Books: Mr. Bingle
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George Barr McCutcheon >> Mr. Bingle
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"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."
"Ah!" said Monsieur Rouquin, smiting himself on the forehead. "I
should have known. Have I no brain? Listen! I tap my head. Does it not
give out a hollow sound, as if entirely empty? Say yes, my dear sir. I
shall not be offended. To have misinterpreted the polite--Ah, but, it
is of no consequence. Pray proceed, sir." "Proceed?" muttered Mr.
Bingle, frowning. "There's nothing more to the quotation, Rouquin, so
far as I know. Merely 'love's labour lost,' no more. But I would like
to ask a question or two. Are the parents of this child quite
respectable people?" Rouquin rolled his eyes upward. "Utterly," he
said, with deep feeling in his voice.
"Healthy?"
"Parfaitment!"
"What does that mean?"
"Perfectly, my dear Mr. Bingle."
"Oh! And are they married?"
"Mon dieu!" cried Rouquin, turning scarlet. "Absolutely, sir--
incontestably."
"I mean, to each other."
"Monsieur jests," was all that Rouquin could say. He wiped his brow,
however.
"Well, when may we see the child? When can we talk it over with the
parents?"
"That is for you to say, sir."
"To-morrow afternoon?"
"I shall so arrange it, sir. Will not you and Madame Bang--Bingle
honour me with your presence at a little tea-room--quite an excellent
and refined place that I know of--before we go to inspect the child?
It will give me the greatest pleasure if--"
"See here, Rouquin, that's most kind of you, but I'd prefer to have
you take tea with Mrs. Bingle and me. Do you know of a nice, but
thoroughly typical French restaurant where we could--er--get a bit of
the atmosphere, don't you know? We are figuring on taking a trip to
Paris soon and we'd like to--well, you know what I mean? Quiet,
respectable place, you know. Nothing rowdyish."
Rouquin's eyes sparkled. His joy was great. "Ah, I know of such a
place. But it is not a tea-room, in the strict sense of the term. It
is a cafe where one has the finest table d'hote dinner in all New York
for one dollar per person, wine included. Ah, if Monsieur would only
condescend to dine there, AFTER we have seen the child, I am sure--"
"I'll telephone you in the morning," said Mr. Bingle, his eyes
gleaming. "I shall have to speak to Mrs. Bingle about it first."
It was left that they were to visit the infant and its utterly
respectable parents at four on the following afternoon. Rouquin had
already assured Mr. Bingle that only the direst necessity made it
possible for the wretched father and mother to even THINK of giving up
their greatest treasure, this marvellous infant. In fact, it was only
because they loved the child so dearly that they were content to see
it pass out of their lives. For, said Monsieur Rouquin, they were so
poor and so proud that suicide was the only thing left for them in
this terrific struggle with adversity, and what was to become of the
child if they killed themselves? They would not murder their adored
one, and, while it was quite possible for the father and mother to
destroy themselves, one really couldn't expect a fifteen months old
child to take its own life by involuntary starvation--which was
unspeakable. And, said he, they couldn't consider suicide without
first making sure that their beloved was safely provided for. After
that--well, they could then go about it quite happily, if needs be.
Mr. Bingle was deeply distressed.
Rouquin had quite a surprise for them when they called at the bank for
him. As he settled himself gracefully in the seat beside Mrs. Bingle,
he announced that he had arranged with the heart-sick parents to fetch
the babe to his humble apartment at half-past four, where at least one
could be sure of avoiding the unfriendly presence of a too-persistent
rent-collector, to say nothing of the distressing odours of extreme
poverty. Indeed, said Monsieur Rouquin, it was not improbable that
they might find the excellent Rousseaus in the apartment on their
arrival there, as he had given directions to the janitor to admit them
without question. He couldn't bear the thought of poor little Madame
Rousseau standing outside in the cold hall with that adorable infant
in imminent peril of freezing to death because of insufficient
apparel.
"Are they descendants of the great genre painter?" inquired Mrs.
Bingle. There was a small painting by the great Barbizon artist in the
Bingle drawing-room. She had been reading up on Rousseau, and Miss
Fairweather had told her how to pronounce genre.
"That I cannot affirm, Madame," said Rouquin, with infinite regret in
his voice. "It is possible, even probable, that Monsieur Rousseau is a
direct descendant, but I am not in a position to say so with
authority. I shall make it a point to repeat your question to him."
"It would be most interesting to have a descendant of Rousseau in the
same house with one of his masterpieces, and under the conditions we
face, don't you think, Mr. Rouquin?" Mrs. Bingle had never been quite
secure in her pronunciation of monsieur, so she avoided the word.
Monsieur Rouquin agreed that it would be amazingly interesting, and
then went on to say that he had known Madame Rousseau while she was
still petite Marie Vallamont, but his acquaintance with her husband
was of short duration. In fact, he knew little about him except that
his great grandfather had been beheaded at the time of the revolution,
which was in itself sufficient proof that he was descended from the
aristocracy if not the nobility of France.
"You are aware, of course," said he, "that only the aristocracy had
their heads cut off during those eventful days."
"Oh, yes, indeed," said both Mr. and Mrs. Bingle so promptly that
Monsieur Rouquin at once changed the subject. He realised that they
knew quite as much if not more of French history than he.
As he had suspected, the Rousseaus were awaiting them in the
apartment. They were very nice looking young people, rather shabbily
attired in garments which, though clearly the cast-off apparel of more
prosperous owners, were still neat and remotely fashionable. Madame
Rousseau was quite a pretty woman, with a soft, restrained voice and a
tendency to say "Oui, Madame," with great frequency and politeness.
Her husband, poor as he was, sustained the credit of aristocracy by
smoking innumerable cigarettes, with which he appeared to be most
plentifully supplied. "You found my cigarettes, I see. That is good,"
said Rouquin, shortly after the introductions. He spoke somewhat
tartly, as if an idea had just occurred to him. He shot a furtive
glance at Mr. Bingle as he made the remark.
"Oh, yes," said Rousseau, after an instant's hesitation. "I beg
Madame's pardon. Does the smoking annoy?"
"Not at all," said Mrs. Bingle. "I am used to it. Mr. Bingle smokes a
pipe."
"Well, where is the baby?" said Mr. Bingle, declining the cigarette
which Rousseau proffered in the absence of hospitality on Monsieur
Rouquin's part.
"Oh," said Madame Rousseau, "it sleeps. I have put it into Monsieur
Raoul's warm bed. Such a cruelty it would be to awake the baby,
M'sieur."
"I think I'd like to see what it looks like while asleep, Madame,"
said Bingle, with the air of a shrewd bargainer. "You see, I've become
quite an expert on babies. I don't believe there is a better judge of
--I beg your pardon. I forgot to inquire if my English is quite
intelligible. Do you follow me?"
"Your English is perfect, M'sieur," she assured him, brightly. "May I
say that it surprises me. I have been in your America for five years
and I have not before this hour heard an American speak the English
language so perfectly--"
"Ahem!" coughed Rouquin, and Madame Rousseau completed her estimate of
Mr. Bingle's English by spreading her hands in a gesture which
signified utter inability to express herself in words. "Shall we peep
into my bedroom?" went on the foreign exchange manager.
"Said the spider to the fly," came quite distinctly from Monsieur
Rousseau.
"Remember," cautioned Rouquin, his hand on the door-knob, "you are to
guess what it is, Mr. Bingle."
"I suppose I'm to have two guesses," said Mr. Single, with a chuckle.
"Certainly," said Rouquin. "Provided your first guess is wrong."
Stealthily the group entered the bedroom of Monsieur Rouquin. The
window shades were down. The room was quite dark. On the bed was a
dimly distinguishable heap.
"Sh!" whispered Madame Rousseau, putting a finger to her lips--which
in the light of the sun were singularly red and unstarved.
"Sh!" echoed her husband.
"Sh!" said Rouquin.
On tip-toe they all advanced upon the heap, now resolved into a pile
of pink blankets. Mr. Bingle leaned far over the heap. Then he put on
his spectacles.
"Where is it?" he whispered.
"Mon dieu!" gulped the young mother, in consternation. She whipped the
blankets off the bed. There was no baby. A second later she darted
through a door on the opposite side of the room, slamming it violently
behind her. Monsieur Rousseau started to laugh but cut it short and
sputtered Mon dieu three or four times in a choked voice.
"What does all this mean?" demanded Mr. Bingle. "God bless my soul!"
In the meantime, Madame Rousseau was confronting a motherly looking
person in Monsieur Rouquin's bath-room, down the little hall. The
motherly looking person was holding a fat, yellow-headed baby on her
lap and to the mouth of the fat, yellow-headed baby was attached the
business end of a half-emptied milk-bottle.
The conversation was in whispered French, and of exceeding bitterness
on one side. It is not necessary to repeat what was said. It is only
necessary to explain that the motherly looking person was the infant's
grandmother--in fact the mother of Madame Rousseau. From certain
disjointed explanatory scraps that fell from the motherly person's
lips it might have been divined that the baby awoke some time before
the arrival of the great philanthropist, and that grandmere deemed it
to be the part of wisdom to feed it thoroughly before submitting it
for inspection. No one takes to a howling brat, she protested.
Besides, what was she there for if not to look after the child of her
ungrateful, selfish daughter who had not the slightest feeling of--
But, all this time, Madame Rousseau was informing her mother that she
was a meddlesome, stupid old blunderer, and that the fat was in the
fire. She snatched the baby from the old lady's arms. The bottle
crashed to the tile floor and painted a section of it white, its
pristine hue. The infant was too surprised to cry. It maintained an
open-mouthed silence even as its mother whisked out of the bath-room
and brought the door to with a bang, leaving grandmere in the centre
of a pool of white, still whispering shrilly that even though a wise
father might by chance know his own son, a mother never could hope to
know her own daughter.
Messieurs Rouquin and Rousseau were talking loudly, rapidly and very
excitedly to each other--in French, of course--when Madame burst into
the room with the infant. Mr. and Mrs. Bingle, still staring at the
unoccupied bed, had nothing but blank bewilderment in their honest
faces.
"Ah!" shouted the two Frenchmen joyously.
"That stupid servant!" squealed Madame Rousseau, hugging the baby to
her breast in frantic relief. "Oh, what a fright I have had. Take the
baby, Jean. Mon dieu! Do not let it fall! Oh, m'sieur, madame, you
will never know how I was anguished. I thought I had lost my darling,
my adored one. The black-hand what-you-call-him--non, non, the
kidnapper. My baby! Jean, Jean, do not let it out of your sight again
--never, do you hear. Now, madame, will you not be kind enough to look
at my baby? Come, m'sieur, to the window. Jean, pull up the shade."
Jean almost dropped his precious burden in his eagerness to do as he
was bidden, and might actually have done so but for the timely
intervention of Monsieur Rouquin, who sprang to the window and sent
the shade up with a crash that caused Mrs. Bingle to jump with alarm.
"See!" shouted Rouquin, stepping back and pointing proudly at the
baby.
"God bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle.
"Oh, the darling!" cried his wife, and tried at once to take the
sunny-faced youngster from the arms of Monsieur Jean. But Jean held on
very tightly, apparently awaiting orders. It may have been the unusual
fervour of the father's clasp that caused the child to whimper, or it
may have been that it never had seen such an expression in its
parent's face before. At any rate, as it looked up into Jean's swarthy
countenance it began to cry; where upon Madame Rousseau exclaimed
shrilly:
"Can't you see, Jean? Madame would hold my baby to her breast. Quick!
You big simpleton! Ah, madame, my poor Jean is so sad, so broken-
hearted over the thought of losing his child that he--There! See! See
the lovely smile once more?"
It was true that the instant Mrs. Bingle received the plump wriggler
in her arms, the beaming smile was restored. Jean moved quickly into
the background, and turned his miserable face away from the scene.
The Rousseau baby WAS adorable, there could be no mistake about that.
In previous experiences, Mr. and Mrs. Bingle had encountered half-
starved, unhappy, whining infants. This was the first time they had
come upon a lusty, apparently over-fed specimen, and they were at once
filled with the joy of covetousness. Thick yellow curls, bright blue
eyes, and cheeks that would have shamed the peach's bloom--and a
nearly completed row of tiny white teeth--such was the Rousseau
applicant at first glance. Moreover, its clothing was clean, soft and
sweet-smelling of fabrics that do not often find their way into the
houses of the poverty-stricken.
"Wait!" exclaimed Rouquin, fairly dancing with exuberant joy. "Wait!
Now, Mr. Bingle--now for the guess, sir. I give you but one guess.
What is it--a boy or a girl?"
Madame Rousseau clasped her hands ecstatically upon her bosom. "Oh, as
if my baby could be anything but--"
"Sh!" hissed the master of ceremonies.
So much whirlwind excitement as all this, so much radiant joy over the
disposal of a baby, had never entered into any previous negotiation,
and Mr. Bingle was quite carried away by the novelty of the situation.
Never before had the ceremony resolved itself into an enigma, a
puzzle, so to speak, in which it was his privilege to make one guess.
"It's a boy," said he, with conviction, whereupon the mother, the
father and Monsieur Rouquin filled the room with joyous exclamations
and the baby, imitative little beggar that he was, crowed with
delight.
Madame Rousseau could not get over the despicable behaviour of
Rouquin's servant. She kept on berating the creature and advising
Rouquin to dismiss her, until at last Mrs. Bingle announced that the
poor thing undoubtedly had acted for the best and out of the goodness
of her heart. She also said that she would like to see the woman.
Monsieur Rouquin being of a mind to dismiss the presumptuous domestic,
Mrs. Bingle blandly declared that, if her references were all as good
as the one Madame Rousseau was giving her, she wouldn't hesitate for
an instant to engage her to look after the child in case it joined the
Bingle collection. There were voluble protests in French from both
Madame Rousseau and Rouquin, and then Monsieur Jean announced in
English that the old servant was like a mother to Rouquin and that he
would as soon think of cutting off his right hand as to allow her to
go out of his life. Rouquin glared at him for this, and the shabby-
genteel Jean had the audacity to close one eye slowly.
Madame Rousseau's mother was permitted to remain in the bath-room, and
no further reference was made to her.
"Well, let's get down to business," said Mr. Bingle, presenting his
forefinger to the babe for inspection. Monsieur l'Enfant promptly
seized it and conveyed it toward his earnest mouth. "No, no!" cried
Mr. Bingle reprovingly. "Mustn't do that. Naughty, naughty! The
microbes will get you if you don't watch out. Dear me, what a strong
little rascal he is! By the way, what is his name?"
"It has been Napoleon," said the mother. "But he can be made to forget
it, m'sieur, if you desire."
"Napoleon Bingle," mused Mr. Bingle, and then sent a sharp,
questioning glance to his wife. She gravely nodded her head. "Not at
all bad. Ahem! Shall we return to the other room? Naturally there are
a great many questions to be asked and answered. Rouquin, will you
oblige me by getting a pad of paper and taking down all of the--er--
statistics?"
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.
"And you, Mr. Rousseau, will be obliged to swear that you, as well as
your wife, forfeit all claim, present or future, to this child, and do
so without force or duress. Of course, I shall ask my attorney to
explain everything to both of you, so that you may not act without
complete understanding. Before we go before the Court, you will be
instructed in every move you are to make. And now, Madame, will you be
willing to take oath that you are the mother of Napoleon and as such
will henceforth cease to regard him as your son in case we conclude to
adopt him as our own?"
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.
"See!" she cried, holding up a bottle of milk. "I have it! To the
dairy-lunch and the chemist's I have been while--"
Rouquin leaped forward and snatched the squalling Napoleon from Mrs.
Bingle's arms, and an instant later deposited him in those of his
maternal grandmother, who in almost the same instant was pushed rudely
out of the room. The door was quickly closed. Napoleon's howls
receded.
"Now," said Rouquin, "we may talk in peace. My faithful old servant,
Madame," he went on, turning to Mrs. Bingle with his rarest smile. "I
do not know what I should do without her. She has gone out for the
milk and--Ah, what a treasure she is! Mon dieu, how I appreciate that
wonderful Fifi! That is her name, Madame--Fifi. Ah! Sublime--"
"She didn't look like a servant, Mr. Rouquin," said Mrs. Bingle,
recovered from her surprise.
"You speak of her dress, Madame? Has she not declared but now, this
instant, that she went out to the chemist's, to the dairy-lunch? Catch
Fifi on the street in her servant's dress! No, no! She spends her
wages on dress, vain creature. She would no more think of venturing
upon the street in--but, we waste time. Of what interest can be the
foibles of my poor old servant to you. Madame? Come, Marie--you see I
have known Madame Rousseau these many years, M'sieur--come, let us
assure Mr. Bingle that he need have nothing to fear if he decides to
do you--and poor old Jean here--the honour of adopting your most
fortunate baby."
Madame Rousseau dried her eyes upon a singularly pretty little
handkerchief, and then smiled beatifically.
"M'sieur need have no fear. I shall take the oath for my grand, my
adorable Napoleon's sake. After that, what shall I care what becomes
of me. He shall be safe. That is enough."
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