_ CHAPTER XII. THE BIRTH OF NAPOLEON
Mr. Bingle saw Monsieur Rouquin again. The excellent manager of the foreign exchange assured the vice-president that he could now guarantee to procure the most adorable of French infants at a moment's notice, an infant that he could personally recommend in every particular.
"Sir," said Monsieur Rouquin, "it is impossible to imagine a more perfect child, let alone to create one. I have seen thousands, millions of babies, M'sieur Bangle, but not one so--"
"Bingle," corrected the vice-president.
"It is my abominable, unpardonable dialect," deplored Rouquin, who spoke English without a flaw. "Millions of babes have I seen, but not one so wonderful as this one. It is a--ah--it is a perfect specimen of--"
"You say 'it,' Rouquin. Am I to understand that its gender is unknown to you?"
"No, no!" cried Rouquin. "To be sure I know the sex of this adorable infant. I know the parents--"
"What is it? A boy or a girl?"
Rouquin closed an eye slowly. "Ah, M'sieur Bang--Bingle, may I not leave the question of sex to the child itself? What could be more beautiful than to present to your notice a perfect example of humanity, without uttering a single word to aid you in your speculation as to the gender, and then to sit calmly back and relish the joy you will reveal when you find that you have guessed correctly the very first time, as the boys would say? That would be the magnificent compensation to me. You will need but one glance at this wonderful specimen. One glance will be sufficient. You will instantly exclaim: 'What a monstrous fine boy--or girl!' as the case may be. Ah, sir--"
"I must have a boy," said Mr. Bingle.
Monsieur Rouquin looked relieved. He permitted a roguish light to steal into his eyes. "I still implore you to keep your mind open, Mr. Bingle, until you have seen the child I have in mind. Permit me this little, silly, boyish pleasure, sir--the pleasure of hearing you exclaim--out of a clear sky, so to say--'Ah, what a monstrous fine--'"
"All right, Rouquin," broke in Mr. Bingle. "Only I warn you that if it isn't a boy, it will be a case of love's labour lost on your part."
"M'sieur, I beg your pardon," said Rouquin, a trifle stiffly. "Does M'sieur mean to imply--to insinuate that--"
"Nothing of the kind," said Mr. Bingle hastily. "It's a saying of Shakespeare, Rouquin. Of course, love's labour is never really lost. It's a figure of speech."
"Ah!" said Monsieur Rouquin, smiting himself on the forehead. "I should have known. Have I no brain? Listen! I tap my head. Does it not give out a hollow sound, as if entirely empty? Say yes, my dear sir. I shall not be offended. To have misinterpreted the polite--Ah, but, it is of no consequence. Pray proceed, sir." "Proceed?" muttered Mr. Bingle, frowning. "There's nothing more to the quotation, Rouquin, so far as I know. Merely 'love's labour lost,' no more. But I would like to ask a question or two. Are the parents of this child quite respectable people?" Rouquin rolled his eyes upward. "Utterly," he said, with deep feeling in his voice.
"Healthy?"
"Parfaitment!"
"What does that mean?"
"Perfectly, my dear Mr. Bingle."
"Oh! And are they married?"
"Mon dieu!" cried Rouquin, turning scarlet. "Absolutely, sir-- incontestably."
"I mean, to each other."
"Monsieur jests," was all that Rouquin could say. He wiped his brow, however.
"Well, when may we see the child? When can we talk it over with the parents?"
"That is for you to say, sir."
"To-morrow afternoon?"
"I shall so arrange it, sir. Will not you and Madame Bang--Bingle honour me with your presence at a little tea-room--quite an excellent and refined place that I know of--before we go to inspect the child? It will give me the greatest pleasure if--"
"See here, Rouquin, that's most kind of you, but I'd prefer to have you take tea with Mrs. Bingle and me. Do you know of a nice, but thoroughly typical French restaurant where we could--er--get a bit of the atmosphere, don't you know? We are figuring on taking a trip to Paris soon and we'd like to--well, you know what I mean? Quiet, respectable place, you know. Nothing rowdyish."
Rouquin's eyes sparkled. His joy was great. "Ah, I know of such a place. But it is not a tea-room, in the strict sense of the term. It is a cafe where one has the finest table d'hote dinner in all New York for one dollar per person, wine included. Ah, if Monsieur would only condescend to dine there, AFTER we have seen the child, I am sure--"
"I'll telephone you in the morning," said Mr. Bingle, his eyes gleaming. "I shall have to speak to Mrs. Bingle about it first."
It was left that they were to visit the infant and its utterly respectable parents at four on the following afternoon. Rouquin had already assured Mr. Bingle that only the direst necessity made it possible for the wretched father and mother to even THINK of giving up their greatest treasure, this marvellous infant. In fact, it was only because they loved the child so dearly that they were content to see it pass out of their lives. For, said Monsieur Rouquin, they were so poor and so proud that suicide was the only thing left for them in this terrific struggle with adversity, and what was to become of the child if they killed themselves? They would not murder their adored one, and, while it was quite possible for the father and mother to destroy themselves, one really couldn't expect a fifteen months old child to take its own life by involuntary starvation--which was unspeakable. And, said he, they couldn't consider suicide without first making sure that their beloved was safely provided for. After that--well, they could then go about it quite happily, if needs be. Mr. Bingle was deeply distressed.
Rouquin had quite a surprise for them when they called at the bank for him. As he settled himself gracefully in the seat beside Mrs. Bingle, he announced that he had arranged with the heart-sick parents to fetch the babe to his humble apartment at half-past four, where at least one could be sure of avoiding the unfriendly presence of a too-persistent rent-collector, to say nothing of the distressing odours of extreme poverty. Indeed, said Monsieur Rouquin, it was not improbable that they might find the excellent Rousseaus in the apartment on their arrival there, as he had given directions to the janitor to admit them without question. He couldn't bear the thought of poor little Madame Rousseau standing outside in the cold hall with that adorable infant in imminent peril of freezing to death because of insufficient apparel.
"Are they descendants of the great genre painter?" inquired Mrs. Bingle. There was a small painting by the great Barbizon artist in the Bingle drawing-room. She had been reading up on Rousseau, and Miss Fairweather had told her how to pronounce genre.
"That I cannot affirm, Madame," said Rouquin, with infinite regret in his voice. "It is possible, even probable, that Monsieur Rousseau is a direct descendant, but I am not in a position to say so with authority. I shall make it a point to repeat your question to him."
"It would be most interesting to have a descendant of Rousseau in the same house with one of his masterpieces, and under the conditions we face, don't you think, Mr. Rouquin?" Mrs. Bingle had never been quite secure in her pronunciation of monsieur, so she avoided the word.
Monsieur Rouquin agreed that it would be amazingly interesting, and then went on to say that he had known Madame Rousseau while she was still petite Marie Vallamont, but his acquaintance with her husband was of short duration. In fact, he knew little about him except that his great grandfather had been beheaded at the time of the revolution, which was in itself sufficient proof that he was descended from the aristocracy if not the nobility of France.
"You are aware, of course," said he, "that only the aristocracy had their heads cut off during those eventful days."
"Oh, yes, indeed," said both Mr. and Mrs. Bingle so promptly that Monsieur Rouquin at once changed the subject. He realised that they knew quite as much if not more of French history than he.
As he had suspected, the Rousseaus were awaiting them in the apartment. They were very nice looking young people, rather shabbily attired in garments which, though clearly the cast-off apparel of more prosperous owners, were still neat and remotely fashionable. Madame Rousseau was quite a pretty woman, with a soft, restrained voice and a tendency to say "Oui, Madame," with great frequency and politeness. Her husband, poor as he was, sustained the credit of aristocracy by smoking innumerable cigarettes, with which he appeared to be most plentifully supplied. "You found my cigarettes, I see. That is good," said Rouquin, shortly after the introductions. He spoke somewhat tartly, as if an idea had just occurred to him. He shot a furtive glance at Mr. Bingle as he made the remark.
"Oh, yes," said Rousseau, after an instant's hesitation. "I beg Madame's pardon. Does the smoking annoy?"
"Not at all," said Mrs. Bingle. "I am used to it. Mr. Bingle smokes a pipe."
"Well, where is the baby?" said Mr. Bingle, declining the cigarette which Rousseau proffered in the absence of hospitality on Monsieur Rouquin's part.
"Oh," said Madame Rousseau, "it sleeps. I have put it into Monsieur Raoul's warm bed. Such a cruelty it would be to awake the baby, M'sieur."
"I think I'd like to see what it looks like while asleep, Madame," said Bingle, with the air of a shrewd bargainer. "You see, I've become quite an expert on babies. I don't believe there is a better judge of --I beg your pardon. I forgot to inquire if my English is quite intelligible. Do you follow me?"
"Your English is perfect, M'sieur," she assured him, brightly. "May I say that it surprises me. I have been in your America for five years and I have not before this hour heard an American speak the English language so perfectly--"
"Ahem!" coughed Rouquin, and Madame Rousseau completed her estimate of Mr. Bingle's English by spreading her hands in a gesture which signified utter inability to express herself in words. "Shall we peep into my bedroom?" went on the foreign exchange manager.
"Said the spider to the fly," came quite distinctly from Monsieur Rousseau.
"Remember," cautioned Rouquin, his hand on the door-knob, "you are to guess what it is, Mr. Bingle."
"I suppose I'm to have two guesses," said Mr. Single, with a chuckle.
"Certainly," said Rouquin. "Provided your first guess is wrong."
Stealthily the group entered the bedroom of Monsieur Rouquin. The window shades were down. The room was quite dark. On the bed was a dimly distinguishable heap.
"Sh!" whispered Madame Rousseau, putting a finger to her lips--which in the light of the sun were singularly red and unstarved.
"Sh!" echoed her husband.
"Sh!" said Rouquin.
On tip-toe they all advanced upon the heap, now resolved into a pile of pink blankets. Mr. Bingle leaned far over the heap. Then he put on his spectacles.
"Where is it?" he whispered.
"Mon dieu!" gulped the young mother, in consternation. She whipped the blankets off the bed. There was no baby. A second later she darted through a door on the opposite side of the room, slamming it violently behind her. Monsieur Rousseau started to laugh but cut it short and sputtered Mon dieu three or four times in a choked voice.
"What does all this mean?" demanded Mr. Bingle. "God bless my soul!"
In the meantime, Madame Rousseau was confronting a motherly looking person in Monsieur Rouquin's bath-room, down the little hall. The motherly looking person was holding a fat, yellow-headed baby on her lap and to the mouth of the fat, yellow-headed baby was attached the business end of a half-emptied milk-bottle.
The conversation was in whispered French, and of exceeding bitterness on one side. It is not necessary to repeat what was said. It is only necessary to explain that the motherly looking person was the infant's grandmother--in fact the mother of Madame Rousseau. From certain disjointed explanatory scraps that fell from the motherly person's lips it might have been divined that the baby awoke some time before the arrival of the great philanthropist, and that grandmere deemed it to be the part of wisdom to feed it thoroughly before submitting it for inspection. No one takes to a howling brat, she protested. Besides, what was she there for if not to look after the child of her ungrateful, selfish daughter who had not the slightest feeling of-- But, all this time, Madame Rousseau was informing her mother that she was a meddlesome, stupid old blunderer, and that the fat was in the fire. She snatched the baby from the old lady's arms. The bottle crashed to the tile floor and painted a section of it white, its pristine hue. The infant was too surprised to cry. It maintained an open-mouthed silence even as its mother whisked out of the bath-room and brought the door to with a bang, leaving grandmere in the centre of a pool of white, still whispering shrilly that even though a wise father might by chance know his own son, a mother never could hope to know her own daughter.
Messieurs Rouquin and Rousseau were talking loudly, rapidly and very excitedly to each other--in French, of course--when Madame burst into the room with the infant. Mr. and Mrs. Bingle, still staring at the unoccupied bed, had nothing but blank bewilderment in their honest faces.
"Ah!" shouted the two Frenchmen joyously.
"That stupid servant!" squealed Madame Rousseau, hugging the baby to her breast in frantic relief. "Oh, what a fright I have had. Take the baby, Jean. Mon dieu! Do not let it fall! Oh, m'sieur, madame, you will never know how I was anguished. I thought I had lost my darling, my adored one. The black-hand what-you-call-him--non, non, the kidnapper. My baby! Jean, Jean, do not let it out of your sight again --never, do you hear. Now, madame, will you not be kind enough to look at my baby? Come, m'sieur, to the window. Jean, pull up the shade."
Jean almost dropped his precious burden in his eagerness to do as he was bidden, and might actually have done so but for the timely intervention of Monsieur Rouquin, who sprang to the window and sent the shade up with a crash that caused Mrs. Bingle to jump with alarm.
"See!" shouted Rouquin, stepping back and pointing proudly at the baby.
"God bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle.
"Oh, the darling!" cried his wife, and tried at once to take the sunny-faced youngster from the arms of Monsieur Jean. But Jean held on very tightly, apparently awaiting orders. It may have been the unusual fervour of the father's clasp that caused the child to whimper, or it may have been that it never had seen such an expression in its parent's face before. At any rate, as it looked up into Jean's swarthy countenance it began to cry; where upon Madame Rousseau exclaimed shrilly:
"Can't you see, Jean? Madame would hold my baby to her breast. Quick! You big simpleton! Ah, madame, my poor Jean is so sad, so broken- hearted over the thought of losing his child that he--There! See! See the lovely smile once more?"
It was true that the instant Mrs. Bingle received the plump wriggler in her arms, the beaming smile was restored. Jean moved quickly into the background, and turned his miserable face away from the scene.
The Rousseau baby WAS adorable, there could be no mistake about that. In previous experiences, Mr. and Mrs. Bingle had encountered half- starved, unhappy, whining infants. This was the first time they had come upon a lusty, apparently over-fed specimen, and they were at once filled with the joy of covetousness. Thick yellow curls, bright blue eyes, and cheeks that would have shamed the peach's bloom--and a nearly completed row of tiny white teeth--such was the Rousseau applicant at first glance. Moreover, its clothing was clean, soft and sweet-smelling of fabrics that do not often find their way into the houses of the poverty-stricken.
"Wait!" exclaimed Rouquin, fairly dancing with exuberant joy. "Wait! Now, Mr. Bingle--now for the guess, sir. I give you but one guess. What is it--a boy or a girl?"
Madame Rousseau clasped her hands ecstatically upon her bosom. "Oh, as if my baby could be anything but--"
"Sh!" hissed the master of ceremonies.
So much whirlwind excitement as all this, so much radiant joy over the disposal of a baby, had never entered into any previous negotiation, and Mr. Bingle was quite carried away by the novelty of the situation. Never before had the ceremony resolved itself into an enigma, a puzzle, so to speak, in which it was his privilege to make one guess.
"It's a boy," said he, with conviction, whereupon the mother, the father and Monsieur Rouquin filled the room with joyous exclamations and the baby, imitative little beggar that he was, crowed with delight.
Madame Rousseau could not get over the despicable behaviour of Rouquin's servant. She kept on berating the creature and advising Rouquin to dismiss her, until at last Mrs. Bingle announced that the poor thing undoubtedly had acted for the best and out of the goodness of her heart. She also said that she would like to see the woman.
Monsieur Rouquin being of a mind to dismiss the presumptuous domestic, Mrs. Bingle blandly declared that, if her references were all as good as the one Madame Rousseau was giving her, she wouldn't hesitate for an instant to engage her to look after the child in case it joined the Bingle collection. There were voluble protests in French from both Madame Rousseau and Rouquin, and then Monsieur Jean announced in English that the old servant was like a mother to Rouquin and that he would as soon think of cutting off his right hand as to allow her to go out of his life. Rouquin glared at him for this, and the shabby- genteel Jean had the audacity to close one eye slowly.
Madame Rousseau's mother was permitted to remain in the bath-room, and no further reference was made to her.
"Well, let's get down to business," said Mr. Bingle, presenting his forefinger to the babe for inspection. Monsieur l'Enfant promptly seized it and conveyed it toward his earnest mouth. "No, no!" cried Mr. Bingle reprovingly. "Mustn't do that. Naughty, naughty! The microbes will get you if you don't watch out. Dear me, what a strong little rascal he is! By the way, what is his name?"
"It has been Napoleon," said the mother. "But he can be made to forget it, m'sieur, if you desire."
"Napoleon Bingle," mused Mr. Bingle, and then sent a sharp, questioning glance to his wife. She gravely nodded her head. "Not at all bad. Ahem! Shall we return to the other room? Naturally there are a great many questions to be asked and answered. Rouquin, will you oblige me by getting a pad of paper and taking down all of the--er-- statistics?"
It developed that Napoleon Rousseau, now sitting bolt upright in Mrs. Bingle's lap and staring wide-eyed at the interesting face of Jean Rousseau, was a trifle over fourteen months of age, born in New York City, the son of Jean and Marie Vallemont Rousseau, persons lawfully wedded in the city of Paris by a magistrate--(Madame explained that while the certificate with all of Jean's paintings had been destroyed in the fire which wrecked their tiny apartment soon after their arrival in New York, a copy could easily be obtained if M'sieur et Madame insisted on going into such small details)--and of sound health so far as could be known at this time. He had survived the heat of one summer and had actually thrived on the frigidity of this, his second winter, notwithstanding the fact that he had frequently slept without covering in their poor, wind-swept attic.
"Splendid!" said Mr. Single, casting an admiring glance at the rubicund Napoleon. "A hardy chap, by Jove. Of course, Madame, you understand that it will be necessary for you to appear with us before the proper authorities and sign certain papers, and so forth, before the baby can be legally adopted by Mrs. Bingle and myself. The law provides that you and your husband shall release all--"
"Mon dieu!" muttered Madame Rousseau, and as she had uttered the expression no fewer than twenty times in the past half hour, Mrs. Bingle was less favourably impressed with her than at the outset. To Mrs. Bingle "Mon dieu" was blasphemy. "Is not my word sufficient, m'sieur? I freely give my child to you. I am its mother. No one else has a right to say what--"
"Ah, but you forget its father," interrupted Mr. Bingle.
"Yes," said Monsieur Jean, amiably. "Has the child's father nothing to say about--"
"Be quiet, Jean," broke in his wife severely. Then to Rouquin: "You did not so inform me, M'sieur Rouquin. You told me nothing of this going into a court or what-you-call-it. I am aghast. Why do you not tell me of this, M'sieur Rouquin? Is it not enough that I give up my beloved Napoleon? Am I to be humiliated by revealing my misery, my despair--"
"Now, now," broke in Mr. Bingle kindly, feeling extremely sorry for the unfortunate Rouquin, who, after all, was trying to befriend the woman. The face of the foreign exchange teller was quite livid, no doubt from the effect of a suppressed indignation. "It is really nothing to be worried about, Madame. We merely go before a magistrate in Chambers and swear to certain things--both of you, of course--and that's all there is to it. You must declare that you, as the mother of Napoleon, voluntarily relinquish all claim to him in favour of his foster parents, and we, in turn, swear that--well, that we will bring him up as our own, and--er--don't you know. That's quite simple, isn't it?"
"Quite," said Rouquin.
"And you, Mr. Rousseau, will be obliged to swear that you, as well as your wife, forfeit all claim, present or future, to this child, and do so without force or duress. Of course, I shall ask my attorney to explain everything to both of you, so that you may not act without complete understanding. Before we go before the Court, you will be instructed in every move you are to make. And now, Madame, will you be willing to take oath that you are the mother of Napoleon and as such will henceforth cease to regard him as your son in case we conclude to adopt him as our own?"
Madame Rousseau looked from Jean to Rouquin and then from Rouquin to Jean, quite helpless in the face of this requirement. Rouquin and Jean looked at each other, and Jean's jaw was set rather hard and there was an anxious, uncertain look in his eyes--a look not far short of being rebellious. The young mother covered her face with her hands and began to sob violently. For some reason, Jean's jaw relaxed.
"Oh, my poor little Napoleon!" she moaned. "How can I give you up? My angel Napoleon!"
"See here," exclaimed Mr. Bingle, touched by this sudden aspect of misery, "I'm a very tender-hearted man. If you will permit me, Madame, I may be able to arrange a way for you and your husband to find a means of living comfortably on good wages, and you may then be in a position to keep little Napoleon--"
"No, no!" cried she instantly--almost fiercely. "I could not think of it, M'sieur. I cannot consent to any--"
"Pardon me," interrupted Rouquin blandly. "Allow me to propose a--"
"I shall not listen to any proposition that may include Jean and myself in--"
"In other words," said Rouquin, turning to Mr. Bingle, "she will not accept charity for herself or her husband. They are very proud, Mr. Bingle. They would die before accepting charity from--"
"A thousand times!" blurted out Monsieur Jean, wiping his brow. "Count me out!"
"Dear me, dear me!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle.
Napoleon began to cry. He had a lusty pair of lungs. Almost instantly, the motherly looking person appeared in the doorway. She had been waiting for Napoleon's signal.
"See!" she cried, holding up a bottle of milk. "I have it! To the dairy-lunch and the chemist's I have been while--"
Rouquin leaped forward and snatched the squalling Napoleon from Mrs. Bingle's arms, and an instant later deposited him in those of his maternal grandmother, who in almost the same instant was pushed rudely out of the room. The door was quickly closed. Napoleon's howls receded.
"Now," said Rouquin, "we may talk in peace. My faithful old servant, Madame," he went on, turning to Mrs. Bingle with his rarest smile. "I do not know what I should do without her. She has gone out for the milk and--Ah, what a treasure she is! Mon dieu, how I appreciate that wonderful Fifi! That is her name, Madame--Fifi. Ah! Sublime--"
"She didn't look like a servant, Mr. Rouquin," said Mrs. Bingle, recovered from her surprise.
"You speak of her dress, Madame? Has she not declared but now, this instant, that she went out to the chemist's, to the dairy-lunch? Catch Fifi on the street in her servant's dress! No, no! She spends her wages on dress, vain creature. She would no more think of venturing upon the street in--but, we waste time. Of what interest can be the foibles of my poor old servant to you. Madame? Come, Marie--you see I have known Madame Rousseau these many years, M'sieur--come, let us assure Mr. Bingle that he need have nothing to fear if he decides to do you--and poor old Jean here--the honour of adopting your most fortunate baby."
Madame Rousseau dried her eyes upon a singularly pretty little handkerchief, and then smiled beatifically.
"M'sieur need have no fear. I shall take the oath for my grand, my adorable Napoleon's sake. After that, what shall I care what becomes of me. He shall be safe. That is enough."
"Good!" cried Mr. Bingle. Then he turned to the silent, glowering Jean. "And you, my good man. Will you also take oath that Napoleon is your son and that you, as his lawful father--"
"I say, Rouquin," began Jean in a far from amiable tone. Rouquin at once took him by the arm and led him into the bedroom, whispering fiercely all the way.
"My Jean is very proud," explained Madame Rousseau, dabbing her nose and eyes with a bit of a powder rag. "He is so obstinate, too. But M'sieur Rouquin will talk sense into his head, never fear."
There was an awkward silence. Finally Mrs. Bingle spoke.
"Is your husband a descendant of the painter?"
Madame Rousseau looked surprised.
"He IS the painter, Madame."
"The--impossible! I refer to the great Rousseau of the 1880 school."
"Oh, I see. No, no--he is not that one. Jean was not yet born. Mon dieu, was there another Rousseau?"
"There was," said Mrs. Bingle tartly. "Jean is the painter of to-day. He is great, he is splendid, he is magnificent. But, la la! he is so poor!"
"That seems to establish him all right," said Mr. Bingle.
Rouquin and Jean reappeared. Both were smiling cheerfully. Jean affected a somewhat degage manner and a perceptible swagger.
"Very well, M'sieur," he said. "I'll swear to it."
"Then I shall leave the details to my attorney, who, you will discover, is a most conscientious, dependable person. In the meantime, when will it be convenient for Dr. Fiddler to examine Napoleon?"
Rouquin explained at some length in rapid French, and Madame Rousseau was once more consoled. Jean appeared to be somewhat bored. He yawned, in fact.
"And now," cried Monsieur Rouquin in a great voice, "I have a plan. Let us celebrate the birth of Monsieur Napoleon Bingle by dining together at Pierre's. This day he is born again--or, at least, prospectively born. Life for him really begins to-day--the sixth of March. It is my treat! I shall be the host on this memorable occasion. Pierre shall give to us the best duckling in his larder and the rarest bottle of--"
"But my dear Rouquin," began Mr. Bingle.
"I implore you, kind friend, to honour me with your presence this evening. The greatest day of my life shall be this one if you but consent to grace my board with your lovely lady. And poor Madame Rousseau and her amiable husband shall not be the ghosts at the feast, as one might suspect, but joyful spirits. To them we will drink a toast of good will and better luck next time, and they may drink to you, madame and sir, the health of one grand Napoleon Bingle, in whose past they both shared but whose future can only be a--"
"Oh, I say, Rouquin," broke in Monsieur Jean languidly, "why not make it 'many happy returns of the day'? That's the real issue."
Rouquin coughed violently, and, upon recovering himself, went on with a slight modification of his rapture: "Whatever should come of this day's work, we should all drink deeply to the health, prosperity and fame of a future president of the United States--Napoleon Bingle! Come, Madame Bingle, you cannot refuse to join your humble servant and petitioner in one jolly, epoch-making--though absolutely respectable-- celebration in honour of our little Napoleon. And you, M'sieur--Ah, you, sir! Have you not in prospect the alliance of your own honoured name with that of the most notable Frenchman of recent times? Napoleon! Bingle! Ah, think of it! Bingle--Napoleon! We can afford to overlook the fact that Napoleon was a Corsican and not a--real Frenchman. We can--"
"Just as we must overlook the fact that little Napoleon is a Rousseau and not a Bingle," said Mr. Bingle drily.
"Quite so, quite so," agreed Rouquin hastily. "Napoleon Bonaparte was the adopted son of France, and Napoleon Rousseau is the adopted son of the great Thomas Bingleton Single--" "Singleton Bingle," corrected Mr. Bingle, as Rouquin hesitated in evident appreciation of his mixed consonants.
"I am sure Madame Rousseau will not feel like joining in a feast at this time," said Mrs. Bingle. "It is hardly an occasion for jollification--"
"Ah, Madame," cried Madame Rousseau, with sparkling eyes, "it is not for myself that I would jollify, but for the adored Napoleon. It is for him that I would rejoice. Is he not to become rich and honoured, and is he not to be given by law a name that he can never be ashamed of as long as he--"
Rouquin broke in again, hastily and somewhat apprehensively. "Let us save our fine phrases for the banquet board. Ah, I can see it in M'sieur Bingle's face! He will accept my little hospitality. He will come with Madame to Pierre's. He will make me to be forever honoured among men. He--"
"I'll come on one condition only, Rouquin."
"And what is that, M'sieur?"
"That I may settle the bill."
Rouquin was amiable. He shrugged his shoulders and beamed. "I should be the last to say no to any demand of my guests. If it would give you pleasure, sir, to pay for my dinner, I shall not protest. I am the most courteous of hosts. The smallest wish of my guests must be gratified. However, sir, I reserve the right to order the dinner which I am giving. You will not deny me that, I am sure."
"By no means," cried Bingle. "Order whatever you like, Rouquin. I've never been able to order anything from a French bill-of-fare but pate- de-foi-gras. It's your dinner, Rouquin, not mine. But, we are going ahead too fast. We have not yet heard from Monsieur Rousseau. Will he be willing to join us?"
"Sure," said Monsieur Jean.
"And what about the baby? Is it right for us to take a small child to a public cafe where there may be drinking and--"
"My dear Mrs. Bingle," cried Rouquin, "pray have no thought of Napoleon's comfort on this occasion. I shall insist upon Madame Rousseau leaving him here--in my humble dwelling--until called for. That is to say, in charge of my wonderful Fifi, who will care for him completely during her absence. He shall have a stupendous supper and he shall be put to bed happy. For once in his poor little life he shall have abundance of food and the joy of a warm nest to lie in. Ah, it is a great day for Napoleon!"
Needless to say, Mr. and Mrs. Bingle stepped into a new and hitherto unsuspected world the instant they entered Pierre's. They stepped out of it at ten o'clock that night and into a very commonplace, humdrum sort of automobile and were whisked homeward by an astonished, unbelieving chauffeur. They had drunk the health of Napoleon the present, Napoleon the past, and Napoleon the future, and they had done it from cobwebby, mouldy bottles out of the uttermost depths of Pierre's cellars. They were pleasantly, agreeably conscious of going home, and they talked a great deal of the vivacious, though heartbroken mother of little Napoleon, who, despite her shabby frock, was the life of the party. And Monsieur Jean--he, the great artist and stricken father--he too was gay and amusing. He sang a wonderful little French song that was applauded violently by people at the nearby tables, and he drew wonderful caricatures of the musicians, the head waiter, the shockingly bad soprano, and of Mr. Bingle himself. Rouquin alone was nervous and uneasy, but of course only on account of his illustrious guests. He was constantly imploring both Madame and Monsieur Rousseau to reflect before speaking, and they obeyed him by reflecting in a thoroughly audible manner so that he might not be left in the dark as to their intentions.
Mr. and Mrs. Bingle said good night on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. As the latter shook hands with little Madame Rousseau, the mother of Napoleon suddenly fell to shivering. All of the gaiety fell from her like a discarded mantle. Her piquant face became drawn and pinched and her fingers clasped those of Mrs. Bingle in a fierce, almost painful grip. She drew the elder woman apart from the group.
"Oh, Madame, you will be good to my little boy," she whispered, beating her breast with her free hand. "I am not gay. I am unhappy. I would not give him up but his father insists it is for the best. I may see him some time, may I not? I love him. He is my joy, my everything. To-night I sing and laugh, but my heart is not light. Non, non! It is like a stone, like ice. Oh, Madame, I implore you to be good to my little boy!"
She was crying softly. Mrs. Bingle put her arm about the bent shoulders and drew the young mother close to her side.
"Don't you worry, my dear. We'll make a fine man of your little Napoleon. Some day you will look with pride upon him and say: 'I'm glad I brought that man into the world, even though he doesn't know it.' And I am glad that you have cried. It makes another woman of you. I would say 'God bless you,' Madame Rousseau, if it were not that he has already blessed you."
Later on in the night, Rouquin and his two companions paused at the foot of a Sixth Avenue Elevated station.
"Good night, old fellow," said Rouquin, giving Jean's hand a mighty grip. "You are a true friend."
Then Jean said good night cheerily and walked off down the street, whistling gaily, as one who has completed an honest day's work.
I think I have neglected to mention that Rouquin was an exceedingly good-looking, fascinating chap of twenty-eight or thirty, and unmarried. _