Short Fiction - Edgar Allan Poe (book reader for pc .TXT) š
- Author: Edgar Allan Poe
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A golden cage bore the little winged wanderer, enamored, melting, indolent, to the ChaussĆ©e DāAntin, from its home in far Peru. From its queenly possessor La Bellissima, to the Duc De LāOmelette, six peers of the empire conveyed the happy bird.
That night the Duc was to sup alone. In the privacy of his bureau he reclined languidly on that ottoman for which he sacrificed his loyalty in outbidding his kingā āthe notorious ottoman of CadĆŖt.
He buries his face in the pillow. The clock strikes! Unable to restrain his feelings, his Grace swallows an olive. At this moment the door gently opens to the sound of soft music, and lo! the most delicate of birds is before the most enamored of men! But what inexpressible dismay now overshadows the countenance of the Duc?ā āāHorreur!ā āchien! Baptiste!ā ālāoiseau! ah, bon Dieu! cet oiseau modeste que tu as deshabillĆ© de ses plumes, et que tu as servi sans papier!ā It is superfluous to say more:ā āthe Duc expired in a paroxysm of disgust.
āHa! ha! ha!ā said his Grace on the third day after his decease.
āHe! he! he!ā replied the Devil faintly, drawing himself up with an air of hauteur.
āWhy, surely you are not serious,ā retorted De LāOmelette. āI have sinnedā ācāest vraiā ābut, my good sir, consider!ā āyou have no actual intention of putting suchā āsuch barbarous threats into execution.ā
āNo what?ā said his majestyā āācome, sir, strip!ā
āStrip, indeed! very pretty iā faith! no, sir, I shall not strip. Who are you, pray, that I, Duc De LāOmelette, 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 RombĆŖrtā āto say nothing of the taking my hair out of paperā ānot to mention the trouble I should have in drawing off my gloves?ā
āWho am I?ā āah, true! I am Baal-Zebub, Prince of the Fly. I took thee, just now, from a rosewood coffin inlaid with ivory. Thou wast curiously scented, and labelled as per invoice. Belial sent theeā āmy Inspector of Cemeteries. The pantaloons, which thou sayest were made by Bourdon, are an excellent pair of linen drawers, and thy robe-de-chambre is a shroud of no scanty dimensions.ā
āSir!ā replied the Duc, āI am not to be insulted with impunity!ā āSir! I shall take the earliest opportunity of avenging this insult!ā āSir! you shall hear from me! in the meantime au revoir!āā āand the Duc was bowing himself out of the Satanic presence, when he was interrupted and brought back by a gentleman in waiting. Hereupon his Grace rubbed his eyes, yawned, shrugged his shoulders, reflected. Having become satisfied of his identity, he took a birdās eye view of his whereabouts.
The apartment was superb. Even De LāOmelette pronounced it bien comme il faut. It was not its length nor its breadthā ābut its heightā āah, that was appalling!ā āThere was no ceilingā ācertainly noneā ābut a dense whirling mass of fiery-colored clouds. His Graceās brain reeled as he glanced upward. From above, hung a chain of an unknown blood-red metalā āits upper end lost, like the city of Boston, parmi les nues. From its nether extremity swung a large cresset. The Duc knew it to be a ruby; but from it there poured a light so intense, so still, so terrible, Persia never worshipped suchā āGheber never imagined suchā āMussulman never dreamed of such when, drugged with opium, he has tottered to a bed of poppies, his back to the flowers, and his face to the God Apollo. The Duc muttered a slight oath, decidedly approbatory.
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 LāOmelette pressed his hand upon his heart, closed his eyes, raised them, and caught his Satanic Majestyā āin a blush.
But the paintings!ā āKupris! Astarte! Astoreth!ā āa thousand and the same! And Rafaelle has beheld them! Yes, Rafaelle has been here, for did he not paint theā ā? and was he not consequently damned? The paintingsā āthe paintings! O luxury! O love!ā āwho, 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 Ducās 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. Cāest vrai que de toutes ces choses il a pensĆ© beaucoupā āmais! The Duc De LāOmelette 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 windowpanes, were the wailings and the howlings of the hopeless and the damned! And there, too!ā āthere!ā āupon the ottoman!ā āwho could he be?ā āhe, the petitmaitreā āno, the Deityā āwho sat as if carved in marble, et qui sourit, with his pale countenance, si amĆ©rement?
Mais il faut agirā āthat is to say, a Frenchman never faints outright. Besides, his Grace hated a sceneā āDe LāOmelette is himself again. There were some foils upon a tableā āsome points also. The Duc had studied under Bā āøŗ; il avait tuĆ© six hommes. Now, then, il peut sāĆ©chapper. He measures two points, and, with a grace inimitable, offers his Majesty the choice. Horreur! his Majesty does not fence!
Mais il joue!ā āhow happy a thought!ā ābut his Grace had always an excellent memory. He had dipped in the āDiableā of AbbĆ© Gualtier. Therein it is said āque le Diable nāose pas refuser un jeu dāĆ©cartĆ©.ā
But the
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