headed old man, drew open the little garden-gate, looked cautiously out, said good-night, and stepped into the street.

As M. D’Hemecourt returned to the door through which he had come, he uttered an ejaculation of astonishment.  Pauline stood before him.  She spoke hurriedly in French.

“Papa, papa, it is not true.”

“No, my child,” he responded, “I am sure it is not true:  I am sure it is all false; but why do I find you out of bed so late, little bird?  The night is nearly gone.”

He laid his hand upon her cheek.

“Ah, papa, I cannot deceive you.  I thought Manuel would tell you something of this kind, and I listened.”

The father’s face immediately betrayed a new and deeper distress.

“Pauline, my child,” he said with tremulous voice, “if Manuel’s story is all false, in the name of Heaven how could you think he was going to tell it?”