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

said he, at last—‘sont-ils grands ces journaux Anglais? Look, sir,’ he said, handing over an immense sheet of the Times to Mr. Gambouge, ‘was ever anything so monstrous?’

      Gambouge smiled politely, and examined the proffered page. ‘It is enormous,’ he said; ‘but I do not read English.’

      ‘Nay,’ said the man with the orders, ‘look closer at it, Signor Gambouge; it is astonishing how easy the language is.’

      Wondering, Simon took the sheet of paper. He turned pale as he looked at it, and began to curse the ices and the waiter. ‘Come, M. l’Abbé he said; ‘the heat and glare of this place are intolerable.’

      . … .

      The stranger rose with them. ‘Au plaisir de vous revoir, mon cher monsieur,’ said he; ‘I do not mind speaking before the Abbé here, who will be my very good friend one of these days; but I thought it necessary to refresh your memory, concerning our little business transaction six years since; and could not exactly talk of it at church, as you may fancy.’

      Simon Gambouge had seen, in the double-sheeted Times, the paper signed by himself, which the little Devil had pulled out of his fob.

      . … .

      There was no doubt on the subject; and Simon, who had but a year to live, grew more pious, and more careful than ever. He had consultations with all the doctors of the Sorbonne and all the lawyers of the Palais. But his magnificence grew as wearisome to him as his poverty had been before; and not one of the doctors whom he consulted could give him a pennyworth of consolation.

      Then he grew outrageous in his demands upon the Devil, and put him to all sorts of absurd and ridiculous tasks; but they were all punctually performed, until Simon could invent no new ones, and the Devil sat all day with his hands in his pockets doing nothing.

      One day Simon’s confessor came bounding into the room with the greatest glee. ‘My friend,’ said he, ‘I have it! Eureka!—I have found it. Send the Pope a hundred thousand crowns, build a new Jesuit College at Rome, give a hundred gold candlesticks to St. Peter’s; and tell his Holiness you will double all, if he will give you absolution!’

      Gambouge caught at the notion, and hurried off a courier to Rome, ventre à terre. His Holiness agreed to the request of the petition, and sent him an absolution, written out with his own fist, and all in due form.

      ‘Now,’ said he, ‘foul fiend, I defy you! arise, Diabolus! your contract is not worth a jot: the Pope has absolved me, and I am safe on the road to salvation.’ In a fervour of gratitude he clasped the hand of his confessor, and embraced him: tears of joy ran down the cheeks of these good men.

      They heard an inordinate roar of laughter, and there was Diabolus sitting opposite to them, holding his sides, and lashing his tail about as if he would have gone mad with glee.

      ‘Why,’ said he, ‘what nonsense is this! do you suppose I care about that?’ and he tossed the Pope’s missive into a corner. ‘M. l’Abbé knows,’ he said, bowing and grinning, ‘that though the Pope’s paper may pass current here, it is not worth twopence in our country. What do I care about the Pope’s absolution? You might just as well be absolved by your under-butler.’

      ‘Egad,’ said the Abbé, ‘the rogue is right—I quite forgot the fact, which he points out clearly enough.’

      ‘No, no, Gambouge,’ continued Diabolus, with horrid familiarity, ‘go thy ways, old fellow, that cock won’t fight.’ And he retired up the chimney, chuckling at his wit and his triumph. Gambouge heard his tail scuttling all the way up, as if he had been a sweeper by profession.

      Simon was left in that condition of grief in which, according to the newspapers, cities and nations are found when a murder is committed, or a lord ill of the gout—a situation, we say, more easy to imagine than to describe.

      To add to his woes, Mrs. Gambouge, who was now first made acquainted with his compact, and its probable consequences, raised such a storm about his ears, as made him wish almost that his seven years were expired. She screamed, she scolded, she swore, she wept, she went into such fits of hysterics, that poor Gambouge, who had completely knocked under to her, was worn out of his life. He was allowed no rest, night or day: he moped about his fine house, solitary and wretched, and cursed his stars that he ever had married the butcher’s daughter.

      It wanted six months of the time.

      A sudden and desperate resolution seemed all at once to have taken possession of Simon Gambouge. He called his family and his friends together—he gave one of the greatest feasts that ever was known in the city of Paris—he gaily presided at one end of his table, while Mrs. Gam., splendidly arrayed, gave herself airs at the other extremity.

      After dinner, using the customary formula, he called upon Diabolus to appear. The old ladies screamed, and hoped he would not appear naked; the young ones tittered, and longed to see the monster; everybody was pale with expectation and affright.

      A very quiet gentlemanly man, neatly dressed in black, made his appearance, to the surprise of all present, and bowed all round to the company. ‘I will not show my credentials,’ he said, blushing, and pointing to his hoofs, which were cleverly hidden by his pumps and shoe-buckles, ‘unless the ladies absolutely wish it; but I am the person you want, Mr. Gambouge; pray tell me what is your will.’

      ‘You know,’ said that gentleman, in a stately and determined voice, ‘that you are bound to me, according to our agreement, for six months to come?’

      ‘I am,’ replied the new-comer.

      ‘You are to do all that I ask, whatsoever it may be, or you forfeit the bond which I gave you?’

      ‘It is true.’

      ‘You declare this before the present company?’

      ‘Upon my honour, as a gentleman,’ said Diabolus, bowing, and laying his hand upon his waistcoat.

      A whisper of applause ran round the room: all were charmed with the bland manners of the fascinating stranger.

      ‘My love,’ continued Gambouge, mildly addressing his lady, ‘will you be so polite as to step this way? You know I must go soon, and I am anxious, before this noble company, to make a provision for one who, in sickness as in health, in poverty as in riches, has been my truest and fondest companion.’

      Gambouge mopped his eyes with his handkerchief—all the company did likewise. Diabolus sobbed audibly, and Mrs. Gambouge sidled up to her husband’s side, and took him tenderly by the hand. ‘Simon!’ said she, ‘is it true? and do you really love your Griskinissa?’

      Simon continued solemnly: ‘Come hither, Diabolus; you are bound to obey me in all things for the six months during which our contract has to run; take, then, Griskinissa Gambouge, live alone with her for half a year, never leave her from morning till night, obey all her caprices, follow all her whims, and listen to all the abuse which falls from her infernal tongue. Do this, and I ask no more of you; I will deliver myself up at the appointed time.’

      Not Lord G——, when flogged by Lord B—— in the House—not Mr. Cartlitch, of Astley’s Amphitheatre, in his most pathetic passages, could look more crestfallen, and howl more hideously, than Diabolus did now. ‘Take another year, Gambouge,’ screamed he; ‘two more—ten more—a century; roast me on Lawrence’s gridiron, boil me in holy water, but don’t ask that: don’t, don’t bid me live with Mrs. Gambouge!’

      

A PUZZLE FOR THE DEVIL

      Simon smiled sternly. ‘I have said it,’ he cried; ‘do this, or our contract is at an end.’

      The Devil, at this, grinned so horribly that every