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Updated: May 20, 2025
“A Frenchman!” shouted Milor. “From Paris, your grace.” “Will you sell me your Joan of Arc?” was the furious demand. “I will cover it with pounds sterling twice over.” “Le Comte de Barbebiche—” “You have promised it to him?” “Yes!” gasped Herr Wechsel, catching at the idea. “Enough!” cried the English nobleman; and he strode into the street.
She had lost none of her charms, and he stood with arms folded upon his breast, entranced for awhile before the figure of the valiant maiden. “Herr Wechsel,” said he abruptly, as he entered the shop; “Le Comte de Barbebiche has ceded his claim to me. I repeat my offer for your Joan of Arc—decide at once, for I am in a hurry.”
“What is this?” inquired the Comte de Barbebiche. “This is the alternative,” cried the Englishman. “Here are weapons; take your choice—pistols, rapiers, or the gloves. Fight with one of them you must and shall, or abandon your claim to Joan of Arc.” “Mon Dieu! What Joan of Arc? I do not have the felicity of knowing the lady.”
“Deliver my card immediately to the Comte,” said he to the attendant; “and tell him I am waiting.” He had found him out. Luckily, the Comte de Barbebiche happened to be in the best possible humour when this message was conveyed to him, having just succeeded in dyeing his moustache to his entire satisfaction.
To return to Milor. “I’ll bet you anything you like that it is possible,” said he. “Your grace,” replied the shopkeeper, “my Joan of Arc is beyond price to me. It draws all the town to my shop; not forgetting the foreigners.” “I will buy your shop,” said the Englishman. “Milor! Graf Schweinekopf von Pimplestein called only yesterday to see it, and Le Comte de Barbebiche.”
The Comte de Barbebiche—seeing that he had to do with an Englishman a degree, at least, more crazed than the rest of his countrymen—entered into the spirit of the matter at once, and chose the easiest means of extricating himself from a difficulty. “Milor,” he exclaimed, advancing towards him, “I am charmed with your sentiments, your courage, and your integrity.
On reaching his hotel, he chose two pairs of boxing gloves, a set of rapiers, and a case of duelling pistols; and, thus loaded, descended to his fiaker, tossed them in, and started off in the direction of the nearest hotel. “Le Comte de Barbebiche”—that was the pass-word; but everywhere it failed to elicit the desired reply.
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