Jean appeared to be somewhat bored. He yawned,
in fact.
"And now," cried Monsieur Rouquin in a great voice, "I have a plan.
Let us celebrate the birth of Monsieur Napoleon Bingle by dining
together at Pierre's. This day he is born again--or, at least,
prospectively born. Life for him really begins to-day--the sixth of
March. It is my treat! I shall be the host on this memorable occasion.
Pierre shall give to us the best duckling in his larder and the rarest
bottle of--"
"But my dear Rouquin," began Mr. Bingle.
"I implore you, kind friend, to honour me with your presence this
evening. The greatest day of my life shall be this one if you but
consent to grace my board with your lovely lady. And poor Madame
Rousseau and her amiable husband shall not be the ghosts at the feast,
as one might suspect, but joyful spirits. To them we will drink a
toast of good will and better luck next time, and they may drink to
you, madame and sir, the health of one grand Napoleon Bingle, in whose
past they both shared but whose future can only be a--"
"Oh, I say, Rouquin," broke in Monsieur Jean languidly, "why not make
it 'many happy returns of the day'? That's the real issue.
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