And stepped at once into a cooler clime.
Keats fell by a criticism. Who was it died of The Andromache ? Ignoble souls!—De L’Omelette perished of an ortolan. L’histoire en est brève. Assist me, Spirit of Apicius!
A golden cage bore the little winged wanderer, enamored, melting, indolent, to the Chaussée 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 Cadêt.
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 deshabillé 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