Those large
      luminous eyes!—that proud Grecian nose!—those dark luxuriant
      curls!—“Ah!” said I, exultingly to myself, “this is indeed the
      speaking image of my beloved!” I turned the reverse, and
      discovered the words—“Eugénie Lalande—aged twenty-seven years and
      seven months.”

      I found Talbot at home, and proceeded at once to acquaint him
      with my good fortune. He professed excessive astonishment, of
      course, but congratulated me most cordially, and proffered every
      assistance in his power. In a word, we carried out our
      arrangement to the letter, and, at two in the morning, just ten
      minutes after the ceremony, I found myself in a close carriage
      with Madame Lalande—with Mrs. Simpson, I should say—and driving
      at a great rate out of town, in a direction northeast by north,
      half-north. It had been determined for us by Talbot, that, as we were to be
      up all night, we should make our first stop at C——, a village
      about twenty miles from the city, and there get an early
      breakfast and some repose, before proceeding upon our route. At
      four precisely, therefore, the carriage drew up at the door of
      the principal inn. I handed my adored wife out, and ordered
      breakfast forthwith. In the meantime we were shown into a small
      parlor, and sat down. It was now nearly if not altogether daylight; and, as I gazed,
      enraptured, at the angel by my side, the singular idea came, all
      at once, into my head, that this was really the very first moment
      since my acquaintance with the celebrated loveliness of Madame
      Lalande, that I had enjoyed a near inspection of that loveliness
      by daylight at all. “And now, _mon ami_,” said she, taking my hand, and so
      interrupting this train of reflection, “and now, _mon cher ami_,
      since we are indissolubly one—since I have yielded to your
      passionate entreaties, and performed my portion of our
      agreement—I presume you have not forgotten that you also have a
      little favor to bestow—a little promise which it is your
      intention to keep. Ah! let me see! Let me remember! Yes; full
      easily do I call to mind the precise words of the dear promise
      you made to Eugénie last night. Listen! You spoke thus: ‘It is
      done!—it is most cheerfully agreed! I sacrifice every feeling for
      your sake. To-night I wear this dear eye-glass as an eye-glass,
      and upon my heart; but with the earliest dawn of that morning
      which gives me the privilege of calling you wife, I will place it
      upon my—upon my nose,—and there wear it ever afterward, in the
      less romantic, and less fashionable, but certainly in the more
      serviceable, form which you desire.’ These were the exact words,
      my beloved husband, were they not?”

      “They were,” I said; “you have an excellent memory; and
      assuredly, my beautiful Eugénie, there is no disposition on my
      part to evade the performance of the trivial promise they imply. See! Behold! they are becoming—rather—are they not?” And here,
      having arranged the glasses in the ordinary form of spectacles, I
      applied them gingerly in their proper position; while Madame
      Simpson, adjusting her cap, and folding her arms, sat bolt
      upright in her chair, in a somewhat stiff and prim, and indeed,
      in a somewhat undignified position. “Goodness gracious me!” I exclaimed, almost at the very instant
      that the rim of the spectacles had settled upon my nose—“_My!_
      goodness gracious me!—why, what can be the matter with these
      glasses?” and taking them quickly off, I wiped them carefully
      with a silk handkerchief, and adjusted them again. But if, in the first instance, there had occurred something which
      occasioned me surprise, in the second, this surprise became
      elevated into astonishment; and this astonishment was
      profound—was extreme—indeed I may say it was horrific. What, in
      the name of everything hideous, did this mean? Could I believe my
      eyes?—could I?—that was the question. Was that—was that—was that
      rouge? And were those—and were those—were those wrinkles, upon
      the visage of Eugénie Lalande? And oh! Jupiter, and every one of
      the gods and goddesses, little and big!—what—what—what—_what_ had
      become of her teeth? I dashed the spectacles violently to the
      ground, and, leaping to my feet, stood erect in the middle of the
      floor, confronting Mrs. Simpson, with my arms set a-kimbo, and
      grinning and foaming, but, at the same time, utterly speechless
      with terror and with rage. Now I have already said that Madame Eugénie Lalande—that is to
      say, Simpson—spoke the English language but very little better
      than she wrote it, and for this reason she very properly never
      attempted to speak it upon ordinary occasions. But rage will
      carry a lady to any extreme; and in the present care it carried
      Mrs. Simpson to the very extraordinary extreme of attempting to
      hold a conversation in a tongue that she did not altogether
      understand. “Vell, Monsieur,” said she, after surveying me, in great apparent
      astonishment, for some moments—“Vell, Monsieur?—and vat den?—vat
      de matter now? Is it de dance of de Saint itusse dat you ave? If
      not like me, vat for vy buy de pig in the poke?”

      “You wretch!” said I, catching my breath—“you—you—you villainous
      old hag!”

      “Ag?—ole?—me not so ver ole, after all! Me not one single day
      more dan de eighty-doo.”

      “Eighty-two!” I ejaculated, staggering to the wall—“eighty-two
      hundred thousand baboons! The miniature said twenty-seven years
      and seven months!”

      “To be sure!—dat is so!—ver true! but den de portraite has been
      take for dese fifty-five year. Ven I go marry my segonde usbande,
      Monsieur Lalande, at dat time I had de portraite take for my
      daughter by my first usbande, Monsieur Moissart!”

      “Moissart!” said I. “Yes, Moissart,” said she, mimicking my pronunciation, which, to
      speak the truth, was none of the best,—“and vat den? Vat you know
      about de Moissart?”

      “Nothing, you old fright!—I know nothing about him at all; only I
      had an ancestor of that name, once upon a time.”

      “Dat name! and vat you ave for say to dat name? ’Tis ver _goot_
      name; and so is Voissart—dat is ver goot name too. My daughter,
      Mademoiselle Moissart, she marry von Monsieur Voissart,—and de
      name is bot _ver_ respectable name.”

      “Moissart?” I exclaimed, “and Voissart! Why, what is it you
      mean?”

      “Vat I mean?—I mean Moissart and Voissart; and for de matter of
      dat, I mean Croissart and Froissart, too, if I only tink proper
      to mean it.