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.