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Written for the Saturday Courier.
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THE DUKE DE L'OMELETTE.
———
And stepped at once into a cooler
clime.
———
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 brieve.
Assist
me, Apicius!
A golden cage bore the luxurious
little wanderer,
enamored, melting, indolent, to the Chaussee D'Antin, from its home in
far Peru. From its queenly possessor La Bellissima, to the Duke De
L'Omelette,
six peers of the empire conveyed the happy bird. It was 'All for Love.'
That night the Duke 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 Cadet.
He buried his face in the pillow. The
clock
struck.
Unable to restrain his feelings, his Grace swallowed an olive.
The door opens to the sound of soft
music, and
the
most delicate of birds is before the most enamored of men! — horror! —
dog! — Baptiste! — l'oiseau! ah, bon Dieu! cet oiseau
modeste
que tu as deshabille de ses plumes, et que tu as servi sans papier!'
It is superfluous to say more: — the
Duke 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, and
drawing
himself up with an air of hauteur.
'Why, surely you are not serious,'
retorted De
l'Omelette
— 'you have no bona fide intentions of — of — putting such — such
barbarous
threats into execution.'
'No what?' said his majesty —
'come, sir,
strip!'
'Strip, indeed! very pretty 'faith!
no, sir, I
shall not strip. Who are you, pray, that I, Duc de
l'Omelette,
Prince de Fois-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 Stultz, the daintiest robe-de-chambre
ever
put together by Rombert — not to mention the taking my hair out of
paper
— all to gratify your blood-thirsty propensities!'
'Who am I? — ah! true! I am
Baal-Zebub, Prince of
the Fly. I took thee, just now, from an inlaid coffin, curiously
scented,
and labelled as per invoice. Belial sent thee, my inspector of
cemeteries.
The pantaloons, which thou sayest, were made by Stultz, are an
excellent
pair of linen drawers; and thy robe de chambre is a shroud of
no
scanty dimensions.[[']]
'Sir! 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 duke
was
bowing himself out of the Satanic presence, when he was interrupted,
and
brought back by a gentleman in waiting.
Upon this his Grace rubbed his eyes —
yawned —
shrugged
his shoulders — reflected: and having become satisfied of his identity,
he took a bird's eye view of his whereabouts.
The apartment was superb. 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.
There was a chain of an unknown,
blood-red metal
— its upper end lost, like Col ——— e, parmi les nues.
From
its nether extremity hung a hugh cresset. The duke knew it to be a ruby
— but poured from it 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, 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
pressed
his hand upon his heart, closed his eyes, raised them, and caught his
Satanic
Majesty — in a blush.
But the paintings! — Rupris!
[[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 in those
swelling
walls of eider-down?
But the lofty, narrow windows of
stained flass,
[column
2:] and porphyry! — how many! — how magnificent! — And the curtains! —
ah! that aerial silk! — the vapour-like floating of that gorgeous
drapery!
* *
*
*
* * * *
The Duke's heart is fainting within him! oh, no.
He is not, as you suppose, dizzy with magnificence — nor drunk with the
extatic breath of those innumerable censers. C'est vrai, que, de
toutes
ces choses, il a fait un memorandum — mais!
The Duke de l'Omelette is
horror-stricken — for
through
the lurid vista which a single uncurtained window is affording, lo!
gleams
the most ghastly of all fires!
Le pauvre Duc! Could he have
imagined
that
the glorious, the voluptuous, the never-dying symphonies of that
melodious
hall, as they passed filtered, and transmuted through the alchemy of
that
enchanted glass, were the wailings, and the howlings of the hopeless
and
the damned? And there too — there! on 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. A
Frenchman
never
faints outright. Besides, his grace hated a scene. De l'Omelette [[is]]
himself again.
There were some foils upon a table —
some points
also. The Duke had studied under B ——— . Il await tue ses six hommes.
Now, then! — il peut s' echapper! Horreur! His majesty does not
fence!
Mais il joue! What a
thought! — His
grace has an excellent memory.
Have you dipped in the 'Diable' of
Abbe Gualtier.
It is said 'que le Diable n'ose pas refuser un jeu d' Ecarte.'
But
the chances! True! desperate. Bunot more than himself. Besides, was he
not in the secret? Had he not skimmed over Pere La Chaise? Was he not a
member of the Academy? 'Si je perds — [[']] said he [[']] — , Je
serai deux fois perdu — I shall be doubly dammed — voila tout'
(Here the duke shrugged his shoulders.) — Eh bein! si Je gagne!
— que les cartes soient preparees.'
* *
*
*
* * * *
His grace was all care, all attention — his majesty
all confidence. A spectator would have thought of Francis and Charles.
De l'Omelette thought of his game. His majesty did not think — he
shuffled.
The grace coupa.
The cards were dealt. The trump is
turned
slowly mais avec un air de fierte. The corner appears — 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 has taken wine. The Duke slips a card.
'Cest a vous a faire' — said
his majesty,
cutting.
His grace bowed, dealt, and arose
from the table, en presentant le Roi. His majesty looked
chagrined.
Had the drunkard not been Alexander, he would
have
been Diogenes — and the Duke assured his majesty en partant, 'que
sit n'etait pas De l'Omelette il n'aurait point d'objection d'etre le
Diable.' |
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