10:19 pm - Monday July 16, 2018

The Duc de L’Omelette-by Edgar Allan Poe-Novel and Ebooks

Novel Name: The Duc de L’Omelette

Written by:Edgar Allan Poe

Category:fiction, short novel

Page 1:


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
est breve. 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
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. In the privacy of his bureau he
reclined languidly on that ottoman for which he sacrificed his
loyalty in outbidding his king — the notorious ottoman of Cadet.

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? —
“Horreur! — chien! — Baptiste! — l’oiseau! ah, bon Dieu! cet
oiseau modeste que tu as deshabille de ses plumes, et que tu as servi
sans papier!” 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. “I have
sinned — c’est vrai — but, my good sir, consider! — you have no
actual intention of putting such — such barbarous threats into

“No what?” said his majesty — “come, sir, strip!”

“Strip, indeed! very pretty i’ faith! no, sir, I shall not strip. 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?”

“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
curiously scented, and labelled as per invoice. Belial sent thee, —
my 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.”

“Sir!” replied the Duc, “I am not to be insulted with impunity!- Sir!
I shall take the earliest opportunity of avenging this insult!- Sir!
you shall hear from me! in the meantime au revoir!” — and 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 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. From above, hung a chain of an unknown
blood-red metal — 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 be a ruby; but from it there poured a light so intense, so
still, so terrible, Persia never worshipped such — Gheber never
imagined such — Mussulman 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.

Filed in: Classics, Edgar Allan Poe, Fiction, Short Novel

No comments yet.

Leave a Reply