When he came to the last one, he felt
there was something hard in it.
"You've got it, Bon, my boy! you've got it!" he cried, slapping his leg
hard. Edging nearer to the door, for the light was fading, he opened the
paper carefully. There was nothing inside but a plain gold wedding-ring.
"Better than nothing!" said Bonaparte, trying to put it on his little
finger, which, however, proved too fat.
He took it off and set it down on the table before him, and looked at it
with his crosswise eyes.
"When that auspicious hour, Sannie," he said, "shall have arrived, when,
panting, I shall lead thee, lighted by Hymen's torch, to the connubial
altar, then upon thy fair amaranthine finger, my joyous bride, shall this
ring repose.
"Thy fair body, oh, my girl,
Shall Bonaparte possess;
His fingers in thy money-bags,
He therein, too, shall mess."
Having given utterance to this flood of poesy, he sat lost in joyous
reflection.
"He therein, too, shall mess," he repeated meditatively.
At this instant, as Bonaparte swore, and swore truly to the end of his
life, a slow and distinct rap was given on the crown of his bald head.
Bonaparte started and looked up. No riem or strap, hung down from the
rafters above, and not a human creature was near the door. It was growing
dark; he did not like it.
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