Arrived at our destination, our carriage took its place at the end of a long line of conveyances, each of which—as it drew up to the main portal—disgorged a party of gaily, if not garishly, costumed revellers, who immediately disappeared into the wide-flung doorway of the manse. At length, it was our turn to disembark. Climbing down from the barouche, we followed the stream of chattering, ebullient guests through many deviously winding corridors, until we found ourselves within a vast—sumptuously appointed—and dazzlingly lit—ballroom.
This magnificent hall had been fitted up with every kind of device which could possibly give éclat to a masquerade. Dozens of lavish floral arrangements complemented the opulent decor of the room, whose gilded walls, marble floors, and richly embroidered tapestries were thrown into brilliant relief by a series of sconces, each containing a blazing flambeau. Arranged along one wall was a massive table, laden with such an abundance of delectable foodstuffs that it constituted a veritable “groaning-board.” There were platters piled high with every species of flesh and fowl—ham, turkey, venison, veal, partridge, chicken, grouse, and wild duck—dishes heaped with oysters, shad, lobster, crab, and trout—bowls replete with cherries, plums, and every variety of luscious fruits—baskets overstuffed with biscuits, breads, and rolls—countless bottles of Claret, Madeira, and Champagne—an enormous ceramic vessel brimming with rum punch—and a plethora of pies, cakes, tarts, and other delicacies so appetizing—so savory—that the mere sight of this tantalizing cornucopia resulted in the immediate, uncontrolled excitation of my organs of salivation.
The atmosphere of the ballroom was infused with the perfumed aroma of the many floral bouquets, and filled with the surpassingly mellifluous sounds emanating from the instruments of a group of elegantly garbed musicians, to whose high-spirited melodies a number of the revellers were already dancing a merry quadrille. Everywhere one gazed, the eye was dazzled with the splendor—the color—the sheer ingenious novelty—of the various costumes. There were richly dressed courtiers and knavish brigands—picturesque Alsatian peasant girls escorted by grinning harlequins—Parisian damsels chatting gaily with portly monks—pig-tailed dairy maids cavorting with moustachioed pirates. Now a Highland lassie would trip past, arm in arm with a jolly sailor; next a plumed and painted Osage warrior would stroll by in the company of a handsome Tripolitan noblewoman. Hamlet, the melancholy Dane, engaged in lively repartee with Julius Caesar; Torquemada stood laughing with King Henry VIII. Pretty feminine costumes of Poland and Italy were much in evidence—the former consisting of bright satin skirts, trimmed with ermine and heavy bullion fringe; the latter of cherry satin, profusely adorned with gilt ornaments, small bows, and tassels.
And seated in the midst of all—occupying her massive throne (which had evidently been transported into the ballroom for this occasion)—was the hostess herself, Mrs. Henrietta Nicodemus, elaborately coiffed, costumed, and made up to resemble a (somewhat overfed) facsimile of the beauteous, if illfated, French queen Marie Antoinette.
The vast ballroom, aswirl with so much life, color, and diversity, offered a singular spectacle, one guaranteed to elicit both wonder and admiration in the observer. Even the most fanciful—the most fantastical—of the costumes, however, did not create the sensation produced by the appearance of my brawny companion in his roughhewn, buckskin garb. From the moment of our entrance, a stir of excitement rippled through the assembled masqueraders, who paused in their activities to gape at the frontiersman in undisguised awe. As we made our way across the floor, I could distinctly hear the delighted gasps—excited murmurs—and awed ejaculations issuing from the lips of the crowd:
“Look!—It is him!—Davy Crockett himself!—The King of the Wild Frontier!”
Within moments, we found ourselves standing before the throne-like chair of Mrs. Nicodemus, who—upon becoming aware of our presence—arose from her seat and regally extended her plump right hand towards the frontiersman, as though offering it for a kiss.
Reaching out and seizing it with his own—far larger—and exceedingly powerful right hand, Crockett gave it an energetic shake. “Evenin’, Miz Nicodemus,” he drawled. “I wish my rifle may hang fire forever if this ain’t a plumb rip-roarious shindig. And don’t you look as purty as a morning glory on a fine, sunshiny day!”
Her inordinately rotund face flushing with pleasure, our hostess took several moments to exclaim over Crockett’s colorful garb before turning to Miss Mullany, who introduced herself to the widow with an elegant curtsy. Next, the latter directed her attention towards Virginia and myself. After inquiring as to the identity of my companion, she scrutinized our costumes for a moment before observing: “What a delightful choice of masquerades! Do you know, Mr. Poe, that—of all the tales in The Metamorphoses—the story of Pygmalion is, by far, my very favorite?”
“Well, split me all to flinders!” Crockett cried. “How in the nation did you cipher it out so quick? That’s an uncommon sound head you got on them shoulders of your’n, Miz Nicodemus!”
Perceiving an opportunity to inject a note of levity into the proceedings, I smiled urbanely and remarked: “Which, of course, is more than could be said for poor Marie Antoinette herself, once she fell into the clutches of Monsieur Robespierre and his cohorts.”
I had anticipated that my witticism would elicit, if not an outburst of sustained hilarity, then at least a hearty display of appreciative mirth. Contrary to my expectations, however, it was succeeded by an absolute—protracted—and distinctly uncomfortable—silence.
I could only infer that—by virtue of its reliance on the rather sophisticated device of historical allusion—my jest had proven to be overly subtle for my auditors. I was on the brink of offering a concise account of the Reign of Terror—by way of illuminating the inherent drollery of my remark—when Mrs. Nicodemus turned her gaze on a gentleman who had been standing silently at the side of her throne.
The demeanor of this personage—who was garbed in the costume of a medieval Knight Templar—was exceptional in every regard. Though only of medium height, he possessed a posture so singularly erect that it invested him with an appearance of unusual height—an effect reinforced by the extreme, though by no means unattractive, slenderness of his frame. His finely molded countenance was suffused with an air of aristocratical hauteur, while—from his dark, liquid eyes—there emanated a vague though palpable look of barely suppressed ennui. Beneath his long, aquiline nose, a jet-black moustache—whose ends were combed and waxed into the shape of two absolutely symmetrical curlicues—adorned his upper lip; while his somewhat recessive chin was embellished with a carefully trimmed goatee. His mouth was thin—very pallid—and arranged into a perpetual expression of mild, if distinctly supercilious, amusement.
Addressing this individual in an apologetic tone, Mrs. Nicodemus said: “I trust, my dear Count, that Mr. Poe’s innocent sally is not a cause for offense.”
“I assure you, Madame,” he replied with a weary shrug, “we French cannot afford to be sensitive on this account Even for us, the excesses of La Terreur—and most especially, the unfortunate enthusiasm for Docteur Guillotin’s ingenious device displayed by certain of our compatriotes—are a matter to be treated with scorn.” After favoring me with a thin smile, he turned his gaze upon the frontiersman. “So you are the famous Colonel Crockett, non?” he inquired, raising one eyebrow.
“Blamed if I ain’t. And who might you be?”
“Le Comte de Languedoc,” replied the other with a little bow. “At your service.”
“The Count,” Mrs. Nicodemus explained, “was an old acquaintance of my late husband’s. He is here to take a tour of our glorious Western prairies.”
“Don’t say?” Crockett remarked, scrutinizing the Frenchman through narrowed eyes. “Fixing on seeing the grandiferous sights of nature, eh?”
“Bien sûr,” replied the Count. “And, perhaps, to hunt some of your magnifique wild buffalo.”
This latter remark caused a broad, somewhat satirical, smile to spread across the frontiersman’s sunbrowned visage. “Buffalo?” he exclaimed. “Why, Count, hunting buffalo ain’t no sport for amateurs. When riled, them critters’ll turn as ugly as a copperhead in July. I once seen an ol’ bull go after a passel of redskins like a whole team of thunderbolts, even though the critter already had so many arrows stuck in him that he looked as thorny as a gol-danged honey locust tree.”
“I flatter myself, my cher Colonel, that I am not wholly unskilled in matters of the hunt,” replied the other. “Though I confess that, in the métier of savage pursuits, the American huntsman is, sans doute, unsurpassed in the world.” The subtly mocking tone in which this latter statement was expressed did not escape the notice even of the frontiersman, who—though normally oblivious of the nuances of irony—bristled visibly at the comment.
“I take it,” continued the Count, “that the weapon you have clutched so lovingly in your arms is your celebrated rifle, Old—how do you say?—Bitsy?”
“Betsy,” Crockett growled in reply. Then, gazing fondly at his rifle, he declared: “She’s my pride and joy, for a certainty.”
Taking one step forward, the Count extended his right hand in the direction of the weapon and inquired: “May I?”
After a brief moment of reluctant hesitation, Crockett surrendered the rifle to the Frenchman, who, after hefting it in both hands, raised the stock to his shoulder and peered down the length of the barrel, directing the muzzle towards the far end of the cavernous hallway, where a pair of French windows opened onto a lush, extensive garden.
“Go ahead and cock her, Count,” said Crockett. “She ain’t loaded.”
After making a thorough inspection of the piece—its shining lock and breech; its polished, silver-ornamented stock; and its singularly elongated barrel—the Frenchman observed: “Vraiment, it is an imposing—if, perhaps, somewhat cumbersome—firearm.”
Snatching it from the latter’s hands, Crockett exclaimed: “Cumbersome? Why, I’ll be shot if that ain’t the most chuckleheaded, numskulled—”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” cried Mrs. Nicodemus. “Please—this is an evening for gaiety, not discord!”
After casting a final, venomous look at the Frenchman, Crockett turned to the widow and declared: “Danged if you ain’t right, Miz Nicodemus. You just go on and attend to your business, and don’t fret your purty head about a thing. Me and Poe’ll keep our eyes peeled. Why, with us two here, you’ll be as safe as a turtle with its head tucked into his shell.”
Offering his arm to Miss Mullany and motioning to Virginia and me with a tilt of his head, Crockett said: “C’mon, let’s get us some of them fine-looking vittles.” Then, leaning towards me and placing his mouth close to my left ear, he added sotto voce: “And some of that first-rate liquor, too. That thin-gutted frog-eater has got me feeling hotter than hoss radish!”
Striding towards the banquet-table with his flouncing companion at his side, Crockett secured a large delftware platter and commenced to fill it with a prodigious quantity of viands. Even before he had devoured a single forkful, however, he was surrounded by a group of voluble admirers who eagerly importuned him for a tale.
“Friends, I ain’t in no ways undisposed to oblige,” he replied. “Just give me a minute to stow away some of this-here grub. Blamed if I ain’t hungry enough to eat a whole buffalo and pick my teeth with its horns.”
While the frontiersman was thus engaged, Sissy and I—whose costumes had drawn marvelling stares from the other masqueraders as we strolled, arm-in-arm, across the floor—made our way down the length of the table, assisting ourselves to a large variety of refreshments, including—in my case—a brimming cup of rum punch; my thirst having been seriously exacerbated by both the warmth of the room and the nervous tension induced in me by Crockett’s near-altercation with the Frenchman. This beverage proving singularly refreshing, I quaffed the entire cupful in a single, protracted gulp and immediately refilled it before continuing to help myself to the assorted delicacies of the extensive buffet.
Our platters being fully laden, Sissy and I repaired to one of the many small, circular tables disposed around the periphery of the hall and seated ourselves directly across from one another. Before turning my full attention to my dinner, I took a moment to make a careful survey of the room. Our hostess had left her throne and was moving about the hallway, bestowing bright, effusive greetings upon her friends and acquaintances. Some of the masqueraders were still engaged in a lively dance; others were gathered in laughing, chattering groups of three or four; still others were—like Sissy and myself—seated at tables, partaking of the bounteous meal; while a sizable group was now gathered around Crockett, who was holding forth while devouring great, swollen mouthfuls of food. The entire scene was one of mirth—vivacity—and singularly elevated spirits.
“Ooh, Eddie,” sighed Virgina, as she masticated a forkful of mutton. “Isn’t this the grandest, most splendid party you have ever attended?”
“It is, to be sure,” I replied with a smile. “Though the most splendid sight of all is the one upon which I am even now gazing.”
Smiling brightly at this tribute, Sissy continued to look about the ballroom, her eyes aglint with excitement. In the meantime, I bent my ears to Crockett’s recitation. Being seated only several yards away from the ever-expanding audience surrounding the frontiersman, I could clearly hear his words above the lilting sounds of the music
“If you haven’t heard tell of one Mike Fink,” boomed the frontiersman’s deep-pitched voice, “I’ll learn you something about him, for he was a helliferocious fellow and an almighty fine shot. Mike was a boatman on the Mississippi, but he had him a little cabin at the head of the Cumberland and a horrid handsome wife that loved him the wickedest you ever see. Well, one day I fell in with him in the woods, and he says to me: ‘I’ve got the handsomest wife, and the fastest horse, and the sharpest shootin’-iron in all Kentuck—and if any man dare doubt it, I’ll be in his hair quicker than it would take a hurricane to tear through a cornfield.’
“This put my dander up, and I says: ‘I’ve nothin’ against your wife, Mike, for it can’t be denied that she’s a monstrous handsome woman. And I ain’t got no horses. But I’m damned if you speak the truth about your rifle, and I’ll prove it. Do you see that-there tomcat hunkered on top of that fence post, about a hundred and fifty yards off? If he ever hears again, I’ll be shot if it shan’t be without ears.’
“So I blazed away with ol’ Betsy, and dang if that ball didn’t cut off both the ol’ tom’s ears and shave the hair clean off his skull, as slick as if I’d done it with a razor. And the critter never stirred nor knew he’d lost his ears ’til he tried to scratch ’em. So I says to Mike …”
As the frontiersman continued to regale his admirers with this flagrant, if innocuous, “whopper,” a peculiar sense of serenity began to suffuse every fibre of my being. I was, of course, acutely aware that Crockett and I had been invited as guardians, not guests. We had been charged with the gravest imaginable responsibility—viz. to maintain a tireless watch over our hostess, so as to ensure that no harm befell her in the course of her fête. In contradistinction to the other masqueraders, mere personal enjoyment was—for us—a subsidiary, if not wholly immaterial, concern.
Nevertheless, so convivial—so pleasing—so surpassingly benign—was the entire atmosphere of the ball that my sense of foreboding had, by slow degrees, begun to evaporate. The perfumed air—the delectable food—the transporting sight of my Sissy’s enchanting visage—all conspired to induce within my bosom a mood of singularly unwonted relaxation and contentment.
All at once, however, I became cognizant of an angry commotion emanating from Crockett’s direction. Casting my glance thitherward, I saw that the frontiersman had abruptly broken off his recitation and was engaged in an acrimonious debate with another individual, whose identity was obscured by the surrounding masqueraders. A stab of intense apprehension pierced the innermost core of my bosom. I quickly rose to my feet and—standing upon tip-toe—perceived at once that my premonition was founded on solid fact. The personage with whom Crockett was arguing was none other than the Comte de Languedoc! At that instant, Mrs. Nicodemus could be seen bustling towards the circle of onlookers, who parted to make way for the visibly dismayed hostess. Patting my lips with my linen napkin, I placed it on the table beside my depleted cup of punch, and instructed Sissy to await my return. Then, I hurriedly made my way towards the scene of the clamor, and—following in the wake of Mrs. Nicodemus—soon found myself standing beside the two deeply incensed antagonists.
Clasping her hands to her capacious bosom, Mrs. Nicodemus looked beseechingly from Crockett to the Count, and then back again. “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” she cried. “I am very much distressed at this unseasonable outburst. What in heaven’s name has happened?”
“I’m powerful sorry for putting you in a lather, Miz Nicodemus,” answered Crockett. “But I’ll be hanged if this-here impudacious scoundrel hasn’t riled me up hotter than blazes.”
Mrs. Nicodemus cast a bewildered look at the Frenchman.
“My offense, Madame,” said the latter, “was merely to offer a mild expression of doubt at the Colonel’s insistence that he could—as he put it—‘shoot the tongue out of a crow on the wing at a distance of a hundred yards!’ This inspired him to reply with a most outrageux slur on my countrymen!”
“Why, it wasn’t no part of a slur!” Crockett said protestingly.
“And what exactly did you say, my dear Colonel?” asked Mrs. Nicodemus with a sigh.
Crockett gave a shrug of his exceptionally broad shoulders. “Why, nothing more than the gospel truth—that your average Froggie knows as much about firearms as a dead skunk knows about Scripture.”
“Mon Dieu!” muttered the Count under his breath. “But this is not to be endured!” Drawing himself up to his full height, he took one step towards the frontiersman and—uttering his words between tightly clenched teeth—said: “I shall be happy to disprove this infamous calomnie at any time, mon cher Colonel.”
“How about right here and now, Monsieur?” said Crockett with a sneer, his inimitable pronunciation rendering the final word as “mon-sewer.”
“I am at your disposal,” the Count replied with a stiff bow.
“Well, then,” said Crockett with a smile of intense satisfaction, “let’s you and me have us a little shooting match.”
This statement elicited an enthusiastic huzzah from the lips of the surrounding crowd, whose number, by this point, had grown to encompass virtually the entire population of the ballroom.
“A shooting match?” gasped Mrs. Nicodemus. “Here? Why, that is impossible!”
“Not by a considerable sight,” said Crockett. Raising one hand, he pointed his forefinger at the colossal French windows that stood at the opposite end of the ballroom. Behind their immaculately polished glass panes stretched a lush and carefully tended garden, replete with sculptures, fountains, ponds, flowerbeds, and shrubberies; and of such extensive dimensions that it virtually comprised a small park. “We’ll just fix up a target in your backyard.”
While the crowd voiced its unreserved enthusiasm for Crockett’s proposal, Mrs. Nicodemus ruminated in silence for several moments. At length, she exhaled a relenting sigh and declared: “I suppose I must bend to the will of my guests. And I must confess that, to witness a competition between two such excellent marksmen as Davy Crockett and the Comte de Languedoc would be a rare treat.”
An exultant cheer arose from the crowd at this pronouncement. “Then let’s get the ball rolling!” shouted the frontiersman as he shouldered his firearm. Standing at his side, his distaff companion, Miss Mullany, clapped her hands excitedly and exclaimed: “Oh! This is just too thrilling for words. I fear I shall simply perish from excitement!”
As the exuberant crowd began to make its way towards the opposite end of the ballroom, I hastily stepped up to Crockett and—tugging him by the fringed sleeve of his hunting shirt—drew him aside.
“While I appreciate your sense of indignation at the Frenchman’s somewhat supercilious manner,” I said in a voice only slightly louder than a whisper, “I cannot help but wonder, Colonel Crockett, if your proposal is entirely well-advised. Our mission, after all, is to maintain a careful and unremitting watch over our hostess. Surely, your contest with the Count can only serve to distract our attention from this overriding purpose.”
“Don’t you go fretting about it, Poe. Miz Nicodemus’ll be standin’ right beside me the whole time. You just keep your eyes peeled, while I take care of that pesky furriner. Hell, it’ll all be over in less time than it takes to skin a badger.” Then—after bestowing a reassuring pat upon my shoulder—he offered his arm to the Mullany woman and strode towards the opposite end of the ballroom, where the entire assembly was gaily streaming through the wide-flung French windows and out into the moonlit garden.
By this point, Virginia had sought me out and was regarding me with bright, scintillant eyes. “Ooh, Eddie,” she exclaimed in her seraphic voice. “Imagine! We will actually get to see Colonel Crockett shoot his legendary rifle.”
“Come, then, my lovely Galatea,” said I. “Let us join the others.” Taking her by the arm, I ushered her toward the garden, pausing only briefly to secure another cup of rum punch before proceeding into the surpassingly balmy spring night.
By the time Sissy and I joined the rest of the party, Crockett and his opponent had already agreed upon a site for their competition. This was an extensive and neatly trimmed lawn, encompassed on three sides by a border of privet hedges. In the center of this grassy expanse, at a distance of approximately one hundred yards from its southernmost boundary, stood a gigantic—gnarled—and excessively ancient oak tree. So inordinately bright was the moonlight emanating from the gibbous orb that the entire scene was illuminated with an almost preternatural clarity.
As the party of revellers arranged themselves about the periphery of the lawn, Mrs. Nicodemus issued an order to her elderly manservant, Toby, who hurried back into the mansion, returning several moments later with a deck of playing cards, a hammer, and a nail. Repairing to the oak tree, he extracted a single card from the pack and—with his hammer and nail—affixed it to the center of the trunk at approximately shoulder height. Even in the exceedingly radiant moonlight, however, the markings of the card were impossible to discern at such a great distance. This necessitated another brief delay, while the uncomplaining servitor was dispatched to fetch a flambeau from one of the sconces in the ballroom. Following his return, he was directed to stand beside the oak tree with the torch extended so as to illuminate the playing card, which—it could now be seen—was the ace of spades.
These preliminaries having been accomplished, the contestants made ready to proceed. According to custom, the Comte de Languedoc, as the party who had received the challenge, was entitled to the initial shot.
“Here you go, Count,” said Crockett, presenting his rifle to the Frenchman with an exaggerated flourish. “Now, don’t forget. The bullet comes out the end with the hole in it.”
This sally elicited a paroxysm of mirth from the crowd of costumed spectators and a glare of icy indignation from the Count.
Assuming his attitude with a good deal of studied elegance, the Frenchman slowly raised the rifle to his shoulder—took careful aim—lowered the muzzle—raised it again—repeated the maneuvers—and fired!
The thunderous report of the fabled weapon was followed by a moment of hushed anticipation from the crowd, who fixed its collective gaze upon the elderly manservant as he held the flambeau close to the tree-trunk and peered at the card. A moment later, Toby straightened up, turned towards his mistress (who was standing directly to the right of the two contestants), and—cupping one hand to his mouth—cried: “It’s a bull’s-eye, sho as preachin’! I’ll be dingbusted if that card ain’t been drilled clean through the middle!”
This pronouncement drew a sustained round of applause from the spectactors, to which the Frenchman responded with a gracious bow of acknowledgment. Then, turning towards Crockett, he thrust the rifle into the latter’s hands. “Now, mon cher Colonel,” he said with a contemptuous sneer, “let us see if you can do better than that!”
“Oh, I don’t reckon that’ll be none too troublesome,” Crockett said casually as he unplugged the stoppered tip of his powderhorn with his teeth and proceeded to reload “ol’ Betsy.” This operation was achieved in short order—whereupon, with barely a glance at the target, he swiftly raised the muzzle and retracted the trigger with an unhesitating squeeze of the forefinger. Thought was scarcely quicker than his aim, and—as the smoke floated above his head—he lowered the breech to the ground, leaned his hand upon the barrel, and peered at the target with an expression of supreme assurance.
Once again, the crowd retained its breath as the elderly manservant held his torch close to the tree. An inordinately protracted period elapsed while he conducted this inspection. At length, his grizzled head shaking with incredulity, he looked up and declared: “I can’t hardly believe my own eyes, but Marster Davy has clean missed the target.” Then—after making a second examination of the trunk, as if to assure himself that his ocular sense had not deceived him—he turned to us again and exclaimed: “Danged if he ain’t missed the whole tree!”
An audible gasp of shocked bewilderment arose from the crowd, while the Frenchman threw back his head and emitted a loud, gloating “Haw!”
Crockett, however, seemed entirely unperturbed by this extraordinary—this unaccountable—development. “Now, Count,” he remarked with a smile, “I ain’t saying that ol’ Toby’s eyes have plumb bamfoozled him. But before you start boasting on your victory, why don’t you and me take a little stroll over yonder and have us a look-see for ourselves?”
In an instant, the expression on the Frenchman’s attenuated countenance underwent a dramatic transformation, from outright exultation to profound suspicion. His pale brow deeply furrowed, he silently scrutinized Crockett for a moment before replying, “Bien sûr.”
With Miss Mullany at his side—“Ol’ Betsy” in his arms—and the Comte de Languedoc at his heels—Crockett strode boldly up the center of the lawn towards the great, gnarled tree. Along with Mrs. Nicodemus, Sissy and I followed directly behind; while the throng of masqueraders—venting their excitement in a loud, buzzing murmur—swarmed about the tree, male and female alike jostling each other for the most advantageous positions.
Having reached his destination, Crockett drew close to Toby, who continued to stare at the target with an expression of utmost perplexity.
“Step aside, ol’ hoss,” Crockett commanded the servant; then, turning to the Frenchman, he declared: “Count, whyn’t you take a gander at that-there ace of spades.”
Complying with this directive, Languedoc stepped up to the tree and peered closely at the target for a moment before turning to the assemblage and announcing: “As can dearly be seen, there is but a single bullet hole in la carte!”
Next, he plucked the card from its retaining nail, revealing the corresponding hole in the bark. Into this he then inserted the long, tapered forefinger of his right hand, as though to demonstrate in the most graphic way conceivable that only a single bullet had penetrated the trunk.
“How far in can you reach that nose-picker of yours, Count?” Crockett inquired.
Frowning with annoyance, Languedoc moved his forefinger ever more deeply into the trunk. All at once—as his slender digit continued to probe the bullet hole—a look of stunned incomprehension began to spread over his countenance.
Perceiving this expression, Crockett grinned broadly and said: “Something wrong, Count?”
“Ce n’est pas possible!” gasped the latter.
“Let me in there,” Crockett said, motioning the Frenchman aside. “And we’ll find out just how possible it is!”
As the crowd pressed even closer to the tree, Crockett extracted his hunting knife from his belt and—applying the long, pointed tip to the bullet hole—dug out the contents, which dropped into his open palm, positioned directly against the tree trunk.
“Bring that torch a mite closer, Toby,” said Crockett, extending his palm, “so the good folks can see for themselves.”
Toby did as directed; whereupon a gasp of the utmost astonishment arose from the crowd. There, in Crockett’s hand, lay two flattened lead balls, one directly on top of the other. So unprecedented—so sheerly astonishing—was this sight that a dead silence, of nearly a minute’s duration, elapsed before the spectators could grasp its full significance.
The Count had indeed scored a bull’s-eye. Crockett, however, had then performed a feat that was nothing short of miraculous, firing his bullet directly into the hole produced by his competitor’s shot!
As Languedoc continued to gape in open-mouthed wonder at the conjoined pair of bullets in Crockett’s hand, the crowd erupted in a tumultuous burst of applause. At length, when the cheering had subsided, the Frenchman gazed into Crockett’s face with a look of unqualified admiration. Addressing the frontiersman in a deeply respectful—if not reverential—voice, he declared: “Never have I seen anything like it. Colonel Crockett, I bow to your superiority. Vraiment, fame has not made too great a flourish of trumpets when speaking of your skill as a marksman.”
Thrusting out his right hand, Crockett replied: “No hard feelings, Count. You are a mighty good shot yourself—though a monstrous slow one—and I hope I ain’t been guilty of committing a fox paw, as you Frenchies call it, in suggesting otherwise!”
After declaring Colonel Crockett the champion—and congratulating the Count on a feat of marksmanship that, had it been accomplished against any less remarkable opponent, would surely have earned him a victory—Mrs. Nicodemus raised her arms towards the assembled company and invited them to return to the ballroom forthwith and resume the festivities. This proposal was heartily endorsed by everyone present, and—with much laughter and merry conversation—the picturesque revellers proceeded indoors, while the orchestra—which had suspended its performance for the duration of the contest—struck up a lively gavotte.
The hours that ensued were ones of unrelieved revelry and mirth. To the wildly melodious sounds of the orchestra, the gay masqueraders swirled about the ballroom like a host of writhing phantasms. Around and around they spun, taking hue from the many-colored tapestries and the blazing flambeaux, and causing the rollicking—the delirious—music to seem as the echo of their own ecstatic steps.
In the midst of this revelry, I was careful to maintain a scrupulous watch over our hostess. That no untoward happenstance was likely to occur—that our fears for Mrs. Nicodemus’ safety were utterly without a basis in reality—had become abundantly clear. Nevertheless—in strict accordance with the obligation I was there to fulfill—I made certain to keep the corpulent widow more-or-less continuously within my view. Crodkett, too, while freely engaging in the festivities, made every effort to position himself in relatively dose proximity to our hostess as she circulated around the ballroom. Thus, it remained possible for us to discharge our duty while simultaneously indulging in the pleasures of the ball.
Though opportunities to exercise my talent had, in recent years, been exceedingly scarce, I was, in truth, a dancer of considerable virtuosity, my terpsichorean skills having been perfected in the grand salons of my Richmond youth. Now, transported by the infectious spirit of the occasion, I took my angelic Sissy into my arms and whirled her about the floor in giddy, enraptured revolutions, pausing only occasionally to refresh myself with another—and still another—cup of the singularly invigorating punch.
How much time elapsed in this frolicsome manner, I cannot say with any sense of accuracy. At length, however, I became aware of an overpowering need for a respite. A sudden sense of the deepest fatigue had suffused every fibre of my being. Drawing Sissy to the periphery of the dance floor, I communicated my desire for a brief interregnum. The angelic child, whose own appetite for merrymaking seemed limitless, responded with a charming petulance, stamping her foot and exclaiming: “Oooh, Eddie. You are always spoiling my fun!”
Her adorable denunciation was interrupted by the timely appearance of Colonel Crockett. “Miz Virginny,” he declared, “I’d be tickled if you’d oblige me with a spin around the floor.”
This invitation elicited a delighted exclamation of assent from Sissy, who immediately slipped one hand through the crook of the frontiersman’s proffered right arm. Before leading her onto the dance floor, Crockett turned to me and declared, “Well, Poe, I don’t reckon there is much to be afeard of tonight.”
“Indeed,” I replied, “our apprehensions regarding the security of our hostess appear to have been groundless.”
Arranging her features into an endearingly querulous look, Sissy suddenly exclaimed, “Why have you stopped to talk to Eddie, Colonel Crockett? I thought we were going to dance.” Then, with an insistent tug on the frontiersman’s arm, she drew him onto the floor, where the two of them were quickly lost amidst the swirling throng of waltzers.
Glancing around the ballroom, I saw our hostess standing off to one side, safely surrounded by a veritable retinue of jovial friends. I thus felt myself at liberty to enjoy a brief interval of repose. As I cast my gaze about the ballroom, searching for a place to take my ease, I grew cognizant of an anomalous sensation. Not only the dancers, but the entire hall and all of its appurtenances appeared to be revolving at a dizzying rate of speed. I was forced to conclude that—in succumbing to the intensely convivial spirit of the occasion—I had indulged in an excess of punch, and was now suffering from a marked, though by no means incapacitating, case of inebriation.
Having noticed a capacious elbow-chair situated in a far corner of the room, I bent my steps in the direction of this inviting article of furniture. Unfortunately, the Fiend Intemperance (as is ever his wont) had so wrought upon my powers of locomotion that I found it impossible to wend my way across the floor without colliding into a surprising number of my fellow masqueraders, several of whom responded most ungraciously—with sharp, reproachful looks and muttered imprecations.
Having no wish to render myself a nuisance, I resolved to leave the ballroom entirely for a brief interval and seek out a more secluded place to rest. Accordingly, I proceeded (albeit somewhat unsteadily) to the nearest place of egress, and at once found myself in a long—dimly lit—and exceptionally lofty corridor, lined on both sides with glass-fronted cabinets, containing countless additional specimens of the late Captain Nicodemus’ unparalleled collection of exotic bibelots.
At length, after much (erratic) walking, I perceived a shaft of golden light in the gloom up ahead. This, I soon discovered, was issuing from a partially opened door. Approaching the latter, I opened it to its fullest extent with a gentle shove of my hands, and found myself gazing into a vast, lavishly appointed boudoir, belonging—I inferred from its contents—to Mrs. Nicodemus herself.
The room was brilliantly lit by a series of wall-mounted gas-jets, a mode of illumination so recently introduced to our fair city—and as of yet so inordinately costly—that I had never before witnessed it firsthand. Needless to say, I was transfixed by the sight of this marvelous innovation. Of even more compelling interest to me at that moment, however, was the enormous four-poster bed that occupied the center of the room, and whose broad, deep, and intensely luxurious mattress seemed to beckon with an overpoweringly seductive appeal.
For a moment, I simply stood in the threshold of the chamber and gazed longingly at this alluring article of furniture. Even in my somewhat fuddled state, I was cognizant that—for a guest to uninvitedly enter his hostess’s boudoir and avail himself of her bed—represented an egregious violation of every known standard of propriety. Still, I silently argued, what harm could there be in reposing for a moment on so inviting a surface—particularly when there was no one about to witness this entirely innocent transgression of etiquette?
Having thus settled the matter to my satisfaction, I softly closed the door behind me, staggered towards the enormous bed, and, with a great sigh of contentment, threw myself backwards onto the mattress, my arms and legs extended in a “spread-eagle” position. No sooner had I settled onto the bed, however, than I became conscious of the heavy tread of approaching footsteps—the door flew open to its fullest extent—and there, in the threshold, loomed Mrs. Nicodemus, her features wrought into an expression of shocked incomprehension.
“Mr. Poe!” she exclaimed in a tone in which outrage and reproach were equally commingled. “I saw you walk—or, rather, stagger—from the party and followed you to ask what was the matter. Little did I suspect that I would discover you stretched out upon my bed! What is the meaning of this extraordinary breach of decorum?”
Head swimming, I hurriedly pushed myself into an upright attitude and began to stammer out an explanation. Before I had managed to complete a single sentence, however, I was rendered utterly speechless by an intensely startling circumstance.
Directly to the rear of Mrs. Nicodemus, another presence had suddenly materialized in the doorway—a masquerader whom I had not previously noticed at the party. This figure was made up to resemble the hideous spectre of Death, as it is commonly depicted in the medieval danse macabre. Of medium height—and dreadfully gaunt—it was shrouded from head to foot in the babillements of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the grisly countenance of a fleshless human skull that the very sight of it caused the marrow to freeze in my bones.
In its hands it grasped a long-handled scythe, the razor-like edge of whose great, crescent blade glittered in the light from the gas-jets.
At the sight of this wan—this hideous—apparition, my own countenance must have grown deathly pale; for Mrs. Nicodemus—who continued to scrutinize me from her vantage point in the threshold—suddenly exclaimed: “Are you ill, Mr. Poe? Your face has gone white as chalk.”
My organs of vocalization still paralyzed by fright, I lifted my trembling right hand and pointed wildly in the direction of the doorway. Responding to my frantic gesticulations, Mrs. Nicodemus—her brow contracted in perplexity—turned to look behind her. At that instant, the gruesome spectre raised the scythe high over its left shoulder and—bringing it down in one fierce, sweeping motion—struck the elderly matron directly across the throat!
Had Mrs. Nicodemus been a woman of more slender constitution—or had her attacker been of more formidable strength—the poor widow’s head would certainly have come flying off. As it was, a great spray of blood issued from her severed throat, and her head tilted sideways at a ghastly angle. Raising the lethal implement high above its head—like a hooded executioner, poised to deliver the coup de grâce to a condemned prisoner—the implacable fiend brought the gleaming blade down upon the widow’s neck once again. This time, Mrs. Nicodemus’ entire head—eyes bulging, mouth agape—fell from the shoulders; while the decapitated body—after remaining grotesquely upright for a brief but unspeakable moment—tottered and collapsed to the floor.
The sheer overwhelming horror of this atrocity—occurring so close to the bed that a shower of arterial blood gushed from the stump of the poor victim’s neck and bespattered my costume—caused a shriek of the purest terror to erupt from my fear-constricted throat. As I cringed—and quailed—and cowered on the mattress, the hideous spectre dropped its scythe upon the floor, stepped over the prone and headless body of the butchered widow, and drew close to my side. Reaching up one slender, white hand, it plucked the death-mask from its visage, causing a shudder of absolute dread to course through my frame as I gazed upward at the same appalling countenance I had witnessed on two prior occasions: a countenance whose features, though possessed of a distinctly feminine cast, bore an uncanny resemblance to … my own!
The room swam—a swirling fog of inky blackness began to becloud my vision—my consciousness commenced to dim. In the instant before I lapsed into utter insensibility, the spectre bent towards me, and—placing its pallid lips in exceptionally close proximity to my right ear—whispered a single, portentous, and ineffably sinister word.