“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. He began to fold up the papers expeditiously. He stretched out his hand for the ring. The ring was gone! Gone, although no human creature had entered the room; gone, although no form had crossed the doorway. Gone!
He would not sleep there, that was certain.