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Rouquin went very red in the face and then very pale, and his thin lips set themselves in a ghastly smile. "Good day, Rouquin," said Mr. Bingle, and went out of the bank. Mr. Epps was annoyed because his customer kept him waiting for nearly half-an-hour.
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.
Somebody in the boat said that the Germans had that morning reached She forgot the name of the place, but it was the next village to Ostend on the Bruges road. Thus Christine parted from the rouquin. Mad! Always wrong, even about the German submarines. But chic. Truly chic. What a voyage! What adventures with the charitable people in England! People who resembled nothing else on earth!
The red-haired one, the rouquin, had broad ideas, very broad ideas, of what was due to a woman. In fact, one might say that he carried generosity in details to excess. But naturally with Americans it was necessary to be surprised at nothing. The rouquin said steadily that war would not break out. He said so until the day on which it broke out. He then became a Turk. Yes, a Turk.
Yes, all these years," groaned Rouquin, rolling his eyes. "See! See what my brother Pierre says: 'Blanche died to-day. Good luck. Good luck! Mon Dieu, M'sieur, is it possible that you do not know what 'good luck' means?" "And you have married Madame Rous or whatever her name is?" "So quick as that!" cried Rouquin, snapping his fingers.
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.
Bingle to his wife, after the storm, "I fancy we'd better make an appointment with Rouquin as soon as possible. I am really quite enthusiastic, my dear, over that idea of yours to have a cute little French baby. The sooner we get it the better, I say. It is going to be pretty lonesome for awhile. Somehow I hope we find one that cries a good deal.
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.
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.
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.
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