"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 Rombêrt--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 very long, nor very broad,--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 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, 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 laid his hand upon his heart, closed his eyes, raised them, and caught his Satanic Majesty--in a blush.