An amazing thing happened to Frederick that evening, just before bedtime. Miss Fairweather kissed him sweetly, not once but thrice, full on the lips, and told him that he was the nicest little boy in all the world. CHAPTER XII THE BIRTH OF NAPOLEON Mr. Bingle saw Monsieur Rouquin again. The excellent manager of the foreign exchange assured the vice-president that he could now guarantee to procure the most adorable of French infants at a moment's notice, an infant that he could personally recommend in every particular. "Sir," said Monsieur Rouquin, "it is impossible to imagine a more perfect child, let alone to create one. I have seen thousands, millions of babies, M'sieur Bangle, but not one so--" "Bingle," corrected the vice-president. "It is my abominable, unpardonable dialect," deplored Rouquin, who spoke English without a flaw. "Millions of babes have I seen, but not one so wonderful as this one. It is a--ah--it is a perfect specimen of--" "You say 'it,' Rouquin. Am I to understand that its gender is unknown to you?" "No, no!" cried Rouquin. "To be sure I know the sex of this adorable infant. I know the parents--" "What is it? A boy or a girl?" Rouquin closed an eye slowly. "Ah, M'sieur Bang--Bingle, may I not leave the question of sex to the child itself? What could be more beautiful than to present to your notice a perfect example of humanity, without uttering a single word to aid you in your speculation as to the gender, and then to sit calmly back and relish the joy you will reveal when you find that you have guessed correctly the very first time, as the boys would say? That would be the magnificent compensation to me. You will need but one glance at this wonderful specimen. One glance will be sufficient. You will instantly exclaim: 'What a monstrous fine boy--or girl!' as the case may be. Ah, sir--" "I must have a boy," said Mr. Bingle. Monsieur Rouquin looked relieved. He permitted a roguish light to steal into his eyes. "I still implore you to keep your mind open, Mr. Bingle, until you have seen the child I have in mind. Permit me this little, silly, boyish pleasure, sir--the pleasure of hearing you exclaim--out of a clear sky, so to say--'Ah, what a monstrous fine--'" "All right, Rouquin," broke in Mr. Bingle. "Only I warn you that if it isn't a boy, it will be a case of love's labour lost on your part." "M'sieur, I beg your pardon," said Rouquin, a trifle stiffly. "Does M'sieur mean to imply--to insinuate that--" "Nothing of the kind," said Mr. Bingle hastily. "It's a saying of Shakespeare, Rouquin. Of course, love's labour is never really lost. It's a figure of speech."