Saint-Simon and the Devil.(Short Story)

The Duke of Saint-Simon was in the King's supper-room, writing his memoirs in his head, when he noticed a stranger in the crowd. And such a stranger! A precieux, in gorgeous silks and satins, long, extravagantly curled black wig, startling pantaloons. Two beautiful courtiers were hanging on his arms, and he was talking to them, ignoring the assembled Court and musicians while Louis XIV had his plate changed yet again and the Dauphin belched. Saint-Simon's busy, gossiping mind filled with joy. Here was another victim!

He followed the stranger around carefully all the next day, noting his languid step, his heavy perfume, the practised sweep of his plumed hat. The stranger was to be seen at all the Court entertainments. He danced with grace and beauty, his black eyes glittered, he soon had his little coterie of women around him. But try as he might, Saint-Simon could not find out what this paragon's name was.

He asked valets and noblemen, coachmen and precieuses, and simply got a "What! You don't know his name?" with varying inflexions of pity, contempt and obsequiousness. Saint-Simon was most indignant. Who did this personnage think he was? What if--oh horrors--he was a bourgeois, like that insufferable Colbert or that vulgar Moliere, or Lully? Louis would accept anyone into his court, provided you flattered him enough! But he, Saint-Simon, saw through this rift-raff's pretensions; no, he was not ignorant like the Sun King!

He decided to approach the stranger. He watched him promenading in the gardens with his lady-loves, striking ridiculous poses by the water-pieces, saying something that made the hen-brains giggle. When would the time come? Saint-Simon could scarcely think of anything else. Even the spectacle of Mademoiselle de la Valliere as Venus in a masked ball failed to amuse him.

One day Saint-Simon could stand it no longer. He swallowed his pride and went to see Bossuet, the Court chaplain. Bossuet was unapproachable these days who did the man think he was? Not a drop of Crusader blood in him, yet he had more ceremony around him than a prince of the Church. But Bossuet didn't even pretend to listen to Saint-Simon's story. He said he was busy refining a sermon and would Saint-Simon please realise that the word of God took time to compose? Saint-Simon retired, fuming.

The man was there again at the King's copious Sunday afternoon meal. There he was, arrogant as ever, in an even more eye-popping costume than the ones he'd previously worn. Saint-Simon made up his mind, set his jaw--but before he ...