“Goddam!” exclaimed Milor, as his eye met the sign-board.
There he stood, this English nobleman, in his drab coat with pearl buttons, his red neckcloth, blue pantaloons and white hat, transfixed for at least five minutes. Then, swearing some hard oaths—a thing the English always do when they are particularly pleased—Milor exclaimed, “It is exquisite! Holy Lord Mayor, it is unbelievable!”
Mein Lieber, you have seen that painting of course, I mean Joan of Arc, life-size, clad in steel, sword in hand, and with a wonderful serenity expressed in her countenance, as she leads her flagging troops once more to the attack upon the walls. It has all the softness of a Coreggio, and the vigour of a Rubens. Milor gave three bounds, and was in the middle of the shop in a moment.
“What picture—Eurer Gnaden?” inquired the shopkeeper, bowing in the most elegant manner.
“It hangs at your door—Joan of Arc, I wish to buy it.”
“Bah!” ejaculated Milor, “I must have it. I will cover it with guineas.”
“How impossible?” cried Milor, diving into the capacious pocket of the drab coat with the pearl buttons, 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 noblemen, 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, “Goddam, 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 God, 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.”
