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[page 105:]
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THE DUC DE L'OMELETTE.
And stepped at once into a
cooler
clime.
COWPER.
|
 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, to the Duc De
L'Omelette,
six peers of the empire conveyed the happy bird. It was "All for Love."
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 {{1840-01:
—
the // 1842-02: . The }} clock
strikes!
Unable to restrain his feelings, his Grace swallows an olive. At this
moment
the door gently [page 106:] 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!" {{1840-01: — //
1842-02: , }} said his Grace on the
third day
after
his decease.
"He! he! he!" {{1840-01: — //
1842-02: , }} replied the Devil
faintly,
drawing
himself up with an air of hauteur.
"Why, surely you are not serious" {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: , }}
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?" {{1840-01:
— // 1842-02: , }} 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 [page 107:]
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 very long, nor very broad, —
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, like {{1840-01:
C—— // 1842-02: Carlyle }} , parmi les nues.
From its
nether extremity hung a large cresset. The Duc knew it to be a ruby —
but
from it there poured a light so intense, so still, so terrible, Persia
never worshipped such — Gheber never imagined such — Mussulman never
dreamed
of such when, drugged with opium, he has tottered to a bed of poppies,
his back to the flowers, [page 108:] and his face
to
the god Apollo! The Duc muttered a slight oath, decidedly approbatory.
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 laid
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 lie imbedded and asleep against those swelling walls
of eider down?
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 [page 109:] 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 that ottoman! — who could he be? — he, the petit-maitre
— no, the Deity — who sat as if carved in marble, et qui sourit,
with his pale countenance, si amerement.
Mais il faut agir — that is
to say, a
Frenchman
never faints outright. Besides, his Grace hated a scene {{1840-01: — // 1842-02: . }}
De L'Omelette
is himself again. There were some foils upon a table — some points
also.
The Duc had studied under B—— {{1840-01:
, // 1842-02: ; }} il avait tué ses
six hommes.
Now, then, il peut {{1840-01: s'echapper
// 1842-02: s'échapper }}
. He measures two points, and,
with
a grace inimitable, offers his Majesty the choice. Horreur! his
Majesty does not fence!
Mais il joue! — {{1840-01:
what a happy
thought! // 1842-02: how happy a thought! }} But
his Grace had always an excellent memory. He had dipped in the "Diable"
of the Abbé Gualtier. Therein it is said "que le Diable n'ose
pas refuser un jeu d'Ecarté."
But the chances — the chances! True —
desperate:
but not 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 damned — voila tout! (Here his Grace shrugged
his shoulders) Si je gagne je serai libre, — que les cartes soient
préparées!
[page 110:]
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 laid 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" {{1840-01: — // 1842-02: , }}
said
his Majesty, cutting. His Grace bowed, dealt, and arose from the table en
presentant le Roi.
His Majesty looked chagrined.
Had Alexander not been Alexander, he
would have
been
Diogenes; and the Duc assured his Majesty in taking leave "que s'il
n'etait pas De L'Omelette il n'aurait point d'objection d'etre le Diable."
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