The Sorrows of Satan (Horror Classic). Marie Corelli

my dear Tempest, is the mischief,—or the deity,—of things. Nothing can be entirely annihilated;—not even a thought.”

      I was silent, watching him while he put the glass case with its uncanny occupant away out of sight.

      “And now for luncheon,” he said gaily, passing his arm through mine—“You look twenty per cent. better than when you went out this morning, Geoffrey, so I conclude your legal matters are disposed of satisfactorily. And what else have you done with yourself?”

      Seated at table with the dark-faced Amiel in attendance, I related my morning’s adventures, dwelling at length on my chance meeting with the publisher who had on the previous day refused my manuscript, and who now, I felt sure, would be only too glad to close with the offer I had made him. Rimânez listened attentively, smiling now and then.

      “Of course!” he said, when I had concluded. “There is nothing in the least surprising in the conduct of the worthy man. In fact I think he showed remarkable discretion and decency in not at once jumping at your proposition,—his pleasant hypocrisy in retiring to think it over, shows him to be a person of tact and foresight. Did you ever imagine that a human being or a human conscience existed that could not be bought? My good fellow, you can buy a king if you only give a long price enough; and the Pope will sell you a specially reserved seat in his heaven if you will only hand him the cash down while he is on earth! Nothing is given free in this world save the air and the sunshine,—everything else must be bought,—with blood, tears and groans occasionally,—but oftenest with money.”

      I fancied that Amiel, behind his master’s chair, smiled darkly at this,—and my instinctive dislike of the fellow kept me more or less reticent concerning my affairs till the luncheon was over. I could not formulate to myself any substantial reason for my aversion to this confidential servant of the prince’s,—but do what I would the aversion remained, and increased each time I saw his sullen, and as I thought, sneering features. Yet he was perfectly respectful and deferential; I could find no actual fault with him,—nevertheless when at last he placed the coffee, cognac, and cigars on the table and noiselessly withdrew, I was conscious of a great relief, and breathed more freely. As soon as we were alone, Rimânez lit a cigar and settled himself for a smoke, looking over at me with a personal interest and kindness which made his handsome face more than ever attractive.

      “Now let us talk,”—he said—“I believe I am at present the best friend you have, and I certainly know the world better than you do. What do you propose to make of your life? Or in other words how do you mean to begin spending your money?”

      I laughed. “Well, I shan’t provide funds for the building of a church, or the endowment of a hospital,”—I said—“I shall not even start a Free Library, for these institutions, besides becoming centres for infectious diseases, generally get presided over by a committee of local grocers who presume to consider themselves judges of literature. My dear Prince Rimânez, I mean to spend my money on my own pleasure, and I daresay I shall find plenty of ways to do it.”

      Rimânez fanned away the smoke of his cigar with one hand, and his dark eyes shone with a peculiarly vivid light through the pale grey floating haze.

      “With your fortune, you could make hundreds of miserable people happy;”—he suggested.

      “Thanks, I would rather be happy myself first”—I answered gaily—“I daresay I seem to you selfish,—you are philanthropic I know; I am not.”

      He still regarded me steadily.

      “You might help your fellow-workers in literature....”

      I interrupted him with a decided gesture.

      “That I will never do, my friend, though the heavens should crack! My fellow-workers in literature have kicked me down at every opportunity, and done their best to keep me from earning a bare livelihood,—it is my turn at kicking now, and I will show them as little mercy, as little help, as little sympathy as they have shown me!”

      “Revenge is sweet!” he quoted sententiously—“I should recommend your starting a high-class half-crown magazine.”

      “Why?”

      “Can you ask? Just think of the ferocious satisfaction it would give you to receive the manuscripts of your literary enemies, and reject them! To throw their letters into the waste-paper basket, and send back their poems, stories, political articles and what not, with ‘Returned with thanks’ or ‘Not up to our mark’ type-written on the backs thereof! To dig knives into your rivals through the medium of anonymous criticism! The howling joy of a savage with twenty scalps at his belt would be tame in comparison to it! I was an editor once myself, and I know!”

      I laughed at his whimsical earnestness.

      “I daresay you are right,”—I said—“I can grasp the vengeful position thoroughly! But the management of a magazine would be too much trouble to me,—too much of a tie.”

      “Don’t manage it! Follow the example of all the big editors, and live out of the business altogether,—but take the profits! You never see the real editor of a leading daily newspaper you know,—you can only interview the sub. The real man is, according to the seasons of the year, at Ascot, in Scotland, at Newmarket, or wintering in Egypt,—he is supposed to be responsible for everything in his journal, but he is generally the last person who knows anything about it. He relies on his ‘staff’—a very bad crutch at times,—and when his ‘staff’ are in a difficulty, they get out of it by saying they are unable to decide without the editor. Meanwhile the editor is miles away, comfortably free from worry. You could bamboozle the public in that way if you liked.”

      “I could, but I shouldn’t care to do so,” I answered—“If I had a business I would not neglect it. I believe in doing things thoroughly.”

      “So do I!” responded Rimânez promptly. “I am a very thorough-going fellow myself, and whatever my hand findeth to do, I do it with my might!—excuse me for quoting Scripture!” He smiled, a little ironically I thought, then resumed—“Well, in what, at present does your idea of enjoying your heritage consist?”

      “In publishing my book,” I answered. “That very book I could get no one to accept,—I tell you, I will make it the talk of London!”

      “Possibly you will”—he said, looking at me through half-closed eyes and a cloud of smoke,—“London easily talks. Particularly on unsavoury and questionable subjects. Therefore,—as I have already hinted,—if your book were a judicious mixture of Zola, Huysmans and Baudelaire, or had for its heroine a ‘modest’ maid who considered honourable marriage a ‘degradation,’ it would be quite sure of success in these days of new Sodom and Gomorrah.” Here he suddenly sprang up, and flinging away his cigar, confronted me. “Why do not the heavens rain fire on this accursed city! It is ripe for punishment,—full of abhorrent creatures not worth the torturing in hell to which it is said liars and hypocrites are condemned! Tempest, if there is one human being more than another that I utterly abhor, it is the type of man so common to the present time, the man who huddles his own loathly vices under a cloak of assumed broad-mindedness and virtue. Such an one will even deify the loss of chastity in woman by the name of ‘purity,’—because he knows that it is by her moral and physical ruin alone that he can gratify his brutal lusts. Rather than be such a sanctimonious coward I would openly proclaim myself vile!”

      “That is because yours is a noble nature”—I said—“You are an exception to the rule.”

      “An exception? I?”—and he laughed bitterly—“Yes, you are right; I am an exception among men perhaps,—but I am one with the beasts in honesty! The lion does not assume the manners of the dove,—he loudly announces his own ferocity. The very cobra, stealthy though its movements be, evinces its meaning by a warning hiss or rattle. The hungry wolf’s bay is heard far down the wind, intimidating the hurrying traveller among the wastes of snow. But man gives no clue to his intent—more malignant than the lion, more treacherous than the snake, more greedy than the wolf, he takes his fellow-man’s hand in pretended friendship, and an hour later defames