My daughter’s daughter, Mademoiselle Voissart, she
      marry von Monsieur Croissart, and den again, my daughter’s grande
      daughter, Mademoiselle Croissart, she marry von Monsieur
      Froissart; and I suppose you say dat _dat_ is not von _ver_
      respectaable name.”

      “Froissart!” said I, beginning to faint, “why, surely you don’t
      say Moissart, and Voissart, and Croissart, and Froissart?”

      “Yes,” she replied, leaning fully back in her chair, and
      stretching out her lower limbs at great length; “yes, Moissart,
      and Voissart, and Croissart, and Froissart. But Monsieur
      Froissart, he vas von _ver_ big vat you call fool—he vas von ver
      great big donce like yourself—for he lef _la belle France_ for
      come to dis stupide Amérique—and ven he get here he went and ave
      von _ver_ stupid, von _ver, ver_ stupide sonn, so I hear, dough I
      not yet av ad de plaisir to meet vid him—neither me nor my
      companion, de Madame Stéphanie Lalande. He is name de Napoleon
      Bonaparte Froissart, and I suppose you say dat _dat_, too, is not
      von ver respectable name.”

      Either the length or the nature of this speech, had the effect of
      working up Mrs. Simpson into a very extraordinary passion indeed;
      and as she made an end of it, with great labor, she jumped up
      from her chair like somebody bewitched, dropping upon the floor
      an entire universe of bustle as she jumped. Once upon her feet,
      she gnashed her gums, brandished her arms, rolled up her sleeves,
      shook her fist in my face, and concluded the performance by
      tearing the cap from her head, and with it an immense wig of the
      most valuable and beautiful black hair, the whole of which she
      dashed upon the ground with a yell, and there trammpled and
      danced a fandango upon it, in an absolute ecstasy and agony of
      rage. Meantime I sank aghast into the chair which she had vacated. “Moissart and Voissart!” I repeated, thoughtfully, as she cut one
      of her pigeon-wings, and “Croissart and Froissart!” as she
      completed another—“Moissart and Voissart and Croissart and
      Napoleon Bonaparte Froissart!—why, you 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 Eugénie 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 passées_ 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 Stéphanie
      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; for these were notorious, although
      I was entirely ignorant of their notoriety, and my good old
      relative discovered, much to her chagrin, that she had been
      deceived in supposing me aware of her identity, and that I had
      been merely making a fool of myself in making open love, in a
      theatre, to an old woman unknown. By way of punishing me for this
      imprudence, she concocted with Talbot a plot. He purposely kept
      out of my way to avoid giving me the introduction. My street
      inquiries about “the lovely widow, Madame Lalande,” were supposed
      to refer to the younger lady, of course, and thus the
      conversation with the three gentlemen whom I encountered shortly
      after leaving Talbot’s hotel will be easily explained, as also
      their allusion to Ninon De L’Enclos. I had no opportunity of
      seeing Madame Lalande closely during daylight; and, at her
      musical _soirée_, my silly weakness in refusing the aid of
      glasses effectually prevented me from making a discovery of her
      age. When “Madame Lalande” was called upon to sing, the younger
      lady was intended; and it was she who arose to obey the call; my
      great, great, grandmother, to further the deception, arising at
      the same moment and accompanying her to the piano in the main
      drawing-room. Had I decided upon escorting her thither, it had
      been her design to suggest the propriety of my remaining where I
      was; but my own prudential views rendered this unnecessary. The
      songs which I so much admired, and which so confirmed my
      impression of the youth of my mistress, were executed by Madame
      Stéphanie Lalande. The eyeglass was presented by way of adding a
      reproof to the hoax—a sting to the epigram of the deception. Its
      presentation afforded an opportunity for the lecture upon
      affectation with which I was so especially edified.