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Page 57
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."
~~~ End of Text ~~~
======
THE OBLONG BOX.
SOME years ago, I engaged passage from Charleston, S. C, to the
city of New York, in the fine packet-ship "Independence," Captain
Hardy. We were to sail on the fifteenth of the month (June), weather
permitting; and on the fourteenth, I went on board to arrange some
matters in my state-room.
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