160 lines
7.7 KiB
Plaintext
160 lines
7.7 KiB
Plaintext
1850
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THE DUC DE L'OMLETTE
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by Edgar Allan Poe
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And stepped at once into a cooler clime. Cowper
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KEATS fell by a criticism. Who was it died of "The Andromache"?*
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Ignoble souls!- De L'Omelette perished of an ortolan. L'histoire en
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est breve. Assist me, Spirit of Apicius!
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*Montfleury. The author of the Parnasse Reforme makes him thus speak
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in Hades:- "L'homme donc qui voudrait savoir ce dont Je suis morte,
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qu'il ne demande pas si'l fut de fievre ou de podagre ou d'autre
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chose, mais qui'l entende que ce fut de 'L'Andromache.'"
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A golden cage bore the little winged wanderer, enamored, melting,
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indolent, to the Chaussee D'Antin, from its home in far Peru. From its
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queenly possessor La Bellissima, to the Duc De L'Omelette, six peers
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of the empire conveyed the happy bird.
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That night the Duc was to sup alone. In the privacy of his bureau he
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reclined languidly on that ottoman for which he sacrificed his loyalty
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in outbidding his king- the notorious ottoman of Cadet.
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He buries his face in the pillow. The clock strikes! Unable to
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restrain his feelings, his Grace swallows an olive. At this moment the
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door gently opens to the sound of soft music, and lo! the most
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delicate of birds is before the most enamored of men! But what
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inexpressible dismay now overshadows the countenance of the Duc?-
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"Horreur!- chien!- Baptiste!- l'oiseau! ah, bon Dieu! cet oiseau
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modeste que tu as deshabille de ses plumes, et que tu as servi sans
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papier!" It is superfluous to say more:- the Duc expired in a
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paroxysm of disgust.
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"Ha! ha! ha!" said his Grace on the third day after his decease.
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"He! he! he!" replied the Devil faintly, drawing himself up with
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an air of hauteur.
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"Why, surely you are not serious," retorted De L'Omelette. "I have
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sinned- c'est vrai- but, my good sir, consider!- you have no actual
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intention of putting such- such barbarous threats into execution."
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"No what?" said his majesty- "come, sir, strip!"
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"Strip, indeed! very pretty i' faith! no, sir, I shall not strip.
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Who are you, pray, that I, Duc De L'Omelette, Prince de Foie-Gras,
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just come of age, author of the 'Mazurkiad,' and Member of the
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Academy, should divest myself at your bidding of the sweetest
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pantaloons ever made by Bourdon, the daintiest robe-de-chambre ever
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put together by Rombert- to say nothing of the taking my hair out of
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paper- not to mention the trouble I should have in drawing off my
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gloves?"
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"Who am I?- ah, true! I am Baal-Zebub, Prince of the Fly. I took
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thee, just now, from a rose-wood coffin inlaid with ivory. Thou wast
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curiously scented, and labelled as per invoice. Belial sent thee,- my
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Inspector of Cemeteries. The pantaloons, which thou sayest were made
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by Bourdon, are an excellent pair of linen drawers, and thy
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robe-de-chambre is a shroud of no scanty dimensions."
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"Sir!" replied the Duc, "I am not to be insulted with impunity!-
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Sir! I shall take the earliest opportunity of avenging this insult!-
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Sir! you shall hear from me! in the meantime au revoir!"- and the Duc
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was bowing himself out of the Satanic presence, when he was
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interrupted and brought back by a gentleman in waiting. Hereupon his
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Grace rubbed his eyes, yawned, shrugged his shoulders, reflected.
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Having become satisfied of his identity, he took a bird's eye view of
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his whereabouts.
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The apartment was superb. Even De L'Omelette pronounced it bien
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comme il faut. It was not its length nor its breadth,- but its
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height- ah, that was appalling!- There was no ceiling- certainly none-
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but a dense whirling mass of fiery-colored clouds. His Grace's brain
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reeled as he glanced upward. From above, hung a chain of an unknown
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blood-red metal- its upper end lost, like the city of Boston, parmi
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les nues. From its nether extremity swung a large cresset. The Duc
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knew it to be a ruby; but from it there poured a light so intense,
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so still, so terrible, Persia never worshipped such- Gheber never
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imagined such- Mussulman never dreamed of such when, drugged with
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opium, he has tottered to a bed of poppies, his back to the flowers,
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and his face to the God Apollo. The Duc muttered a slight oath,
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decidedly approbatory.
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The corners of the room were rounded into niches. Three of these
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were filled with statues of gigantic proportions. Their beauty was
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Grecian, their deformity Egyptian, their tout ensemble French. In
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the fourth niche the statue was veiled; it was not colossal. But
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then there was a taper ankle, a sandalled foot. De L'Omelette
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pressed his hand upon his heart, closed his eyes, raised them, and
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caught his Satanic Majesty- in a blush.
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But the paintings!- Kupris! Astarte! Astoreth!- a thousand and the
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same! And Rafaelle has beheld them! Yes, Rafaelle has been here, for
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did he not paint the ---? and was he not consequently damned? The
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paintings- the paintings! O luxury! O love!- who, gazing on those
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forbidden beauties, shall have eyes for the dainty devices of the
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golden frames that besprinkled, like stars, the hyacinth and the
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porphyry walls?
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But the Duc's heart is fainting within him. He is not, however, as
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you suppose, dizzy with magnificence, nor drunk with the ecstatic
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breath of those innumerable censers. C'est vrai que de toutes ces
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choses il a pense beaucoup- mais! The Duc De L'Omelette is
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terror-stricken; for, through the lurid vista which a single
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uncurtained window is affording, lo! gleams the most ghastly of all
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fires!
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Le pauvre Duc! He could not help imagining that the glorious, the
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voluptuous, the never-dying melodies which pervaded that hall, as they
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passed filtered and transmuted through the alchemy of the enchanted
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window-panes, were the wailings and the howlings of the hopeless and
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the damned! And there, too!- there!- upon the ottoman!- who could he
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be?- he, the petitmaitre- no, the Deity- who sat as if carved in
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marble, et qui sourit, with his pale countenance, si amerement?
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Mais il faut agir- that is to say, a Frenchman never faints
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outright. Besides, his Grace hated a scene- De L'Omelette is himself
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again. There were some foils upon a table- some points also. The Duc
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s'echapper. He measures two points, and, with a grace inimitable,
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offers his Majesty the choice. Horreur! his Majesty does not fence!
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Mais il joue!- how happy a thought!- but his Grace had always an
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excellent memory. He had dipped in the "Diable" of Abbe Gualtier.
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Therein it is said "que le Diable n'ose pas refuser un jeu d'ecarte."
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But the chances- the chances! True- desperate: but scarcely more
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desperate than the Duc. Besides, was he not in the secret?- had he
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not skimmed over Pere Le Brun?- was he not a member of the Club
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Vingt-un? "Si je perds," said he, "je serai deux fois perdu- I shall
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be doubly dammed- voila tout! (Here his Grace shrugged his
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shoulders.) Si je gagne, je reviendrai a mes ortolans- que les cartes
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soient preparees!"
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His Grace was all care, all attention- his Majesty all confidence.
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A spectator would have thought of Francis and Charles. His Grace
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thought of his game. His Majesty did not think; he shuffled. The Duc
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cut.
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The cards were dealt. The trump is turned- it is- it is- the king!
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No- it was the queen. His Majesty cursed her masculine habiliments.
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De L'Omelette placed his hand upon his heart.
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They play. The Duc counts. The hand is out. His Majesty counts
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heavily, smiles, and is taking wine. The Duc slips a card.
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"C'est a vous a faire," said his Majesty, cutting. His Grace
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bowed, dealt, and arose from the table en presentant le Roi.
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His Majesty looked chagrined.
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Had Alexander not been Alexander, he would have been Diogenes; and
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the Duc assured his antagonist in taking leave, "que s'il n'eut ete De
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L'Omelette il n'aurait point d'objection d'etre le Diable."
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-THE END-
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