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"The Duc De L’Omelette"
by
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 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, 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 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. There were some foils upon a table — some points also. The Duc 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! — how happy a thought! — but his Grace had always an excellent 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 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 dammed — voila tout! (Here his Grace shrugged his shoulders.) Si je gagne, je reviendrai a mes ortolans — 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. 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 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; and the Duc assured his antagonist in taking leave, “que s’il n’eut ete De L’Omelette il n’aurait point d’objection d’etre le Diable.”