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.”