Prose fiction analysis passage questions tend to focus on elements that are likely familiar to you from previous literature studies, such as:
Keats fell by a criticism.
But who ever died of inept poetry? Ignoble souls!—De L’Omelette perished of an
ortolan1 . The story then, in brief:
That night the Duke 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 Duke? “Horreur!
Dog! Protestant! —the bird! Ah Good God! This modest
bird you’ve quite unclothed and served without paper!” It
is superfluous to say more:—the Duke 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—that’s true—but, my good sir,
consider!—you have no actual intention 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, Duke 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 dressing gown ever put
together by Rombert—take say nothing of undressing my
hair—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 rosewood coffin inlaid
with ivory. Thou wast curiously scented, and labeled 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
dressing gown is a shroud of no scanty dimensions.”
“Sir!” replied the Duke, “I am not to be insulted with
impunity!—Sir! you shall hear from me! In the meantime
au revoir!”—and the Duke 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 “quite well done.” 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. From its
nether extremity swung a large cresset. The Duke knew it
to be a ruby; but from it there poured a light so intense, so
still, so terrible. Persia never worshipped such, no great
Sultan ever 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 Duke muttered a
slight oath, decidedly approbatory.
The corners of the room were rounded into niches, and
these were filled statues of gigantic proportions. But the
paintings! The paintings! O luxury! O love!—who gazing
on those forbidden beauties shall have eyes for others.
The Duke’s heart is fainting within him. He is not, however,
as you suppose, dizzy with magnificence, nor drunk
with the ecstatic breath of the innumerable censers. (It’s true that he thinks of these things to no small degree —
but!) The Duke 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!
The poor Duke! 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 Deity—who sat as if carved
in marble, and who smiled, with his pale countenance,
bitterly?
A Frenchman never faints outright. Besides, his Grace
hated a scene—De L’Omelette is himself again. Hadn’t he
read somewhere? wasn’t it said “that the devil can’t refuse
a card game?”
But the chances—the chances! True—desperate; but
scarcely more desperate than the Duke. Besides wasn’t he
the slyest player in the craftiest card-club in Paris?— the
legendary “21 club.”
“Should I lose,” said his Grace “I will lose twice— that
is I shall be doubly damned—should I win, I return to my
ortolan—let the cards be prepared.”
His Grace was all care, all attention, his Majesty all ‘
confidence. His Grace thought of the game. His majesty
did not think; he shuffled. The Duke cut.
The cards are 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 Duke counts. The hand is out. His majesty
counts heavily, smiles and is taking wine. The Duke
palms a card.
“It’s your deal,” said his Majesty, cutting. His Grace
bowed, dealt, and arose from the table—turning the King.
His Majesty looked chagrined.
Had Alexander not been Alexander, he would have been
Diogenes; and the Duke assured his antagonist in taking
his leave, “Were one not already the Duke De L’Omelette
one could have no objection to being the Devil.”
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Questions:
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Answer the questions in the following order:
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