“And now, gentlemen,” Galahad recommenced, “fellow-exiles, once more.  Munsher D’Himecourt, it was yer practice, until lately, to reward a good talker with a dlass from the hands o’ yer daughter.” (Si, si!) “I’m bur a poor speaker.” (Si, si, Senor, z-a-fine-a kin’-a can be; si!) “However, I’ll ask ye, not knowun bur it may be the last time we all meet together, if ye will not let the goddess of the Cafe des Exiles grace our company with her presence for just about one minute?” (Yez-a, Senor; si; yez-a; oui.)

Every head was turned toward the old man, nodding the echoed request.

“Ye see, friends,” said Galahad in a true Irish whisper, as M. D’Hemecourt left the apartment, “her poseetion has been a-growin’ more and more embarrassin’ daily, and the operaytions of our society were likely to make it wurse in the future; wherefore I have lately taken steps—­I say I tuke steps this morn to relieve the old gentleman’s distresses and his daughter’s”—­

He paused.  M. D’Hemecourt entered with Pauline, and the exiles all rose up.  Ah!—­but why say again she was lovely?

Galahad stepped forward to meet her, took her hand, led her to the head of the board, and turning to the company, said: 

“Friends and fellow-patriots, Misthress Shaughnessy.”

There was no outburst of astonishment—­only the same old bowing, smiling, and murmuring of compliment.  Galahad turned with a puzzled look to M. D’Hemecourt, and guessed the truth.  In the joy of an old man’s heart he had already that afternoon told the truth to each and every man separately, as a secret too deep for them to reveal, but too sweet for him to keep.  The Major and Pauline were man and wife.

The last laugh that was ever heard in the Cafe des Exiles sounded softly through the room.

“Lads,” said the Irishman.  “Fill yer dlasses.  Here’s to the Cafe des Exiles, God bless her!”

And the meeting slowly adjourned.

Two days later, signs and rumors of sickness began to find place about the Cafe des Refugies, and the Mexican physician made three calls in one day.  It was said by the people around that the tall Cuban gentleman named Benito was very sick in one of the back rooms.  A similar frequency of the same physician’s calls was noticed about the Cafe des Exiles.

“The man with one eyebrow,” said the neighbors, “is sick.  Pauline left the house yesterday to make room for him.”

“Ah! is it possible?”

“Yes, it is really true; she and her husband.  She took her mocking-bird with her; he carried it; he came back alone.”

On the next afternoon the children about the Cafe des Refugies enjoyed the spectacle of the invalid Cuban moved on a trestle to the Cafe des Exiles, although he did not look so deathly sick as they could have liked to see him, and on the fourth morning the doors of the Cafe des Exiles remained closed.  A black-bordered funeral notice, veiled with crape, announced that the great Caller-home of exiles had served his summons upon Don Pedro Hernandez (surname borrowed for the occasion), and Don Carlos Mendez y Benito.