"He is so obstinate, too. But
M'sieur Rouquin will talk sense into his head, never fear."
There was an awkward silence. Finally Mrs. Bingle spoke.
"Is your husband a descendant of the painter?"
Madame Rousseau looked surprised.
"He IS the painter, Madame."
"The--impossible! I refer to the great Rousseau of the 1880 school."
"Oh, I see. No, no--he is not that one. Jean was not yet born. Mon
dieu, was there another Rousseau?"
"There was," said Mrs. Bingle tartly. "Jean is the painter of to-day.
He is great, he is splendid, he is magnificent. But, la la! he is so
poor!"
"That seems to establish him all right," said Mr. Bingle.
Rouquin and Jean reappeared. Both were smiling cheerfully. Jean
affected a somewhat degage manner and a perceptible swagger.
"Very well, M'sieur," he said. "I'll swear to it."
"Then I shall leave the details to my attorney, who, you will
discover, is a most conscientious, dependable person. In the meantime,
when will it be convenient for Dr. Fiddler to examine Napoleon?"
Rouquin explained at some length in rapid French, and Madame Rousseau
was once more consoled.
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