“You are a student of history, I perceive, my friend, from the study of these volumes that lie scattered about this apartment; this fact has been made evident to me.”

“Well — a little — perhaps — it may be,” said the German meekly.

“Being a student of history then,” said Bonaparte, raising himself loftily, “you will doubtless have heard of my great, of my celebrated kinsman, Napoleon Bonaparte?”

“Yes, yes,” said the German, looking up.

“I, sir,” said Bonaparte, “was born at this hour, on an April afternoon, three-and-fifty years ago. The nurse, sir — she was the same who attended when the Duke of Sutherland was born — brought me to my mother. ‘There is only one name for this child,’ she said: ‘he has the nose of his great kinsman;’ and so Bonaparte Blenkins became my name — Bonaparte Blenkins. Yes, sir,” said Bonaparte, “there is a stream on my maternal side that connects me with 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 artistocratic 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, “have been in every country in the world, and speak every civilized 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 door-nail. There we were — cold night — snow four feet thick — great forest — one horse not being able to move sledge — night coming on — wolves.