me with a stream on his maternal side."

The German made a sound of astonishment.

"The connection," said Bonaparte, "is one which could not be easily
comprehended by one unaccustomed to the study of aristocratic pedigrees;
but the connection is close."

"Is it possible!" said the German, pausing in his work with much
interest and astonishment. "Napoleon an Irishman!"

"Yes," said Bonaparte, "on the mother's side, and that is how we are
related. There wasn't a man to beat him," said Bonaparte, stretching
himself--"not a man except the Duke of Wellington. And it's a strange
coincidence," added Bonaparte, bending forward, "but he was a connection
of mine. His nephew, the Duke of Wellington's nephew, married a cousin
of mine. She was a woman! See her at one of the court balls--amber
satin--daisies in her hair. Worth going a hundred miles to look at her!
Often seen her there myself, sir!"

The German moved the leather thongs in and out, and thought of the
strange vicissitudes of human life, which might bring the kinsman of
dukes and emperors to his humble room.

Bonaparte appeared lost among old memories.

"Ah, that Duke of Wellington's nephew!" he broke forth suddenly; "many's
the joke I've had with him. Often came to visit me at Bonaparte Hall.
Grand place I had then--park, conservatory, servants. He had only one
fault, that Duke of Wellington's nephew," said Bonaparte, observing that
the German was deeply interested in every word, "He was a coward--what
you might call a coward. You've never been in Russia, I suppose?" said
Bonaparte, fixing his crosswise looking eyes on the German's face.

"No, no," said the old man humbly. "France, England, Germany, a little
in this country; it is all I have travelled."

"I, my friend," said Bonaparte, "I have been in every country in the
world, and speak every civilised language, excepting only Dutch and
German. I wrote a book of my travels--noteworthy incidents. Publisher
got it--cheated me out of it. Great rascals those publishers! Upon
one occasion the Duke of Wellington's nephew and I were travelling
in Russia. All of a sudden one of the horses dropped down dead as
a doornail. There we were--cold night--snow four feet thick--great
forest--one horse not being able to move the sledge--night coming
on--wolves.

"'Spree!' says the Duke of Wellington's nephew.

"'Spree, do you call it? says I. 'Look out.'

"There, sticking out under a bush, was nothing less than the nose o