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—"
"I shall not listen to any proposition that may include Jean and myself in—"
"In other words," said Rouquin, turning to Mr. Bingle, "she will not accept charity for herself or her husband. They are very proud, Mr. Bingle. They would die before accepting charity from—"
"A thousand times!" blurted out Monsieur Jean, wiping his brow. "Count me out!"
"Dear me, dear me!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle.
Napoleon began to cry. He had a lusty pair of lungs. Almost instantly, the motherly looking person appeared in the doorway. She had been waiting for Napoleon's signal.