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 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.
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 déshabillé 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 upward. From above, hung a
chain of an unknown blood-red metal—its upper end lost, like the
city of Boston, _parmi les nues_. From its nether extremity swung
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 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 _petitmaître_—no, the
Deity—who sat as if carved in marble, _et qui sourit_, with his
pale countenance, _si amèrement?_
_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’échapper_. He measures two points,
and, with a grace inimitable, offers his Majesty the choice.
_Horreur!_ his Majesty does not fence!
_Mais 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 damned—_voilà tout!_ (Here his Grace shrugged his
shoulders.) _Si je gagne, je reviendrai a 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 were 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_.
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._”