Pere Jerome waited, but no sound came.

He looked through the window.

She was kneeling, with her forehead resting on her arms--motionless.
He repeated the words of absolution.

Still she did not stir.
"My daughter," he said, "go to thy home in peace." But she did not move.
He rose hastily, stepped from the box, raised her in his arms, and called her by name: "Madame Delphine!" Her head fell back in his elbow; for an instant there was life in the eyes--it glimmered--it vanished, and tears gushed from his own and fell upon the gentle face of the dead, as he looked up to heaven and cried: "Lord, lay not this sin to her charge!" CAFE DES EXILES.
That which in 1835--I think he said thirty-five--was a reality in the Rue Burgundy--I think he said Burgundy--is now but a reminiscence.

Yet so vividly was its story told me, that at this moment the old Cafe des Exiles appears before my eye, floating in the clouds of revery, and I doubt not I see it just as it was in the old times.
An antiquated story-and-a-half Creole cottage sitting right down on the banquette, as do the Choctaw squaws who sell bay and sassafras and life-everlasting, with a high, close board-fence shutting out of view the diminutive garden on the southern side.