ineffable old serpent, that's me--that's me--d'ye
hear? that's me"--here I screamed at the top of my voice--"that's
me-e-e! I am Napoleon Bonaparte Froissart! and if I havn't married my
great, great, grandmother, I wish I may be everlastingly confounded!"

Madame Eugenie Lalande, quasi Simpson--formerly Moissart--was, in sober
fact, my great, great, grandmother. In her youth she had been beautiful,
and even at eighty-two, retained the majestic height, the sculptural
contour of head, the fine eyes and the Grecian nose of her girlhood. By
the aid of these, of pearl-powder, of rouge, of false hair, false teeth,
and false tournure, as well as of the most skilful modistes of Paris,
she contrived to hold a respectable footing among the beauties en peu
passees of the French metropolis. In this respect, indeed, she might
have been regarded as little less than the equal of the celebrated Ninon
De L'Enclos.

She was immensely wealthy, and being left, for the second time, a widow
without children, she bethought herself of my existence in America,
and for the purpose of making me her heir, paid a visit to the United
States, in company with a distant and exceedingly lovely relative of her
second husband's--a Madame Stephanie Lalande.

At the opera, my great, great, grandmother's attention was arrested by
my notice; and, upon surveying me through her eye-glass, she was struck
with a certain family resemblance to herself. Thus interested, and
knowing that the heir she sought was actually in the city, she made
inquiries of her party respecting me. The gentleman who attended her
knew my person, and told her who I was. The information thus obtained
induced her to renew her scrutiny; and this scrutiny it was which so
emboldened me that I behaved in the absurd manner already detailed.
She returned my bow, however, under the impression that, by some odd
accident, I had discovered her identity. When, deceived by my weakness
of vision, and the arts of the toilet, in respect to the age and charms
of the strange lady, I demanded so enthusiastically of Talbot who
she was, he concluded that I meant the younger beauty, as a matter
of course, and so informed me, with perfect truth, that she was "the
celebrated widow, Madame Lalande."

In the street, next morning, my great, great, grandmother encountered
Talbot, an old Parisian acquaintance; and the conversation, very
naturally turned upon myself. My deficiencies of vision were then
explained;