* * * * * *

   "Ha! ha! ha!" -- said his Grace on the third day
after his decease.

   "He! he! he!" -- replied the Devil faintly, draw-
ing 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 inten-
tion of putting such -- such -- barbarous threats into
execution."

   "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 Rom-
bêrt -- 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

   "Sir!" replied the Duc, "I am not to be insulted
with impunity! -- Sir! I shall take the earliest op-
portunity 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'Ome-
lette pronounced it bien comme il faut. It was not
very long, nor very broad, -- but its height -- ah,
that was appalling! There was no ceiling -- cer-
tainly none -- but a dense whirling mass of fiery-
colored clouds. His Grace's brain reeled as he
glanced upwards. From above, hung a chain of an
unknown blood-red metal -- its upper end lost, like
C -- , parmi les nues. From its nether extremity
hung 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,

   The corners of the room were rounded into niches.
Three of these were filled with statues of gigantic
proportions. Their beauty was Grecian, their de-
formity 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 laid 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 lie imbedded and asleep against those
swelling walls of eider down?

   But the Duc's heart is fainting within him. He
is not, however, as you suppose, dizzy with magnifi-
cence, nor drunk with the ecstatic breath of those
innumerable censers. C'est vrai que de toutes ces
choses il a pensé beaucoup -- mais! The Duc De
L'Omelette is terror-stricken; for through the lurid
vista which a single uncurtained window is afford-
ing, 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