CAFE DES EXILES.
That which in 1835--I think he said thirty-five--was a reality in theRue Burgundy--I think he said Burgundy--is now but a reminiscence. Yetso vividly was its story told me, that at this moment the old Cafe desExiles appears before my eye, floating in the clouds of revery, and Idoubt not I see it just as it was in the old times.
An antiquated story-and-a-half Creole cottage sitting right down on thebanquette, as do the Choctaw squaws who sell bay and sassafras andlife-everlasting, with a high, close board-fence shutting out of viewthe diminutive garden on the southern side. An ancient willow droopsover the roof of round tiles, and partly hides the discolored stucco,which keeps dropping off into the garden as though the old cafe wasstripping for the plunge into oblivion--disrobing for its execution. Isee, well up in the angle of the broad side gable, shaded by its rudeawning of clapboards, as the eyes of an old dame are shaded by herwrinkled hand, the window of Pauline. Oh for the image of the maiden,were it but for one moment, leaning out of the casement to hang hermocking-bird and looking down into the garden,--where, above the barrierof old boards, I see the top of the fig-tree, the pale green clump ofbananas, the tall palmetto with its jagged crown, Pauline's own twoorange-trees holding up their bands toward the window, heavy with thepromises of autumn; the broad, crimson mass of the many-stemmedoleander, and the crisp boughs of the pomegranate loaded with freckledapples, and with here and there a lingering scarlet blossom.
The Cafe des Exiles, to use a figure, flowered, bore fruit, and droppedit long ago--or rather Time and Fate, like some uncursed Adam and Eve,came side by side and cut away its clusters, as we sever the goldenburden of the banana from its stem; then, like a banana which has borneits fruit, it was razed to the ground and made way for a newer, brightergrowth. I believe it would set every tooth on edge should I go by therenow,--now that I have heard the story,--and see the old site covered bythe "Shoo-fly Coffee-house." Pleasanter far to close my eyes and call toview the unpretentious portals of the old cafe, with her children--forsuch those exiles seem to me--dragging their rocking-chairs out, andsitting in their wonted group under the long, out-reaching eaves whichshaded the banquette of the Rue Burgundy.
It was in 1835 that the Cafe des Exiles was, as one might say, in fullblossom. Old M. D'Hemecourt, father of Pauline and host of the cafe,himself a refugee from San Domingo, was the cause--at least the humancause--of its opening. As its white-curtained, glazed doors expanded,emitting a little puff of his own cigarette smoke, it was like thebursting of catalpa blossoms, and the exiles came like bees, pushinginto the tiny room to sip its rich variety of tropical sirups, itslemonades, its orangeades, its orgeats, its barley-waters, and itsoutlandish wines, while they talked of dear home--that is to say, ofBarbadoes, of Martinique, of San Domingo, and of Cuba.
There were Pedro and Benigno, and Fernandez and Francisco, and Benito.Benito was a tall, swarthy man, with immense gray moustachios, and hairas harsh as tropical grass and gray as ashes. When he could spare hiscigarette from his lips, he would tell you in a cavernous voice, andwith a wrinkled smile that he was "a-t-thorty-seveng."
There was Martinez of San Domingo, yellow as a canary, always sittingwith one leg curled under him and holding the back of his head in hisknitted fingers against the back of his rocking-chair. Father, mother,brother, sisters, all, had been massacred in the struggle of '21 and'22; he alone was left to tell the tale, and told it often, with thatstrange, infantile insensibility to the solemnity of his bereavement sopeculiar to Latin people.
But, besides these, and many who need no mention, there were two inparticular, around whom all the story of the Cafe des Exiles, of old M.D'Hemecourt and of Pauline, turns as on a double centre. First, ManuelMazaro, whose small, restless eyes were as black and bright as those ofa mouse, whose light talk became his dark girlish face, and whoseredundant locks curled so prettily and so wonderfully black under thefine white brim of his jaunty Panama. He had the hands of a woman, savethat the nails were stained with the smoke of cigarettes. He could playthe guitar delightfully, and wore his knife down behind his coat-collar.
The second was "Major" Galahad Shaughnessy. I imagine I can see him, inhis white duck, brass-buttoned roundabout, with his sabreless beltpeeping out beneath, all his boyishness in his sea-blue eyes, leaninglightly against the door-post of the Cafe des Exiles as a child leansagainst his mother, running his fingers over a basketful of fragrantlimes, and watching his chance to strike some solemn Creole under thefifth rib with a good old Irish joke.
Old D'Hemecourt drew him close to his bosom. The Spanish Creoles were,as the old man termed it, both cold and hot, but never warm. MajorShaughnessy was warm, and it was no uncommon thing to find those twoapart from the others, talking in an undertone, and playing atconfidantes like two schoolgirls. The kind old man was at this timedrifting close up to his sixtieth year. There was much he could tell ofSan Domingo, whither he had been carried from Martinique in hischildhood, whence he had become a refugee to Cuba, and thence to NewOrleans in the flight of 1809.
It fell one day to Manuel Mazaro's lot to discover, by sauntering withinearshot, that to Galahad Shaughnessy only, of all the children of theCafe des Exiles, the good host spoke long and confidentially concerninghis daughter. The words, half heard and magnified like objects seem in afog, meaning Manuel Mazaro knew not what, but made portentous by hissuspicious nature, were but the old man's recital of the grinding he hadgot between the millstones of his poverty and his pride, in trying solong to sustain, for little Pauline's sake, that attitude before societywhich earns respect from a surface-viewing world. It was while he wastelling this that Manuel Mazaro drew near; the old man paused in anembarrassed way; the Major, sitting sidewise in his chair, lifted hischeek from its resting-place on his elbow; and Mazaro, after standing anawkward moment, turned away with such an inward feeling as one may guesswould arise in a heart full of Cuban blood, not unmixed with Indian.
As he moved off, M. D'Hemecourt resumed: that in a last extremity he hadopened, partly from dire want, partly for very love to homeless souls,the Cafe des Exiles. He had hoped that, as strong drink and high wordswere 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 anexcellent and beautiful girl and deserving all respect;" and respectthey accorded, but their _respects_ they never came to pay.
"A cafe is a cafe," said the old gentleman. "It is nod possib' to ezcapehim, 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 thewalls. The shelves were luscious with ranks of cooling sirups which healone knew how to make. The expression of his face changed from sadnessto a gentle pride, which spoke without words, saying--and let our storypause a moment to hear it say:
"If any poor exile, from any island where guavas or mangoes or plantainsgrow, wants a draught which will make him see his home among thecocoa-palms, behold the Cafe des Exiles ready to take the poor child upand give him the breast! And if gold or silver he has them not, whyHeaven and Santa Maria, and Saint Christopher bless him! It makes nodifference. Here is a rocking-chair, here a cigarette, and here a lightfrom the host's own tinder. He will pay when he can."
As this easily pardoned pride said, so it often occurred; and if thenewly come exile said his father was a Spaniard--"Come!" old M.D'Hemecourt would cry; "another glass; it is an innocent drink; mymother was a Castilian." But, if the exile said his mother was aFrenchwoman, the glasses would be forthcoming all the same, for "Myfather," the old man would say, "was a Frenchman of Martinique, withblood as pure as that wine and a heart as sweet as this honey; come, aglass of orgeat;" and he would bring it himself in a quart tumbler.
Now, there are jealousies and jealousies. There are people who rise upquickly and kill, and there are others who turn their hot thoughts oversilently 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 visionin the temple while he and all the brethren tarried without. Pauline hadbeen to the Cafe des Exiles in some degree what the image of the Virginwas to their churches at home; and for her father to whisper her name toone and not to another was, it seemed to Mazaro, as if the old man, werehe a sacristan, should say to some single worshiper, "Here, you may havethis madonna; I make it a present to you." Or, if such was not thehandsome young Cuban's feeling, such, at least, was the disguise hisjealousy put on. If Pauline was to be handed down from her niche, why,then, farewell Cafe des Exiles. She was its preserving influence, shemade the place holy; she was the burning candles on the altar. Surelythe reader will pardon the pen that lingers in the mention of her.
And yet I know not how to describe the forbearing, unspoken tendernesswith which all these exiles regarded the maiden. In the balmyafternoons, as I have said, they gathered about their mother's knee,that is to say, upon the banquette outside the door. There, lolling backin their rocking-chairs, they would pass the evening hours withoft-repeated tales of home; and the moon would come out and glide amongthe clouds like a silver barge among islands wrapped in mist, and theyloved the silently gliding orb with a sort of worship, because from hersoaring height she looked down at the same moment upon them and upontheir homes in the far Antilles. It was somewhat thus that they lookedupon Pauline as she seemed to them held up half way to heaven, they knewnot how. Ah, those who have been pilgrims; who have wandered out beyondharbor and light; whom fate hath led in lonely paths strewn with thornsand 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 whowell understand what the worship is that cries to any daughter of ourdear mother Eve whose footsteps chance may draw across the path, thesilent, 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 mysister; stay yet a moment while I look from afar, with helpless-hanginghands, upon the softness of thy cheek, upon the folded coils of thyshining hair; and my spirit shall fall down and say those prayers whichI may never again--God knoweth--say at home."
She was seldom seen; but sometimes, when the lounging exiles would besitting in their afternoon circle under the eaves, and some old manwould tell his tale of fire and blood and capture and escape, and theheads would lean forward from the chair-backs and a great stillnesswould follow the ending of the story, old M. D'Hemecourt would all atonce speak up and say, laying his hands upon the narrator's knee,"Comrade, your throat is dry, here are fresh limes; let my dear childherself come and mix you a lemonade." Then the neighbors over the way,sitting about their doors, would by and by softly say, "See, see! thereis Pauline!" and all the exiles would rise from their rocking-chairs,take off their hats and stand as men stand in church, while Pauline cameout like the moon from a cloud, descended the three steps of the cafedoor, 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, hadthey not been palpable inventions, the pretty, womanish Mazaro from timeto time poured forth, in the ever ungratified hope that the goddessmight come down with a draught of nectar for him, it profiteth not torecount; but I should fail to show a family feature of the Cafe desExiles did I omit to say that these make-believe adventures were heardwith every mark of respect and credence; while, on the other hand, theywere never attempted in the presence of the Irishman. He would havemoved an eyebrow, or made some barely audible sound, or dropped someseemingly innocent word, and the whole company, spite of themselves,would have smiled. Wherefore, it may be doubted whether at any time thecurly-haired young Cuban had that playful affection for his Celticcomrade, which a habit of giving little velvet taps to Galahad's cheekmade a show of.
Such was the Cafe des Exiles, such its inmates, such its guests, whencertain apparently trivial events began to fall around it as germs ofblight fall upon corn, and to bring about that end which cometh to allthings.
The little seed of jealousy, dropped into the heart of Manuel Mazaro, wehave already taken into account.
Galahad Shaughnessy began to be specially active in organizing a societyof Spanish Americans, the design of which, as set forth in itsmanuscript constitution, was to provide proper funeral honors to such oftheir membership as might be overtaken by death; and, whenever it waspracticable, to send their ashes to their native land. Next to Galahadin this movement was an elegant old Mexican physician, Dr.--,--his nameescapes me--whom the Cafe des Exiles sometimes took upon her lap--thatis to say door-step--but whose favorite resort was the old Cafe desRefugies in the Rue Royale (Royal Street, as it was beginning to becalled). Manuel Mazaro was made secretary.
It was for some reason thought judicious for the society to hold itsmeetings in various places, now here, now there; but the most frequentrendezvous was the Cafe des Exiles; 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 oldinstitution, a kind of inward assurance that "mother wouldn't tell;"though, after all, what great secrets could there be connected with amere burial society?
Before the hour of meeting, the Cafe des Exiles always sent away herchildren and closed her door. Presently they would commence returning,one by one, as a flock of wild fowl will do, that has been startled upfrom its accustomed haunt. Frequenters of the Cafe des Refugies alsowould appear. A small gate in the close garden-fence let them into aroom behind the cafe proper, and by and by the apartment would be fullof dark-visaged men conversing in the low, courteous tone common totheir race. The shutters of doors and windows were closed and the chinksstopped with cotton; some people are so jealous of observation.
On a certain night after one of these meetings had dispersed in itspeculiar way, the members retiring two by two at intervals, ManuelMazaro and M. D'Hemecourt were left alone, sitting close together in thedimly lighted room, the former speaking, the other, with no pleasantcountenance, attending. It seemed to the young Cuban a properprecaution--he was made of precautions--to speak in English. His voicewas barely audible.
"---- 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 youngman'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 Madjorwill shood you."
Mazaro nodded, and lifted one finger for attention.
"---- sayce to me, 'Manuel, you goin' tell-a Senor D'Hemecourt, I fin'-ayou some nigh' an' cut-a you' heart ou'. An' I sayce to heem-a, 'Boat-aif Senor D'Hemecourt he fin'-in' ou' frone Pauline'"--
"_Silence!_" fiercely cried the old man. "My God! 'Sieur Mazaro, neideryou, neider somebody helse s'all h'use de nem of me daughter. It is nodpossib' dad you s'all spick him! I cannot pearmid thad."
While the old man was speaking these vehement words, the Cuban wasemphatically 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 laboredcontrol, "I muz tell you good nighd. You 'ave sooprise me a verry greddeal. I s'all _in_vestigade doze ting; an', Manuel Mazaro, h-I am a holeman; 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 hisface and figure, and how the odor of the night jasmine was filling theair with an almost insupportable sweetness. The Cuban paused a moment,as if to speak, but checked himse
lf, lifted his girlish face, and lookedup to where the daggers of the palmetto-tree were crossed upon the faceof the moon, dropped his glance, touched his Panama, and silentlyfollowed 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, heuttered an ejaculation of astonishment. Pauline stood before him. Shespoke 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 isall false; but why do I find you out of bed so late, little bird? Thenight is nearly gone."
He laid his hand upon her cheek.
"Ah, papa, I cannot deceive you. I thought Manuel would tell yousomething 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 isall false, in the name of Heaven how could you think he was going totell it?"
He unconsciously clasped his hands. The good child had one trait whichshe could not have inherited from her father; she was quick-witted anddiscerning; yet now she stood confounded.
"Speak, my child," cried the alarmed old man; "speak! let me live, andnot die."
"Oh, papa," she cried, "I do not know!"
The old man groaned.
"Papa, papa," she cried again, "I felt it; I know not how; somethingtold me."
"Alas!" exclaimed the old man, "if it was your conscience!"
"No, no, no, papa," cried Pauline, "but I was afraid of Manuel Mazaro,and I think he hates him--and I think he will hurt him in any way hecan--and I _know_ he will even try to kill him. Oh! my God!"
She struck her hands together above her head, and burst into a flood oftears. Her father looked upon her with such sad sternness as his tendernature was capable of. He laid hold of one of her arms to draw a handfrom the face whither both hands had gone.
"You know something else," he said; "you know that the Major loves you,or you think so: is it not true?"
She dropped both hands, and, lifting her streaming eyes that had nothingto hide straight to his, suddenly said:
"I would give worlds to think so!" and sunk upon the floor.
He was melted and convinced in one instant.
"Oh, my child, my child," he cried, trying to lift her. "Oh, my poorlittle Pauline, your papa is not angry. Rise, my little one; so; kissme; Heaven bless thee. Pauline, treasure, what shall I do with thee?Where shall I hide thee?"
"You have my counsel already, papa."
"Yes, my child, and you were right. The Cafe des Exiles never shouldhave been opened. It is no place for you; no place at all."
"Let us leave it," said Pauline.
"Ah! Pauline, I would close it to-morrow if I could, but now it is toolate; I cannot."
"Why?" asked Pauline, pleadingly.
She had cast an arm about his neck. Her tears sparkled with a smile.
"My daughter, I cannot tell you; you must go now to bed; good-night--orgood-morning; God keep you!"
"Well, then, papa," she said, "have no fear; you need not hide me; Ihave my prayer-book, and my altar, and my garden, and my window; mygarden is my fenced city, and my window my watch-tower; do you see?"
"Ah! Pauline," responded the father, "but I have been letting the enemyin and out at pleasure."
"Good-night," she answered, and kissed him three times on either cheek;"the blessed Virgin will take care of us; good-night; _he_ never saidthose things; not he; good-night."
The next evening Galahad Shaughnessy and Manuel Mazaro met at that "verydifferent" place, the Cafe des Refugies. There was much free talk goingon about Texan annexation, about chances of war with Mexico, about SanDomingan affairs, about Cuba and many et-ceteras. Galahad was in hisusual gay mood. He strode about among a mixed company of Louisianais,Cubans, and Americains, keeping them in a great laugh with his accountof one of Ole Bull's concerts, and how he had there extorted aninvitation from M. and Mme. Devoti to attend one of their famouschildren's fancy dress balls.
"Halloo!" said he as Mazaro approached, "heer's the etheerial Angelicaherself. Look-ut heer, sissy, why ar'n't ye in the maternal arms of theCafe des Exiles?"
Mazaro smiled amiably and sat down. A moment after, the Irishman,stepping away from his companions, stood before the young Cuban, andasked with a quiet business air:
"D'ye want to see me, Mazaro?"
The Cuban nodded, and they went aside. Mazaro, in a few quick words,looking at his pretty foot the while, told the other on no account to gonear the Cafe des Exiles, as there were two men hanging about there,evidently watching for him, and--
"Wut's the use o' that?" asked Galahad; "I say, wut's the use o' that?"
Major Shaughnessy's habit of repeating part of his words arose fromanother, of interrupting any person who might be speaking.
"They must know--I say they must know that whenever I'm nowhurs else I'mheer. What do they want?"
Mazaro made a gesture, signifying caution and secrecy, and smiled, as ifto say, "You ought to know."
"Aha!" said the Irishman softly. "Why don't they come here?"
"Z-afrai'," said Mazaro; "d'they frai' to do an'teen een d-these-acrowth."
"That's so," said the Irishman; "I say, that's so. If I don't feel verymuch like go-un, I'll not go; I say, I'll not go. We've no businessto-night, eh Mazaro?"
"No, Senor."
A second evening was much the same, Mazaro repeating his warning. Butwhen, on the third evening, the Irishman again repeated his willingnessto stay away from the Cafe des Exiles unless he should feel stronglyimpelled to go, it was with the mental reservation that he did feel verymuch in that humor, and, unknown to Mazaro, should thither repair, ifonly to see whether some of those deep old fellows were not contriving apractical joke.
"Mazaro," said he, "I'm go-un around the caurnur a bit; I want ye towait heer till I come back. I say I want ye to wait heer till I comeback; I'll be gone about three-quarters of an hour."
Mazaro assented. He saw with satisfaction the Irishman start in adirection opposite that in which lay the Cafe des Exiles, tarriedfifteen or twenty minutes, and then, thinking he could step around tothe Cafe des Exiles and return before the expiration of the allottedtime, hurried out.
Meanwhile that peaceful habitation sat in the moonlight with herchildren about her feet. The company outside the door was somewhatthinner than common. M. D'Hemecourt was not among them, but was sittingin the room behind the cafe. The long table which the burial societyused at their meetings extended across the apartment, and a lamp hadbeen placed upon it. M. D'Hemecourt sat by the lamp. Opposite him was achair, which seemed awaiting an expected occupant. Beside the old mansat Pauline. They were talking in cautious undertones, and in French.
"No," she seemed to insist; "we do not know that he refuses to come. Weonly know that Manuel says so."
The father shook his head sadly. "When has he ever staid away threenights together before?" he asked. "No, my child; it is intentional.Manuel urges him to come, but he only sends poor excuses."
"But," said the girl, shading her face from the lamp and speaking withsome suddenness, "why have you not sent word to him by some otherperson?"
M. D'Hemecourt looked up at his daughter a moment, and then smiled athis own simplicity.
"Ah!" he said. "Certainly; and that is what I will--run away, Pauline.There is Manuel, now, ahead of time!"
A step was heard inside the cafe. The maiden, though she knew the stepwas not Mazaro's, rose hastily, opened the nearest door, anddisappeared. She had barely closed it behind her when GalahadShaughnessy entered the apartment.
M'Hemecourt rose up, both surprised and confused.
"Good-evening, Munsher D'Himecourt," said the Irishman. "MunsherD'Himecourt, I know it's against rules--I say, I know it's against rulesto come in here, but"--smiling,--"I want to have a private wurd with ye.I say, I want to have a private wurd w
ith ye."
In the closet of bottles the maiden smiled triumphantly. She also wipedthe dew from her forehead, for the place was very close and warm.
With her father was no triumph. In him sadness and doubt were so mingledwith anger that he dared not lift his eyes, but gazed at the knot in thewood of the table, which looked like a caterpillar curled up.
Mazaro, he concluded, had really asked the Major to come.
"Mazaro tol' you?" he asked.
"Yes," answered the Irishman. "Mazaro told me I was watched, andasked"--
"Madjor," unluckily interrupted the old man, suddenly looking up andspeaking with subdued fervor, "for w'y--iv Mazaro tol' you--for w'y youdin come more sooner? Dad is one 'eavy charge again' you."
"Didn't Mazaro tell ye why I didn't come?" asked the other, beginning tobe puzzled at his host's meaning.
"Yez," replied M. D'Hemecourt, "bud one brev zhenteman should not beafraid of"--
The young man stopped him with a quiet laugh, "Munsher D'Himecourt,"said he, "I'm nor afraid of any two men living--I say I'm nor afraid ofany two men living, and certainly not of the two that's bean a-watchin'me lately, if they're the two I think they are."
M. D'Hemecourt flushed in a way quite incomprehensible to the speaker,who nevertheless continued:
"It was the charges," he said, with some slyness in his smile. "They_are_ heavy, as ye say, and that's the very reason--I say that's thevery reason why I staid away, ye see, eh? I say that's the very reason Istaid away."
Then, indeed, there was a dew for the maiden to wipe from her brow,unconscious that every word that was being said bore a differentsignificance in the mind of each of the three. The old man was agitated."Bud, sir," he began, shaking his head and lifting his hand.
"Bless yer soul, Munsher D'Himecourt," interrupted the Irishman. "Wut'sthe use o' grapplin' two cut-throats, when"--
"Madjor Shaughnessy!" cried M. D'Hemecourt, losing all self-control."H-I am nod a cud-troad, Madjor Shaughnessy, h-an I 'ave a r-r-righd towadge you."
The Major rose from his chair.
"What d'ye mean?" he asked vacantly, and then: "Look-ut here, MunsherD'Himecourt, one of uz is crazy. I say one"--
"No, sar-r-r!" cried the other, rising and clenching his trembling fist."H-I am not crezzy. I 'ave de righd to wadge dad man wad mague rimarkaboud me dotter."
"I never did no such a thing."
"You did."
"I never did no such a thing."
"Bud you 'ave jus hacknowledge'--"
"I never did no such a _thing_, I tell ye, and the man that's told ye sois a liur!"
"Ah-h-h-h!" said the old man, wagging his finger "Ah-h-h-h! You callManuel Mazaro one liar?"
The Irishman laughed out.
"Well, I should say so!"
He motioned the old man into his chair, and both sat down again.
"Why, Munsher D'Himecourt, Mazaro's been keepin' me away from heer witha yarn about two Spaniards watchin' for me. That's what I came in to askye about. My dear sur, do ye s'pose I wud talk about the goddess--Imean, yer daughter--to the likes o' Mazaro--I say to the likes o'Mazaro?"
To say the old man was at sea would be too feeble an expression--he wasin the trough of the sea, with a hurricane of doubts and fears whirlingaround him. Somebody had told a lie, and he, having struck upon itssunken surface, was dazed and stunned. He opened his lips to say he knewnot what, when his ear caught the voice of Manuel Mazaro, replying tothe greeting of some of his comrades outside the front door.
"He is comin'!" cried the old man. "Mague you'sev hide, Madjor; do notled 'im kedge you, Mon Dieu!"
The Irishman smiled.
"The little yellow wretch!" said he quietly, his blue eyes dancing. "I'mgoin' to catch _him_."
A certain hidden hearer instantly made up her mind to rush out betweenthe two young men and be a heroine.
"_Non, non!_" exclaimed M. D'Hemecourt excitedly. "Nod in de Cafe desExiles--nod now, Madjor. Go in dad door, hif you pliz, Madjor. You willheer 'im w'at he 'ave to say. Mague you'sev de troub'. Nod dad door--dizone."
The Major laughed again and started toward the door indicated, but in aninstant stopped.
"I can't go in theyre," he said. "That's yer daughter's room."
"_Oui, oui, mais!_" cried the other softly, but Mazaro's step was near.
"I'll just slip in heer," and the amused Shaughnessy tripped lightly tothe closet door, drew it open in spite of a momentary resistance fromwithin which he had no time to notice, stepped into a small recess fullof shelves and bottles, shut the door, and stood face to face--the broadmoonlight shining upon her through a small, high-grated opening on oneside--with Pauline. At the same instant the voice of the young Cubansounded in the room.
Pauline was in a great tremor. She made as if she would have opened thedoor and fled, but the Irishman gave a gesture of earnest protest andre-assurance. The re-opened door might make the back parlor of the Cafedes Exiles a scene of blood. Thinking of this, what could she do? Shestaid.
"You goth a heap-a thro-vle, Senor," said Manuel Mazaro, taking the seatso lately vacated. He had patted M. D'Hemecourt tenderly on the back andthe old gentleman had flinched; hence the remark, to which there was noreply.
"Was a bee crowth a' the _Cafe the Refugies_," continued the young man.
"Bud, w'ere dad Madjor Shaughnessy?" demanded M. D'Hemecourt, with thelittle sternness he could command.
"Mayor Shaughness'--yez-a; was there; boat-a," with a disparaging smileand shake of the head, "_he_ woon-a come-a to you. Senor, oh' no."
The old man smiled bitterly.
"_Non?_" he asked.
"Oh, no, Senor!" Mazaro drew his chair closer. "Senor;" he paused,--"eeza-vary bath-a fore-a you thaughter, eh?"
"W'at?" asked the host, snapping like a tormented dog.
"D-theze talkin' 'bou'," answered the young man; "d-theze coffee-howcesnoth a goo' plaze-a fore hore, eh?"
The Irishman and the maiden looked into each other's eyes an instant, aspeople will do when listening; but Pauline's immediately fell, and whenMazaro's words were understood, her blushes became visible even bymoonlight.
"He's r-right!" emphatically whispered Galahad.
She attempted to draw back a step, but found herself against theshelves. M. D'Hemecourt had not answered. Mazaro spoke again.
"Boat-a you canno' help-a, eh? I know, 'out-a she gettin' marry, eh?"
Pauline trembled. Her father summoned all his force and rose as if toask his questioner to leave him; but the handsome Cuban motioned himdown with a gesture that seemed to beg for only a moment more.
"Senor, if a-was one man whath lo-va you' thaughter, all is possiblee tolo-va."
Pauline, nervously braiding some bits of wire which she hadunconsciously taken from a shelf, glanced up--against her will,--intothe eyes of Galahad. They were looking so steadily down upon her thatwith a great leap of the heart for joy she closed her own and halfturned away. But Mazaro had not ceased.
"All is possiblee to lo-va, Senor, you shouth-a let marry hore an' tak'n'way frone d'these plaze, Senor."
"Manuel Mazaro," said M. D'Hemecourt, again rising, "you 'ave sayenough."
"No, no, Senor; no, no; I want tell-a you--is a-one man--_whath lo-va_you' thaughter; an' I _knowce_ him!"
Was there no cause for quarrel, after all? Could it be that Mazaro wasabout to speak for Galahad? The old man asked in his simplicity:
"Madjor Shaughnessy?"
Mazaro smiled mockingly.
"Mayor Shaughness'," he said; "oh, no; not Mayor Shaughness'!"
Pauline could stay no longer; escape she must, though it be in ManuelMazaro's very face. Turning again and looking up into Galahad's face ina great fright, she opened her lips to speak, but--
"Mayor Shaughness'," continued the Cuban; "_he_ nev'r-a lo-va you'thaughter."
Galahad was putting the maiden back from the door with his hand.
"Pauline," he said, "it's a lie!"
"An', Senor," pursued the Cuban, "if
a was possiblee you' thaughter tolo-va heem, a-wouth-a be worse-a kine in worlt; but, Senor, _I_"--
M. D'Hemecourt made a majestic sign for silence. He had resumed hischair, but be rose up once more, took the Cuban's hat from the table andtendered it to him.
"Manuel Mazaro, you 'ave"--
"Senor, I goin' tell you"--
"Manuel Mazaro, you"--
"Boat-a Senor"--
"Bud, Manuel Maz"--
"Senor, escuse-a me"--
"Huzh!" cried the old man. "Manuel Mazaro, you ave deceive' me! You 'ave_mocque_ me, Manu"--
"Senor," cried Mazaro, "I swear-a to you that all-a what I sayin'ees-a"--
He stopped aghast. Galahad and Pauline stood before him.
"Is what?" asked the blue-eyed man, with a look of quiet delight on hisface, such as Mazaro instantly remembered to have seen on it one nightwhen Galahad was being shot at in the Sucking Calf Restaurant in St.Peter Street.
The table was between them, but Mazaro's hand went upward toward theback of his coat-collar.
"Ah, ah!" cried the Irishman, shaking his head with a broader smile andthrusting his hand threateningly into his breast; "don't ye do that!just finish yer speech."
"Was-a notthin'," said the Cuban, trying to smile back.
"Yer a liur," said Galahad.
"No," said Mazaro, still endeavoring to smile through his agony; "z-wason'y tellin' Senor D'Hemecourt someteen z-was t-thrue."
"And I tell ye," said Galahad, "ye'r a liur, and to be so kind an' getyersel' to the front stoop, as I'm desiruz o' kickin' ye before thecrowd."
"Madjor!" cried D'Hemecourt--
"Go," said Galahad, advancing a step toward the Cuban.
Had Manuel Mazaro wished to personate the prince of darkness, hisbeautiful face had the correct expression for it. He slowly turned,opened the door into the cafe, sent one glowering look behind, anddisappeared.
Pauline laid her hand upon her lover's arm.
"Madjor," began her father.
"Oh, Madjor and Madjor," said the Irishman; "Munsher D'Hemecourt, justsay 'Madjor, heer's a gude wife fur ye,' and I'll let the little serpentgo."
Thereupon, sure enough, both M. D'Hemecourt and his daughter, rushingtogether, did what I have been hoping all along, for the reader's sake,they would have dispensed with; they burst into tears; whereupon theMajor, with his Irish appreciation of the ludicrous, turned away to hidehis smirk and began good-humoredly to scratch himself first on thetemple and then on the thigh.
Mazaro passed silently through the group about the door-steps, and notmany minutes afterward, Galahad Shaughnessy, having taken a place amongthe exiles, rose with the remark that the old gentleman would doubtlessbe willing to tell them good-night. Good-night was accordingly said, theCafe des Exiles closed her windows, then her doors, winked a moment ortwo through the cracks in the shutters and then went fast asleep.
The Mexican physician, at Galahad's request, told Mazaro that at thenext meeting of the burial society he might and must occupy hisaccustomed seat without fear of molestation; and he did so.
The meeting took place some seven days after the affair in the backparlor, and on the same ground. Business being finished, Galahad, whopresided, stood up, looking, in his white duck suit among hisdarkly-clad companions, like a white sheep among black ones, and beggedleave to order "dlasses" from the front room. I say among black sheep;yet, I suppose, than that double row of languid, effeminate faces, onewould have been taxed to find a more harmless-looking company. Theglasses were brought and filled.
"Gentlemen," said Galahad, "comrades, this may be the last time we evermeet together an unbroken body."
Martinez of San Domingo, he of the horrible experience, nodded with alurking smile, curled a leg under him and clasped his fingers behind hishead.
"Who knows," continued the speaker, "but Senor Benito, though strong andsound and har'ly thirty-seven"--here all smiled--"may be taken illtomorrow?"
Martinez smiled across to the tall, gray Benito on Galahad's left, andhe, in turn, smilingly showed to the company a thin, white line of teethbetween his moustachios like distant reefs.
"Who knows," the young Irishman proceeded to inquire, "I say, who knowsbut Pedro, theyre, may be struck wid a fever?"
Pedro, a short, compact man of thoroughly mixed blood, and with aneyebrow cut away, whose surname no one knew, smiled his acknowledgments.
"Who knows?" resumed Galahad, when those who understood English hadexplained in Spanish to those who did not, "but they may soon need theservices not only of our good doctor heer, but of our society; and thatFernandez and Benigno, and Gonzalez and Dominguez, may not be chosen tosee, on that very schooner lying at the Picayune Tier just now, theirbeloved remains and so forth safely delivered into the hands and landsof their people. I say, who knows bur it may be so!"
The company bowed graciously as who should say, "Well-turned phrases,Senor--well-turned."
"And _amigos_, if so be that such is their approoching fate, I willsay:"
He lifted his glass, and the rest did the same.
"I say, I will say to them, Creoles, countrymen, and lovers, bounvoyadge an' good luck to ye's."
For several moments there was much translating, bowing, and murmuredacknowledgments; Mazaro said: "_Bueno!_" and all around among the longdouble rank of moustachioed lips amiable teeth were gleaming, somewhite, some brown, some yellow, like bones in the grass.
"And now, gentlemen," Galahad recommenced, "fellow-exiles, once more.Munsher D'Himecourt, it was yer practice, until lately, to reward a goodtalker with a dlass from the hands o' yer daughter." (_Si, si!_) "I'mbur 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 allmeet together, if ye will not let the goddess of the Cafe des Exilesgrace 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' moreand more embarrassin' daily, and the operaytions of our society werelikely to make it wurse in the future; wherefore I have lately takensteps--I say I tuke steps this morn to relieve the old gentleman'sdistresses and his daughter's"--
He paused. M. D'Hemecourt entered with Pauline, and the exiles all roseup. Ah!--but why say again she was lovely?
Galahad stepped forward to meet her, took her hand, led her to the headof 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 lookto M. D'Hemecourt, and guessed the truth. In the joy of an old man'sheart he had already that afternoon told the truth to each and every manseparately, as a secret too deep for them to reveal, but too sweet forhim to keep. The Major and Pauline were man and wife.
The last laugh that was ever heard in the Cafe des Exiles sounded softlythrough the room.
"Lads," said the Irishman. "Fill yer dlasses. Here's to the Cafe desExiles, God bless her!"
And the meeting slowly adjourned.
Two days later, signs and rumors of sickness began to find place aboutthe Cafe des Refugies, and the Mexican physician made three calls in oneday. It was said by the people around that the tall Cuban gentlemannamed Benito was very sick in one of the back rooms. A similar frequencyof the same physician's calls was noticed about the Cafe des Exiles.
"The man with one eyebrow," said the neighbors, "is sick. Pauline leftthe house yesterday to make room for him."
"Ah! is it possible?"
"Yes, it is really true; she and her husband. She took her mocking-birdwith her; he carried it; he came back alone."
On the next afternoon the children about the Cafe des Refugies enjoyedthe spectacle of the invalid Cuban moved on a trestle to the Cafe desExiles, although he did not loo
k so deathly sick as they could haveliked to see him, and on the fourth morning the doors of the Cafe desExiles remained closed. A black-bordered funeral notice, veiled withcrape, announced that the great Caller-home of exiles had served hissummons upon Don Pedro Hernandez (surname borrowed for the occasion),and Don Carlos Mendez y Benito.
The hour for the funeral was fixed at four P.M. It never took place.Down at the Picayune Tier on the river bank there was, about two o'clockthat same day, a slight commotion, and those who stood aimlessly about asmall, neat schooner, said she was "seized." At four there suddenlyappeared before the Cafe des Exiles a squad of men with silver crescentson their breasts--police officers. The old cottage sat silent withclosed doors, the crape hanging heavily over the funeral notice like awidow's veil, the little unseen garden sending up odors from its hiddencensers, and the old weeping-willow bending over all.
"Nobody here?" asks the leader.
The crowd which has gathered stares without answering.
As quietly and peaceably as possible the officers pry open the door.They enter, and the crowd pushes in after. There are the two coffins,looking very heavy and solid, lying in state but unguarded.
The crowd draws a breath of astonishment. "Are they going to wrench thetops off with hatchet and chisel?"
Bap, rap, rap; wrench, rap, wrench. Ah! the cases come open.
"Well kept?" asks the leader flippantly.
"Oh, yes," is the reply. And then all laugh.
One of the lookers-on pushes up and gets a glimpse within.
"What is it?" ask the other idlers.
He tells one quietly.
"What did he say?" ask the rest, one of another.
"He says they are not dead men, but new muskets"--
"Here, clear out!" cries an officer, and the loiterers fall back and byand by straggle off.
The exiles? What became of them, do you ask? Why, nothing; they were nottroubled, but they never all came together again. Said a chief-of-policeto Major Shaughnessy years afterward:
"Major, there was only one thing that kept your expedition fromsucceeding--you were too sly about it. Had you come out flat and saidwhat you were doing, we'd never a-said a word to you. But that littlefellow gave us the wink, and then we had to stop you."
And was no one punished? Alas! one was. Poor, pretty, curly-headedtraitorous Mazaro! He was drawn out of Carondelet Canal--cold, dead! Andwhen his wounds were counted--they were just the number of the Cafe desExiles' children, less Galahad. But the mother--that is, the oldcafe--did not see it; she had gone up the night before in a chariot offire.
In the files of the old "Picayune" and "Price-Current" of 1837 may beseen the mention of Galahad Shaughnessy among the merchants--"ourenterprising and accomplished fellow-townsman," and all that. But old M.D'Hemecourt's name is cut in marble, and his citizenship is in "a citywhose maker and builder is God."
Only yesterday I dined with the Shaughnessys--fine old couple andhandsome. Their children sat about them and entertained me mostpleasantly. But there isn't one can tell a tale as their fathercan--'twas he told me this one, though here and there my enthusiasm mayhave taken liberties. He knows the history of every old house in theFrench Quarter; or, if he happens not to know a true one, he can makeone up as he goes along.