New Orleans Republican. [volume] (New Orleans, La) 1867-1878, 1876-03-05
CAFE DIS EXILES.
BY GEORGE ". CABLE.

That which in 1851 think he said
thirty. ive-was reality IN the hue Bur-
ayundy-I think he said Burgundy-is
F.. now but Renaissance. Yet SO vlvldly
was its story told to me, that at this mo-
ment the old Cafe des Exiles appears be-
fore my eye, floating in the clouds OF
REVERE, and doubt not see it just as 1t
was in the old times.
An antiquated story-and-a-halt Creole
cottage sitting right down on the ban
,ouette, as do the Choctaw squaws who sell
ibat and sassafras and life-everlasting,
with a high, close board fence shutting
out of view the diminutive garden on the
southern side. An ancient willow droops
over the roof of round tiles and partly
hides the discolored stucco, which keeps
dropping off into the garden as though
the old cafe was stripping for the plunge
into obivion-disrobing for its execu-
ton. see, we'll up in the angle of the
broad side gable, shaded by its rude avn
ing of -clap-boards, as the eyes of an old
dame are shaded by her wrinkled hand, the
window of Pauline. Oh. for the image Of
the maiden. were it but for one moment,
leaning out of the easement to hang her
knocking bird and looking down into the
carden-0where, above the barrier Of old
boards, see the top of the fig tree, the
pale green clump of bananas, the tall pal
uetto with its jagged crown. Pauline's
own two orange trees holding up their
hands toward the window, heavy with the
promises of autumn; the broad, crimson
mass of the many stemmed oleander, and
the crisp boughs of the pomegranate
loaded with freckled apples, and with
linn Of
som!
The Cafe des Exiles. to use figure.
lowered, bore fruit, and dropped it 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 golden burden of the banana
from its stem; then, like banana which
has borne its fruit, it was RACED to
the ground and made way for a newer,
brighter growth. l believe it would set
every tooth on edge should go by there
now-now that l have heard the story,
and see the old site covered by the
s'Shoo-fy Cofeehouse." Pleasanter tar
to close my eyes and call to view the un-
pretentious portals of the old cafe, with
her children-for such those exiles seem to
,ne-dragging their rocking chairs ont,
and sitting in their wonted group under
the long, outreaching caves which shaded
the banquette of the Rue Burgundy.
1t was in 1885 that the Cafe des Exiles
was, as one might say, in full blossom.
Old NJ. D'Hemecourt, father of Pauline
and host of the cafe, himself refugee
from San Domingo, was the cause-at
least the human cause-of its opening.
As its white-curtained glazed doors ex-
banded, emitting little puff of his own
cigarette smoke, it was like the bursting
of catalpa blossoms, and the exiles came
like bees, pushing into the tiny room to
sip its rich variety OF tropical syrups, its
lemonades, its orangeades, its orgeats,
its barley waters and its outlandish wines,
while they talked of dear home-that is to
say, of Barbados, of Martinique, OF San
Domingo and of Cuba.
There were Pedro and Benigro, and
Fernandez and Francisco, and Benito.
Benito was tall, swarthy man, with i'm
rlense gray moustachios, and hair as
harsh as tropical grass and gray as ashes.
When he could spare his cigarette from
his lips, he would tell you in cavernous
voice, and with wrinkled smile, that he
was s:a-t-thorty-seveng."
There was Martinez of San Domingo,
yellow as canary, always sitting with one
leg curled under him, and holding the back
of his head in his knitted fingers against
the back of his rocking-chair. Father,
mother, brother. sisters, all, had been
raassacred in the struggle Of 1Ss1-22; he
alone was left to tell the tale, and told 1t
often, with that strange, infantile insen-
sibility to the solemnity OF his bereave-
uent so peculiar to Latin people
But, besides these, and many who need
no mention, there were two in particular,
around whom all the story Of the Cafe DIES
Exiles, of old Mr.. D'Hemecourt and OF
Pauline, turns as on double centre. First,
Manuel Mazaro, whose small, restless eyes
we've as black and bright as those OF
mouse; whose light talk became his dark
girlish face, and whose redundant locks
curled SO prettily and so wonderfully black
under the fine white brim of his jaunty
Panama. He had the hands OF woman,
save that the nails were stained with the
smoke of cigarettes. He could play the |
guitar delightfully."-, and wore his knife |
down behind his coat collar.
The second was "Major" Galahad
Shaughnessy. imagine I can see him,
a his white duck, brass-buttoned round.