"It hangs at your door-Joan of Arc, I wish to buy it."

"It is not for sale, Eurer Gnaden."

"Bah!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Milor, "I must have it. I will cover it with guineas."

"It is impossible."

"How impossible?" cried Milor, diving into the capacious pocket of the drab coat with the pearl b.u.t.tons, and drawing forth a heavy roll of English bank-notes, "I'll bet you anything you like that it is possible."

You know, mein Lieber, that the English settle everything by a wager; indeed, betting and swearing is about all their language is fit for. For a fact, there were once two English n.o.blemen, from Manchester or some such ancient place, who journeyed down the Rhine on the steam-boat. They looked neither to the right nor to the left; neither at the vine-fields nor the old castles; but sat at a table, silent and occupied with nothing before them but two lumps of sugar, and two heaps of guineas. A little crowd gathered round them wondering what it might mean. Suddenly one of them cried out, "G.o.ddam, it's mine!" "What is yours?" inquired one who stood by, gaping with curiosity. "Don't you see," replied the other, "I bet twenty guineas level, that the first fly would alight upon my lump of sugar, and by G.o.d, I've won it!"

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."

"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 n.o.bleman; and he strode into the street.

With one impa.s.sioned glance at the figure of La Pucelle, he threw himself into his fiaker, and drove rapidly out of sight.

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 pa.s.s-word; but everywhere it failed to elicit the desired reply. He pa.s.sed from street to street-from gasthaus to gasthaus-everywhere the same dreary negative; and the day waned, and his search was still unsuccessful. But he never relaxed; the morning found him still pursuing his inquiries; and midday saw him at the porte cochere of the Hotel of the Holy Ghost, in the Rothenthurm Stra.s.se, with his case of duelling pistols in his hand, his set of rapiers under his arm, and his two pairs of boxing-gloves slung round his neck.

"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. He glanced at the card-smiled at himself complacently in the mirror before him, and answered in a gracious voice, "Let Milor Mountpleasant come up."

Milor was soon heard upon the stairs; and, as he strode into the room, he flung his set of rapiers with a clatter on the floor, dashed his case of duelling pistols on the table, and with a dexterous twist sent one pair of boxing-gloves rolling at the feet of the Comte, while, pulling on the other, he stood in an att.i.tude of defence before the astonished Frenchman.

"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."

"You may see her, Am Graben," gravely replied Milor, "outside a shop door, done in oil."

"Heh!" exclaimed the astonished Comte, "in oil-an Esquimaux, or a Tartar, pray?"

"Monsieur le Comte, I want no trifling. Do you persist in the purchase of this picture? I have set my heart upon it; I love it; I have sworn to possess it. Make it a matter of money, and I will give you a thousand pounds for your bargain; make it a matter of dispute, and I will fight you for it to the death; make it a matter of friendship, and yield up your right, and I will embrace you as a brother, and be your debtor for the rest of my life."

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. Take her, Milor-take your Joan of Arc; I would not attempt to deprive you of her if she were a real flesh and blood Pucelle, and my own sister."

The Englishman, with a grand oath, seized the Comte's hand in both his own, and shook it heartily; then scrambling up his paraphernalia of war, spoke a hurried farewell, and disappeared down the stairs.

The grey of the morning saw Milor in full evening costume, pacing the Graben with hurried steps, watching with anxious eyes the shop front where his beloved was wont to hang. He saw her carried out like a shutter from the house, and duly suspended on the appointed hook. 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."

It certainly does appear surprising that Herr Wechsel did not close in with the offer at once; perhaps he really had an affection for his picture; perhaps he thought to improve the bargain; or, more probably, looking upon his strange customer as so undoubtedly mad, as to entertain serious fears as to his ever receiving the money. Certain it is, that he respectfully declined to sell.

"You refuse!" shouted Milor, striking his clenched fist upon the counter; "then, by Jove! I'll-but never mind!" and he strode into the street.

The dusk of the evening saw Milor in the dress of a porter, pacing the Graben with a steady step. He halted in front of his cherished Joan; with the utmost coolness and deliberation unhooked the painting from its nail, and placing it carefully, and with the air of a workman, upon his shoulder, stalked away with his precious burden.

Imagine the consternation of Herr Wechsel upon the discovery of his loss.

His pride, his delight, the chief ornament of his shop was gone; and, moreover, he had lost his money. But his sorrow was changed into surprise, and his half-tearful eyes twinkled with satisfaction as he read the following epistle, delivered into his hands within an hour after the occurrence:-

"Sir,-You will find placed to your credit in the Imperial Bank of Vienna the sum of five thousand pounds, the amount proffered for your Joan of Arc. Your obstinacy has driven me into the commission of a misdemeanour. G.o.d forgive you. But I have kept my word.

"I am already beyond your reach, and you will search in vain for my trace. In consideration for your feelings, and to cause you as little annoyance as possible, I have placed _my_ Joan of Arc into the hands of a skilful artist; and I trust to forward you as accurate a copy as can be made.

"Yours, MOUNTPLEASANT."

And Milor kept his word, mein Lieber, and the copy hangs Am Graben to this day in the place of the original. The original shines among the paintings in the splendid collection of Milor at Mountpleasant Castle.

I will not pretend to say, concluded Vater Bohm, reloading his pipe, that the English have any taste, but they certainly have a strange pa.s.sion for pictures; and, let them once get an idea into their heads, they are the most obstinate people in the world in the pursuit of it.

CHAPTER XIX.

AN EXECUTION AT VIENNA.

Carl Fickte, a native of Vienna, stood condemned for execution. His crime was murder. He was convicted of having enveigled his nephew, of eight years old, to the Molker bastion of the city fortification, and of having thrown him over the parapet into the dry ditch below. The depth of the fall was between thirty and forty feet, and the shattered body of the boy explained his miserable death. His nephew's cloak became loosened in the struggle, and remained in the hands of Fickte, who sold it, and spent the produce in a night's debauch. This cloak led to the discovery of the murderer, and after a lapse of eight months to his conviction and execution.

I had resolved to witness the last act of the law, and started from home at six o'clock on the appointed morning. A white mist filled the air, and gradually thickened into rain; and by the time I had reached the spot-a distance of about two miles-a smart shower was falling. The place of execution is a field in the outskirts of the city, bounded on one side by the main road, and close to the "Spinnerinn am Kreuz," an ancient stone cross, standing on the edge of the highway. From this spot a beautiful view of the city is obtained.

The crowd was already gathering, and carts, benches, and platforms were in course of arrangement by enterprising speculators, for the accommodation of the people. A low bank which skirted the field was soon occupied, and every swell of the ground was taken advantage of. Soon the rain fell in torrents, and the earth became sodden and yielding; but no pelting shower, no sinking clay, could drive the anxious crowd from the attractive spectacle. Still on they came, men and women together; laughing and joking; their clothes tucked about them, and umbrella-laden.

Over the field; on to the slippery bank, whence, every now and again, arose a burst of uproar and laughter, as some part of the mound gave way, and precipitated a snugly-packed crowd into the swamp below.

Venders of fruit, sausages, bread, and spirits, occupied every eligible situation, and from the early hour, and the unprepared state of the spectators, found abundant patronage.