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. 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 pensé 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 _petitmaître_—no, the
      Deity—who sat as if carved in marble, _et qui sourit_, with his
      pale countenance, _si amèrement?_

      _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 had studied under B——; _il avait tué ses six
      hommes._ Now, then, _il peut s’échapper_. 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 Abbé
      Gualtier. Therein it is said “_que le Diable n’ose pas refuser un
      jeu d’écarté._”

      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 Père 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 damned—_voilà tout!_ (Here his Grace shrugged his
      shoulders.) _Si je gagne, je reviendrai a mes ortolans—que les
      cartes soient préparées!_”

      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 à vous à 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’eût été De L’Omelette il n’aurait point d’objection d’être le
      Diable._”




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. I found that we were to have a great many passengers, including a
      more than usual number of ladies. On the list were several of my
      acquaintances, and among other names, I was rejoiced to see that
      of Mr. Cornelius Wyatt, a young artist, for whom I entertained
      feelings of warm friendship. He had been with me a fellow-student
      at C—— University, where we were very much together. He had the
      ordinary temperament of genius, and was a compound of
      misanthropy, sensibility, and enthusiasm. To these qualities he
      united the warmest and truest heart which ever beat in a human
      bosom. I observed that his name was carded upon three state-rooms; and,
      upon again referring to the list of passengers, I found that he
      had engaged passage for himself, wife, and two sisters—his own. The state-rooms were sufficiently roomy, and each had two berths,
      one above the other. These berths, to be sure, were so
      exceedingly narrow as to be insufficient for more than one
      person; still, I could not comprehend why there were three
      state-rooms for these four persons. I was, just at that epoch, in
      one of those moody frames of mind which make a man abnormally
      inquisitive about trifles: and I confess, with shame, that I
      busied myself in a variety of ill-bred and preposterous
      conjectures about this matter of the supernumerary state-room. It
      was no business of mine, to be sure, but with none the less
      pertinacity did I occupy myself in attempts to resolve the
      enigma. At last I reached a conclusion which wrought in me great
      wonder why I had not arrived at it before.