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