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 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 glad I brought that man into the world, even though he doesn't know it.' And I am glad that you have cried. It makes another woman of you. I would say 'God bless you,' Madame Rousseau, if it were not that he has already blessed you."
Later on in the night, Rouquin and his two companions paused at the foot of a Sixth Avenue Elevated station.
"Good night, old fellow," said Rouquin, giving Jean's hand a mighty grip. "You are a true friend."
Then Jean said good night cheerily and walked off down the street, whistling gaily, as one who has completed an honest day's work.
I think I have neglected to mention that Rouquin was an exceedingly good-looking, fascinating chap of twenty-eight or thirty, and unmarried.