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!"