Part 27 (1/2)

”s.h.!.+” 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--”