Скорбь сатаны / The sorrows of Satan. Уровень 4

“I am positive he did not,” said Bentham seriously. “He spoke of the ‘bargain’ as an actual and accomplished fact.”

I laughed again. Then I smiled, and thanking them, rose to go. They bowed to me once more, simultaneously, looking almost like twin brothers.

“Good-bye, Mr. Tempest,” said Mr. Bentham. “We shall serve you as we served our late client, to the best of our ability. May we ask whether you require any cash advances immediately?”

“No, thank you,” I answered, feeling grateful to my friend Rimanez.

They seemed a trifle surprised at this, but were too discreet to offer any remark. They wrote down my address at the Grand Hotel, and sent their clerk to show me to the door. I gave this man half-a-sovereign to drink my health which he very cheerfully promised to do. Then I walked away.

In turning a corner I jostled up against a man, the very publisher who had returned me my rejected manuscript the day before.

“Hello!” he exclaimed.

“Hello!” I rejoined.

“Where are you going?” he went on. “Are you going to try and place that unlucky novel? My dear boy, believe me it will never do as it is…”

“It will do,” I said calmly, “I am going to publish it myself.”

He started.

“Publish it yourself! Good heavens! – it will cost you – ah! – sixty or seventy, perhaps a hundred pounds.”

“I don’t care if it costs me a thousand!”

A red flush came into his face, and his eyes opened in astonishment.

“I thought… excuse me…” he stammered awkwardly; “I thought that money was important for you…”

“It was,” I answered dryly. “It isn’t now.”

Then I burst out laughing wildly. He began looking nervously about him in all directions. I caught him by the arm.

“Look here, man,” I said, trying to conquer my almost hysterical mirth. “I’m not mad – don’t you think it. I’m only a millionaire!”

And I began laughing again; the situation seemed to me so sublimely ridiculous. But the publisher did not see it at all. I made a further effort to control myself and succeeded.

“I assure you on my word of honour I’m not joking, it’s a fact. Last night I wanted a dinner, and you, like a good fellow, offered to give me one. Today I possess five millions of money! Don’t stare so! And as I have told you, I shall publish my book myself at my own expense, and it will succeed! I’ve more than enough in my wallet to pay for its publication now!”

He fell back stupefied and confused.

“God bless my soul!” he muttered feebly. “It’s like a dream! I was never more astonished in my life!”

“Nor I!” I said. “But strange things happen in life. And that book will be the success of the season! What will you take to publish it?”

“Publish? I?”

“Yes, you – why not? I offer you a chance to get some money. Will your ‘readers’ prevent your accepting it? You are not a slave, this is a free country. I know the kind of people who ‘read’ for you, the gaunt unlovable spinster of fifty, the dyspeptic book-worm who is a ‘literary failure’ and can find nothing else to do. Why should you rely on such incompetent opinion? I’ll pay you for the publication of my book. And I guarantee you another thing. I’ll mention you as a publisher. I’ll advertise it. Everything in this world can be done for money.”

“Stop, stop,” he interrupted. “This is so sudden! You must give me time to consider!”

“Take a day for your meditations then,” I said. “But no longer. For if you don’t say yes, I’ll get another man! Be wise in time, my friend! Good-bye!”

He ran after me.

“Wait, look here! You’re so strange, so wild, so erratic! Dear dear me,” and he smiled benevolently. “Why, you don’t give me a chance to congratulate you. I really do, you know – I congratulate you sincerely!” And he shook me by the hand quite fervently. “And I will think about your book – where will a letter find you?”

“Grand Hotel,” I responded. I knew he was already mentally calculating how much he could get from me for my literary whim. “Come there, and lunch or dine with me. Tomorrow if you like – only send me a word beforehand. Remember, it must be yes or no, in twenty-four hours!”

And with this I left him. I went on, laughing to myself inaudibly, till I saw one or two passers-by looking at me so surprisingly that I came to the conclusion that they took me for a madman. I walked briskly, and presently my excitement cooled down.

I returned to the Grand, looking and feeling much better in my new suit. A waiter met me in the corridor and with the most obsequious deference, informed me that ‘His Excellency the Prince’ was waiting for me in his own apartments for lunch.

I found my new friend alone in his sumptuous drawing-room, standing near the large window and holding in his hand an oblong crystal case through which he was looking with an almost affectionate solicitude.

“Ah, Geoffrey! Here you are!” he exclaimed. “I waited for you.”

“Very good of you!” I said, pleased at the friendly familiarity he displayed in thus calling me by my Christian name. “What have you got there?”

“A pet of mine,” he answered, smiling slightly. “Did you ever see anything like it before?”

6

I approached and examined the box he held. It was perforated with holes for the admission of air, and within it lay a brilliant coloured winged insect.

“Is it alive?” I asked.

“It is alive, and has some intelligence,” replied Rimanez. “I feed it and it knows me. It is quite tame and friendly as you perceive.”

He opened the case gently. The beetle expanded its radiant wings, and it rose at once to its protector’s hand. He lifted it and held it aloft, then shaking it to and fro lightly, he exclaimed,

“Off, Sprite! Fly, and return to me!”

The creature was looking like a beautiful iridescent jewel. After a few graceful movements hither and thither, it returned to its owner’s hand, and again settled there.

“There is a well-worn saying which declares that ‘in the midst of life we are in death’,” said the prince. “But that maxim is wrong. It should be ‘in the midst of death we are in life.’ This creature is a rare and curious production of death. I found it myself. Listen. I was present at the uncasing of an Egyptian female mummy. She was a princess of a famous royal house. On her chest was a piece of a gold quarter. Underneath this gold plate, her body was swathed round and round. When these were removed it was discovered that the mummified flesh between her breasts had decayed away, and in the hollow or nest, this insect was found alive!”

I could not repress a slight nervous shudder.

“Horrible!” I said. “If I were you, I should kill it, I think.”

He looked at me.

“Why?” he asked. “I’m afraid, my dear Geoffrey, you are not a scientist. To kill the poor creature who managed to find life in the very bosom of death, is a cruel suggestion, is it not? It has eyes, and the senses of taste, smell, touch and hearing. I accept the idea of the transmigration of souls, and so sometimes I think that perhaps the princess of that Royal Egyptian house had a wicked, brilliant, vampire soul, – and that… here it is!”

A cold thrill ran through me from head to foot at these words, and as I looked at the speaker standing opposite me, with the ‘wicked, brilliant, vampire soul’ on his hand. I examined the weird insect more closely. As I did so, its bright beady eyes sparkled, I thought, vindictively, and I stepped back.

“It is certainly remarkable,” I murmured. “No wonder you value it, as a curiosity. Its eyes are quite distinct, almost intelligent.”