The Paris Sketch Book of Mr. M. A. Titmarsh; and the Irish Sketch Book. William Makepeace Thackeray

her pretty, fond epithets to foul abuse and swearing; her tender blue eyes grew watery and blear, and the peach colour on her cheeks fled from its old habitation, and crowded up into her nose, where, with a number of pimples, it stuck fast. Add to this a dirty draggle-tailed chintz; long matted hair, wandering into her eyes and over her lean shoulders, which were once so snowy, and you have the picture of drunkenness and Mrs. Simon Gambouge.

      Poor Simon, who had been a gay lively fellow enough in the days of his better fortune, was completely cast down by his present ill luck, and cowed by the ferocity of his wife. From morning till night the neighbours could hear this woman’s tongue, and understand her doings; bellows went skimming across the room, chairs were flumped down on the floor, and poor Gambouge’s oil and varnish pots went clattering through the windows, or down the stairs. The baby roared all day; and Simon sat pale and idle in a corner, taking a small sup at the brandy-bottle, when Mrs. Gambouge was out of the way.

      One day, as he sat disconsolately at his easel, furbishing up a picture of his wife, in the character of Peace, which he had commenced a year before, he was more than ordinarily desperate, and cursed and swore in the most pathetic manner. ‘Oh, miserable fate of genius!’ cried he, ‘was I, a man of such commanding talents, born for this—to be bullied by a fiend of a wife; to have my masterpieces neglected by the world, or sold only for a few pieces? Cursed be the love which has misled me; cursed be the art which is unworthy of me! Let me dig or steal, let me sell myself as a soldier, or sell myself to the Devil, I should not be more wretched than I am now!’

      ‘Quite the contrary,’ cried a small cheery voice.

      ‘What!’ exclaimed Gambouge, trembling and surprised. ‘Who’s there?—where are you?—who are you?’

      ‘You were just speaking of me,’ said the voice.

      Gambouge held, in his left hand, his palette; in his right a bladder of crimson lake, which he was about to squeeze out upon the mahogany. ‘Where are you?’ cried he again.

      ‘S-q-u-e-e-z-e!’ exclaimed the little voice.

      Gambouge picked out the nail from the bladder, and gave a squeeze, when, as sure as I am living, a little imp spirted out from the hole upon the palette, and began laughing in the most singular and oily manner.

      When first born he was little bigger than a tadpole; then he grew to be as big as a mouse; then he arrived at the size of a cat; and then he jumped off the palette, and, turning head over heels, asked the poor painter what he wanted with him.

      . … .

      The strange little animal twisted head over heels, and fixed himself at last upon the top of Gambouge’s easel—smearing out, with his heels, all the white and vermilion which had just been laid on to the allegoric portrait of Mrs. Gambouge.

      ‘What!’ exclaimed Simon, ‘is it the——’

      

      ‘Exactly so; talk of me, you know, and I am always at hand: besides, I am not half so black as I am painted, as you will see when you know me a little better.’

      ‘Upon my word,’ said the painter, ‘it is a very singular surprise which you have given me. To tell truth, I did not even believe in your existence.’

      The little imp put on a theatrical air, and, with one of Mr. Macready’s best looks, said:

      ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Gambogio,

       Than are dreamed of in your philosophy.’

      Gambouge, being a Frenchman, did not understand the quotation, but felt somehow strangely and singularly interested in the conversation of his new friend.

      Diabolus continued: ‘You are a man of merit, and want money: you will starve on your merit; you can only get money from me. Come, my friend, how much is it? I ask the easiest interest in the world: old Mordecai, the usurer, has made you pay twice as heavily before now: nothing but the signature of a bond, which is a mere ceremony, and the transfer of an article which, in itself, is a supposition—a valueless, windy, uncertain property of yours, called, by some poet of your own, I think, an animula vagula blandula—bah! there is no use beating about the bush—I mean a soul. Come, let me have it: you know you will sell it some other way, and not get such good pay for your bargain!’—and, having made this speech, the Devil pulled out from his fob a sheet as big as a double Times, only there was a different stamp in the corner.

      It is useless and tedious to describe law documents: lawyers only love to read them; and they have as good in Chitty as any that are to be found in the Devil’s own; so nobly have the apprentices emulated the skill of the master. Suffice it to say, that poor Gambouge read over the paper and signed it. He was to have all he wished for seven years, and at the end of that time was to become the property of the——: Provided that, during the course of the seven years, every single wish which he might form should be gratified by the other of the contracting parties; otherwise the deed became null and non-avenue, and Gambouge should be left ‘to go to the—— his own way.’

      ‘You will never see me again,’ said Diabolus, in shaking hands with poor Simon, on whose fingers he left such a mark as is to be seen at this day—‘never, at least, unless you want me; for everything you ask will be performed in the most quiet and every-day manner: believe me, it is best and most gentlemanlike, and avoids anything like scandal. But if you set me about anything which is extraordinary, and out of the course of nature, as it were, come I must, you know; and of this you are the best judge.’ So saying, Diabolus disappeared; but whether up the chimney, through the keyhole, or by any other aperture or contrivance, nobody knows. Simon Gambouge was left in a fever of delight, as, Heaven forgive me! I believe many a worthy man would be, if he were allowed an opportunity to make a similar bargain.

      ‘Heigho!’ said Simon. ‘I wonder whether this be a reality or a dream. I am sober, I know; for who will give me credit for the means to be drunk? and as for sleeping, I’m too hungry for that. I wish I could see a capon and a bottle of white wine.’

      ‘Monsieur Simon!’ cried a voice on the landing-place.

      ‘C’est ici,’ quoth Gambouge, hastening to open the door. He did so; and lo! there was a restaurateur’s boy at the door, supporting a tray, a tin-covered dish, and plates on the same; and, by its side, a tall amber-coloured flask of sauterne.

      ‘I am the new boy, sir,’ exclaimed this youth, on entering; ‘but I believe this is the right door, and you asked for these things.’

      Simon grinned, and said, ‘Certainly, I did ask for these things.’ But such was the effect which his interview with the demon had had on his innocent mind, that he took them, although he knew that they were for old Simon, the Jew dandy, who was mad after an opera girl, and lived on the floor beneath.

      ‘Go, my boy,’ he said; ‘it is good: call in a couple of hours, and remove the plates and glasses.’

      The little waiter trotted downstairs, and Simon sat greedily down to discuss the capon and the white wine. He bolted the legs, he devoured the wings, he cut every morsel of flesh from the breast;—seasoning his repast with pleasant draughts of wine, and caring nothing for the inevitable bill, which was to follow all.

      ‘Ye gods!’ said he, as he scraped away at the backbone, ‘what a dinner! what wine!—and how gaily served up too!’ There were silver forks and spoons, and the remnants of the fowl were upon a silver dish. ‘Why, the money for this dish and these spoons,’ cried Simon, ‘would keep me and Mrs. G. for a month! I wish’—and here Simon whistled, and turned round to see that nobody was peeping—‘I wish the plate were mine.’

      Oh, the horrid progress of the Devil! ‘Here they are,’ thought Simon to himself; ‘why should not I take them?’ And take them he did. ‘Detection,’ said