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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!
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.
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.
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!
A golden cage bore the little winged wanderer, enamored, melting, indolent, to the Chaussee 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.
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.
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 Rombert to say nothing of the taking my hair out of paper not to mention the trouble I should have in drawing off my gloves?"
"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."
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.
At the great gates of the fortifications the pilgrim descends, and behold, a howling chorus of serving-people take up the chant of: "Chez Madame Poulard, a gauche, a la renommee de l'omelette!" The inner walls of the town lend themselves to their last and best estate, that of proclaiming the glory of "L'Omelette."
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