And stepped at once into a cooler clime.
_Cowper_.
Keats fell by a criticism. Who was it died of _The Andromache_?[1]
Ignoble souls!--De L'Omelette perished of an ortolan. _L'histoire en
est breve_--assist me Spirit of Apicius!
[Footnote 1: Montfleury. The author of the _Parnasse Reformé_ makes
him thus express himself in the shades. "The man then who would know
of what I died, let him not ask if it were of the fever, the dropsy,
or the gout; but let him know that it was of The Andromache."]
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--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 {151} 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 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 C----, _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, 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 swellings
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 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--De L'Omelette is himself again.
There were some foils upon a table--some points also. The Duc had
studied under B----, _il avait tué ses six hommes_. Now then _il peut
s'echapper_. He measures two points, and, with a grace inimitable,
offers his Majesty the choice. _Horreur!_ his Majesty does not fence!
_Mais il joue!_--what a happy 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 Pere 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 prepareés!_
* * * * *
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 _coupa_.
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_"--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 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_."