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—— ——  KEATS
fell
by a criticism. Who was it died of "The Andromache?"* Ignoble
souls! — De L'Omelette perished of an ortolan. L'histoire en est
brève.
Assist me, Spirit of Apicius! A golden cage bore the little winged
wanderer,
enamored,
melting, indolent, to the Chaussée D'Antin, from its
home in far Peru.
From its queenly possessor La Bellissima, [page 207:] to the
Duc De L'Omelette, six
peers of the empire conveyed the happy bird. That night the Duc was to sup alone.
In the
privacy
of his bureau he reclined languidly on that ottoman for which he
sacrificed
his loyalty in outbidding his king, — the notorious ottoman of
Cadêt. He buries his face in the pillow. The
clock
strikes!
Unable to restrain his feelings, his Grace swallows an olive. At this
moment
the door gently opens to the sound of soft music, and lo! the most
delicate
of birds is before the most enamored of men! But what inexpressible
dismay
now overshadows the countenance of the Duc? — "Horreur! — chien! —
Baptiste! — l'oiseau! ah, bon Dieu! cet oiseau modeste que tu as
deshabillé
de ses plumes, et que tu as servi sans papier!" It is superfluous
to
say more: — the Duc expired in a paroxysm of disgust.
*
* * * * "Ha! ha! ha!" said his Grace on the
third day
after
his decease. "He! he! he!" replied the Devil
faintly, drawing
himself up with an air of hauteur. "Why, surely you are not serious,"
retorted De
L'Omelette.
"I have sinned — c'est vrai — but, my good sir, consider! —
you
have no actual intention of putting such — such — barbarous threats
into
execution." "No what?" said his majesty — "come,
sir,
strip!" "Strip, indeed! very pretty i' faith!
no, sir, I
shall not strip. Who are you, pray, that I, Duc De L'Omelette,
Prince
de
Foie-Gras, just come of age, author of the 'Mazurkiad,' and Member of
the
Academy, should divest myself at your bidding of the sweetest
pantaloons
ever made by Bourdon, the daintiest robe-de-chambre ever put
together
by Rombêrt — to say nothing of the taking my hair out of paper —
not to mention the trouble I should have in drawing off my gloves?" "Who am I? — ah, true! I am
Baal-Zebub, Prince
of
the Fly. I took thee, just now, from a rose-wood coffin inlaid with
ivory.
Thou wast curiously scented, and labelled as per invoice. Belial sent
thee, — my Inspector of Cemeteries. The pantaloons, which thou sayest
were
made
by Bourdon, are an excellent pair of linen drawers, and thy robe-de-chambre
is a shroud of no scanty dimensions." "Sir!" replied the Duc, "I am not to
be insulted
with impunity! — Sir! I shall take the earliest opportunity of
avenging
this insult! — Sir! you shall hear from me! in the meantime au
revoir!" — and the Duc was bowing himself out of the Satanic
presence,
when he
was interrupted and brought back by a gentleman in waiting. Hereupon
his
Grace rubbed his eyes, yawned, shrugged his shoulders, reflected.
Having
become satisfied of his identity, he took a bird's eye view of his
whereabouts. The apartment was superb. Even De
L'Omelette
pronounced
it bien comme il faut. It was not its length nor its breadth, —
but its height — ah, that was appalling! — There was no ceiling —
certainly
none — but a dense whirling mass of fiery-colored clouds. His Grace's
brain reeled as he glanced upwards. From above, hung a chain of an
unknown
blood-red metal — its upper end lost,The corners of the room were rounded
into niches. —
Three of these were filled with statues of gigantic proportions. Their
beauty was Grecian, their deformity Egyptian, their tout ensemble
French. In the fourth niche the statue was veiled; it was not
colossal.
But then there was a taper ankle, a sandalled foot. De L'Omelette
pressed
his hand upon his heart, closed his eyes, raised them, and caught his
Satanic
Majesty — in a blush. But the paintings! — Kupris!
Astarte! Astoreth! — a thousand and the same! And Rafaelle has beheld
them! Yes, Rafaelle
has been here; for did he not paint the ——? and was he not
consequently
damned? The paintings! — the paintings! O luxury! O love! — who,
gazing
on those forbidden beauties, shall have eyes for the dainty devices of
the golden frames that besprinkled, like stars, the hyacinth and the
porphyry
walls? But the Duc's heart is fainting
within him. He is
not, however, as you suppose, dizzy with magnificence, nor drunk with
the
ecstatic breath of those innumerable censers. C'est vrai que de
toutes
ces choses il a pensé beaucoup — mais! The Duc De L'Omelette
is
terror-stricken;
for, through the lurid vista which a single uncurtained window is
affording,
lo! gleams the most ghastly of all fires! Le pauvre Duc! He could not
help
imagining
that the glorious, the voluptuous, the never-dying melodies which
pervaded
that hall, as they passed filtered and transmuted through the alchemy
of
the enchanted window-panes, were the wailings and the howlings of the
hopeless
and the damned! And there, too! — there! — upon the ottoman! — who
could he be? — he, the petitmaitre — no, the Deity
— who sat as if carved
in marble, et qui sourit, with his pale countenance, si
amérement? Mais il faut agir, — that is
to say, a
Frenchman
never faintsMais il joue! — how happy a
thought! —
but
his Grace had always an excellent memory. He had dipped in the "Diable"
of Abbé Gualtier. Therein it is said "que le Diable n'ose pas
refuser
un jeu d'écarté." But the chances — the chances! True —
desperate:
but scarcely more desperate than the Duc. Besides, was he not in the
secret! — had he not skimmed over Père Le Brun? — was he not a
member
of the
Club Vingt-un? — "Si je perds," said he, "je serai deux fois
perdu — I shall be doubly dammed — voila tout! (Here his
Grace
shrugged
his shoulders.) Si je gagne, je reviendrai à mes ortolans —
que
les
cartes soient préparées!" His Grace was all care, all attention — his
Majesty
all confidence. A spectator would have thought of Francis and Charles.
His Grace thought of his game. His Majesty did not think; he shuffled.
The Duc cut. The cards are dealt. The trump is
turned — it
is — it is — the king! No — it was the queen. His Majesty cursed her
masculine
habiliments. De L'Omelette placed his hand upon his heart. They play. The Duc counts. The hand
is out. His
Majesty
counts heavily, smiles, and is taking wine. The Duc slips a card. "C'est à vous à faire," said
his Majesty,
cutting. His Grace bowed, dealt, and arose from the table en
presentant
le Roi. [page 208:]His Majesty looked chagrined. Had Alexander not been Alexander, he
would have
been
Diogenes; and the Duc assured his antagonist in taking leave, "que
s'il
n'eût été De L'Omelette il n'aurait point
d'objection d'être le Diable."LITTLETON BARRY.
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