“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.