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Les diaboliques by J. Barbey d'Aurevilly

Les diaboliques Chapter 1 No.1

Le meilleur régal du diable, c'est une innocence.

(A.)

Il vit donc toujours, ce vieux mauvais sujet?

- Par Dieu! s'il vit! - et par l'ordre de Dieu, Madame, fis-je en me reprenant, car je me souvins qu'elle était dévote, - et de la paroisse de Sainte-Clotilde encore, la paroisse des ducs! - Le roi est mort! Vive le roi! Disait-on sous l'ancienne monarchie avant qu'elle f?t cassée, cette vieille porcelaine de Sèvres. Don Juan, lui, malgré toutes les démocraties, est un monarque qu'on ne cassera pas.

- Au fait, le diable est immortel! dit-elle comme une raison qu'elle se serait donnée.

- Il a même...

- Qui?... le diable?...

- Non, Don Juan... soupé, il y a trois jours, en goguette.

Devinez où?...

- à votre affreuse Maison-d'Or, sans doute...

- Fi donc, Madame! Don Juan n'y va plus... il n'y a rien là à fricasser pour sa grandesse. Le seigneur Don Juan a toujours été un peu comme ce fameux moine d'Arnaud de Brescia qui, racontent les Chroniques, ne vivait que du sang des ames. C'est avec cela qu'il aime à roser son vin de Champagne, et cela ne se trouve plus depuis longtemps dans le cabaret des cocottes!

- Vous verrez, - reprit-elle avec ironie, - qu'il aura soupé au couvent des Bénédictines, avec ces dames...

- De l'Adoration perpétuelle, oui, Madame! Car l'adoration qu'il a inspirée une fois, ce diable d'homme! me fait l'effet de durer toujours.

- Pour un catholique, je vous trouve profanant, - dit-elle lentement, mais un peu crispée, - et je vous prie de m'épargner le détail des soupers de vos coquines, si c'est une manière inventée par vous de m'en donner des nouvelles que de me parler, ce soir de Don Juan.

- Je n'invente rien, Madame. Les coquines du souper en question, si ce sont des coquines, ne sont pas les miennes... malheureusement...

- Assez, Monsieur!

- Permettez-moi d'être modeste. C'étaient...

- Les mille è trè?... - fit-elle, curieuse, se ravisant, presque revenue à l'amabilité.

- Oh! pas toutes, Madame... Une douzaine seulement. C'est déjà, comme cela, bien assez honnête...

- Et déshonnête aussi, - ajouta-t-elle.

- D'ailleurs, vous savez aussi bien que moi qu'il ne peut pas tenir beaucoup de monde dans le boudoir de la comtesse de Chiffrevas. On a pu y faire des choses grandes; mais il est fort petit, ce boudoir...

- Comment? - se récria-t-elle, étonnée. - C'est donc dans le boudoir qu'on aura soupé?...

- Oui, Madame, c'est dans le boudoir. Et pourquoi pas? On d?ne bien sur un champ de bataille. On voulait donner un souper extraordinaire au seigneur Don Juan, et c'était plus digne de lui de le lui donner sur le théatre de sa gloire, là où les souvenirs fleurissent à la place des orangers. Jolie idée, tendre et mélancolique! Ce n'était pas le bal des victimes; c'en était le souper.

- Et Don Juan? - dit-elle, comme Orgon dit ?Et Tartufe?? dans la pièce.

- Don Juan a fort bien pris la chose et très bien soupé,

Lui, tout seul, devant elles!

dans la personne de quelqu'un que vous connaissez... et qui n'est pas moins que le comte Jules-Amédée-Hector de Ravila de Ravilès.

- Lui! C'est bien, en effet, Don Juan, - dit-elle.

Et, quoiqu'elle e?t passé l'age de la rêverie, cette dévote à bec et à ongles, elle se mit à rêver au comte Jules-Amédée-Hector, - à cet homme de race Juan, - de cette antique race Juan éternelle, à qui Dieu n'a pas donné le monde, mais a permis au diable de le lui donner.

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