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