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