The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 4

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”? {*1}Ignoble souls!--De L'Omelette perished of an ortolan. L'histoire en estbreve. Assist me, Spirit of Apicius!

A golden cage bore the little winged wanderer, enamored, melting,indolent, to the Chaussee D'Antin, from its home in far Peru. From itsqueenly possessor La Bellissima, to the Duc De L'Omelette, six peers ofthe empire conveyed the happy bird.

That night the Duc was to sup alone. In the privacy of his bureau hereclined languidly on that ottoman for which he sacrificed his loyaltyin outbidding his king--the notorious ottoman of Cadet.

He buries his face in the pillow. The clock strikes! Unable to restrainhis feelings, his Grace swallows an olive. At this moment the doorgently opens to the sound of soft music, and lo! the most delicate ofbirds is before the most enamored of men! But what inexpressible dismaynow overshadows the countenance of the Duc?--”Horreur!--chien!Baptiste!--l'oiseau! ah, bon Dieu! cet oiseau modeste que tu asdeshabille de ses plumes, et que tu as servi sans papier!” It issuperfluous 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 airof hauteur.

”Why, surely you are not serious,” retorted De L'Omelette. ”I havesinned--c'est vrai--but, my good sir, consider!--you have no actualintention 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. Whoare you, pray, that I, Duc De L'Omelette, Prince de Foie-Gras, just comeof age, author of the 'Mazurkiad,' and Member of the Academy, shoulddivest myself at your bidding of the sweetest pantaloons ever made byBourdon, the daintiest robe-de-chambre ever put together by Rombert--tosay nothing of the taking my hair out of paper--not to mention thetrouble 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 curiouslyscented, and labelled as per invoice. Belial sent thee,--my Inspector ofCemeteries. The pantaloons, which thou sayest were made by Bourdon, arean excellent pair of linen drawers, and thy robe-de-chambre is a shroudof no scanty dimensions.”

”Sir!” replied the Duc, ”I am not to be insulted with impunity!--Sir! Ishall take the earliest opportunity of avenging this insult!--Sir! youshall hear from me! in the meantime au revoir!”--and the Duc was bowinghimself out of the Satanic presence, when he was interrupted and broughtback by a gentleman in waiting. Hereupon his Grace rubbed his eyes,yawned, shrugged his shoulders, reflected. Having become satisfied ofhis identity, he took a bird's eye view of his whereabouts.

The apartment was superb. Even De L'Omelette pronounced it bien comme ilfaut. It was not its length nor its breadth,--but its height--ah,that was appalling!--There was no ceiling--certainly none--but a densewhirling mass of fiery-colored clouds. His Grace's brain reeled ashe glanced upward. From above, hung a chain of an unknown blood-redmetal--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 bea ruby; but from it there poured a light so intense, so still,so terrible, Persia never worshipped such--Gheber never imaginedsuch--Mussulman never dreamed of such when, drugged with opium, he hastottered to a bed of poppies, his back to the flowers, and his face tothe God Apollo. The Duc muttered a slight oath, decidedly approbatory.

The corners of the room were rounded into niches. Three of these werefilled with statues of gigantic proportions. Their beauty was Grecian,their deformity Egyptian, their tout ensemble French. In the fourthniche the statue was veiled; it was not colossal. But then there was ataper ankle, a sandalled foot. De L'Omelette pressed his hand upon hisheart, closed his eyes, raised them, and caught his Satanic Majesty--ina blush.

But the paintings!--Kupris! Astarte! Astoreth!--a thousand and the same!And Rafaelle has beheld them! Yes, Rafaelle has been here, for did henot paint the--? and was he not consequently damned? The paintings--thepaintings! O luxury! O love!--who, gazing on those forbidden beauties,shall have eyes for the dainty devices of the golden frames thatbesprinkled, like stars, the hyacinth and the porphyry walls?

But the Duc's heart is fainting within him. He is not, however, as yousuppose, dizzy with magnificence, nor drunk with the ecstatic breathof those innumerable censers. C'est vrai que de toutes ces choses ila pense 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, thevoluptuous, the never-dying melodies which pervaded that hall, as theypassed filtered and transmuted through the alchemy of the enchantedwindow-panes, were the wailings and the howlings of the hopeless andthe damned! And there, too!--there!--upon the ottoman!--who could hebe?--he, the petitmaitre--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. Therewere some foils upon a table--some points also. The Duc s'echapper. Hemeasures two points, and, with a grace inimitable, offers his Majestythe choice. Horreur! his Majesty does not fence!

Mais il joue!--how happy a thought!--but his Grace had always anexcellent memory. He had dipped in the ”Diable” of Abbe Gualtier.Therein it is said ”que le Diable n'ose pas refuser un jeu d'ecarte.”

But the chances--the chances! True--desperate: but scarcely moredesperate than the Duc. Besides, was he not in the secret?--had he notskimmed 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 doublydammed--voila tout! (Here his Grace shrugged his shoulders.) Si jegagne, je reviendrai a mes ortolans--que les cartes soient preparees!”

His Grace was all care, all attention--his Majesty all confidence. Aspectator would have thought of Francis and Charles. His Grace thoughtof 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. DeL'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 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 Alexander not been Alexander, he would have been Diogenes; andthe Duc assured his antagonist in taking leave, ”que s'il n'eut ete DeL'Omelette il n'aurait point d'objection d'etre le Diable.”