Poe, Edgar Allen - The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe

by Volume 01-05 (lit)

  she resumed her seat by my side; when I expressed to her, in terms of

  the deepest enthusiasm, my delight at her performance. Of my surprise

  I said nothing, and yet was I most unfeignedly surprised; for a

  certain feebleness, or rather a certain tremulous indecision of voice

  in ordinary conversation, had prepared me to anticipate that, in

  singing, she would not acquit herself with any remarkable ability.

  Our conversation was now long, earnest, uninterrupted, and totally

  unreserved. She made me relate many of the earlier passages of my

  life, and listened with breathless attention to every word of the

  narrative. I concealed nothing -- felt that I had a right to conceal

  nothing -- from her confiding affection. Encouraged by her candor

  upon the delicate point of her age, I entered, with perfect

  frankness, not only into a detail of my many minor vices, but made

  full confession of those moral and even of those physical

  infirmities, the disclosure of which, in demanding so much higher a

  degree of courage, is so much surer an evidence of love. I touched

  upon my college indiscretions -- upon my extravagances -- upon my

  carousals- upon my debts -- upon my flirtations. I even went so far

  as to speak of a slightly hectic cough with which, at one time, I had

  been troubled -- of a chronic rheumatism -- of a twinge of hereditary

  gout- and, in conclusion, of the disagreeable and inconvenient, but

  hitherto carefully concealed, weakness of my eyes.

  "Upon this latter point," said Madame Lalande, laughingly, "you have

  been surely injudicious in coming to confession; for, without the

  confession, I take it for granted that no one would have accused you

  of the crime. By the by," she continued, "have you any recollection-"

  and here I fancied that a blush, even through the gloom of the

  apartment, became distinctly visible upon her cheek -- "have you any

  recollection, mon cher ami of this little ocular assistant, which now

  depends from my neck?"

  As she spoke she twirled in her fingers the identical double

  eye-glass which had so overwhelmed me with confusion at the opera.

  "Full well -- alas! do I remember it," I exclaimed, pressing

  passionately the delicate hand which offered the glasses for my

  inspection. They formed a complex and magnificent toy, richly chased

  and filigreed, and gleaming with jewels, which, even in the deficient

  light, I could not help perceiving were of high value.

  "Eh bien! mon ami" she resumed with a certain empressment of manner

  that rather surprised me -- "Eh bien! mon ami, you have earnestly

  besought of me a favor which you have been pleased to denominate

  priceless. You have demanded of me my hand upon the morrow. Should I

  yield to your entreaties -- and, I may add, to the pleadings of my

  own bosom -- would I not be entitled to demand of you a very -- a

  very little boon in return?"

  "Name it!" I exclaimed with an energy that had nearly drawn upon us

  the observation of the company, and restrained by their presence

  alone from throwing myself impetuously at her feet. "Name it, my

  beloved, my Eugenie, my own! -- name it! -- but, alas! it is already

  yielded ere named."

  "You shall conquer, then, mon ami," said she, "for the sake of the

  Eugenie whom you love, this little weakness which you have at last

  confessed -- this weakness more moral than physical -- and which, let

  me assure you, is so unbecoming the nobility of your real nature --

  so inconsistent with the candor of your usual character -- and which,

  if permitted further control, will assuredly involve you, sooner or

  later, in some very disagreeable scrape. You shall conquer, for my

  sake, this affectation which leads you, as you yourself acknowledge,

  to the tacit or implied denial of your infirmity of vision. For, this

  infirmity you virtually deny, in refusing to employ the customary

  means for its relief. You will understand me to say, then, that I

  wish you to wear spectacles; -- ah, hush! -- you have already

  consented to wear them, for my sake. You shall accept the little toy

  which I now hold in my hand, and which, though admirable as an aid to

  vision, is really of no very immense value as a gem. You perceive

  that, by a trifling modification thus -- or thus -- it can be adapted

  to the eyes in the form of spectacles, or worn in the waistcoat

  pocket as an eye-glass. It is in the former mode, however, and

  habitually, that you have already consented to wear it for my sake."

  This request -- must I confess it? -- confused me in no little

  degree. But the condition with which it was coupled rendered

  hesitation, of course, a matter altogether out of the question.

  "It is done!" I cried, with all the enthusiasm that I could muster at

  the moment. "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 pleasure 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."

  Our conversation now turned upon the details of our arrangements for

  the morrow. Talbot, I learned from my betrothed, had just arrived in

  town. I was to see him at once, and procure a carriage. The soiree

  would scarcely break up before two; and by this hour the vehicle was

  to be at the door, when, in the confusion occasioned by the departure

  of the company, Madame L. could easily enter it unobserved. We were

  then to call at the house of a clergyman who would be in waiting;

  there be married, drop Talbot, and proceed on a short tour to the

  East, leaving the fashionable world at home to make whatever comments

  upon the matter it thought best.

  Having planned all this, I immediately took leave, and went in search

  of Talbot, but, on the way, I could not refrain from stepping into a

  hotel, for the purpose of inspecting the miniature; and this I did by

  the powerful aid of the glasses. The countenance was a surpassingly

  beautiful one! 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 -- "Eugenie 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 fi
rst 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 Eugenie 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 Eugenie, 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

  Eugenie 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 Eugenie 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 respectaable 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 Froisart, too, if I only tink proper to

  mean it. 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 Amerique- and

  ven he get here he went and ave von ver stupide, 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 Stephanie 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 lumped up from her

  chair like somebody bewitched, dropping upon the floor an entire

  universe of bustle as she lumped. 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 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.