Скорбь сатаны / The sorrows of Satan. Уровень 4. Мария Корелли

man Mr. Tempest;” – said the senior partner Mr. Bentham, as he folded up the last of the papers we had been looking through. “At your age this princely inheritance may be either a great boon to you or a great curse, one never knows. The possession of such enormous wealth involves great responsibilities.”

      I was amused at what I considered the impertinence of this mere servant of the law in presuming to moralize on my luck.

      “Many people would be glad to accept such responsibilities and change places with me,” I said. “You yourself, for example?”

      I knew this remark was not in good taste, but I felt that he had no business to preach to me as it were on the responsibilities of wealth. He gave me an observant glance.

      “No Mr. Tempest, no,” he said dryly. “I do not think I should change places with you. I feel very well satisfied as I am. My brain is my bank, and brings me something to live upon, which is all that I desire. To be comfortable and work honestly is enough for me. I have never envied the wealthy.”

      “Mr. Bentham is a philosopher,” interposed his partner, Mr. Ellis smiling. “In our profession, Mr. Tempest, we see so many ups and downs of life, that we ourselves learn some lessons.”

      They each gave me a formal little bow, and Mr. Bentham shook hands.

      “Business is over, allow me to congratulate you,” he said politely. “And something more. The fact is Mr. Tempest, your deceased relative, had one very curious idea. He was a shrewd man and a clever one, but he certainly had one very curious idea.”

      “What idea?”

      Bentham gazed meditatively at the ceiling.

      “My dear sir, our client mentioned – er – it’s his idea – a most erratic and extraordinary one, which was briefly this, – that he had sold himself to the devil, and that his large fortune was one result of the bargain.”

      I burst out laughing heartily.

      “What a ridiculous notion!” I exclaimed. “Poor man! Or perhaps he used the expression as a mere figure of speech?”

      “I think not,” responded Mr. Ellis. “I think our client did not use the phrase ‘sold to the devil’ as a figure of speech merely, Mr. Bentham?”

      “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