Rouquin was amiable. He shrugged his shoulders and beamed. "I should be the last to say no to any demand of my guests. If it would give you pleasure, sir, to pay for my dinner, I shall not protest. I am the most courteous of hosts. The smallest wish of my guests must be gratified. However, sir, I reserve the right to order the dinner which I am giving. You will not deny me that, I am sure." "By no means," cried Bingle. "Order whatever you like, Rouquin. I've never been able to order anything from a French bill-of-fare but pate-de-foi-gras. It's your dinner, Rouquin, not mine. But, we are going ahead too fast. We have not yet heard from Monsieur Rousseau. Will he be willing to join us?" "Sure," said Monsieur Jean. "And what about the baby? Is it right for us to take a small child to a public cafe where there may be drinking and--" "My dear Mrs. Bingle," cried Rouquin, "pray have no thought of Napoleon's comfort on this occasion. I shall insist upon Madame Rousseau leaving him here--in my humble dwelling--until called for. That is to say, in charge of my wonderful Fifi, who will care for him completely during her absence. He shall have a stupendous supper and he shall be put to bed happy. For once in his poor little life he shall have abundance of food and the joy of a warm nest to lie in. Ah, it is a great day for Napoleon!" 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.