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.