The Sorrows of Satan. Мария Корелли

it, that before we reached Chamounix we had become the best friends in the world? He explained himself and his rascally modes of action, and I nobly exonerated him,—we exchanged cards,—and when we parted, this same author’s bug-bear McWhing, overcome with sentiment and whisky toddy (he is a Scotchman you know) swore that I was the grandest fellow in the world, and that if ever he could serve me he would. He knew my princely title by this time, but he would have given me a still higher name. ‘You are not—hic—a poet yourself?’ he murmured, leaning on me fondly as he rolled to bed. I told him no. ‘I am sorry—very!’ he declared, the tears of whisky rising to his eyes, ‘If you had been I would have done a great thing for you,—I would have boomed you,—for nothing!’ I left him snoring nobly, and saw him no more. But I think he’ll recognize me, Geoffrey;—I’ll go and look him up personally. By all the gods!—if he had only known Who held him between life and death upon the Mauvais Pas!”

      I stared, puzzled.

      “But he did know”—I said—“Did you not say you exchanged cards?”

      “True, but that was afterwards!” and Lucio laughed; “I assure you, my dear fellow, we can ‘manage’ McWhing!”

      I was intensely interested in the story as he told it,—he had such a dramatic way of speaking and looking, while his very gestures brought the whole scene vividly before me like a picture. I spoke out my thought impulsively.

      “You would certainly have made a superb actor, Lucio!”

      “How do you know I am not one?” he asked with a flashing glance, then he added quickly—“No,—there is no occasion to paint the face and prance over the boards before a row of tawdry footlights like the paid mimes, in order to be histrionically great. The finest actor is he who can play the comedy of life perfectly, as I aspire to do. To walk well, talk well, smile well, weep well, groan well, laugh well—and die well!—it is all pure acting,—because in every man there is the dumb dreadful immortal Spirit who is real,—who cannot act,—who Is,—and who steadily maintains an infinite though speechless protest against the body’s Lie!”

      I said nothing in answer to this outburst,—I was beginning to be used to his shifting humours and strange utterances,—they increased the mysterious attraction I had for him, and made his character a perpetual riddle to me which was not without its subtle charm. Every now and then I realized, with a faintly startled sense of self-abasement, that I was completely under his dominance,—that my life was being entirely guided by his control and suggestion,—but I argued with myself that surely it was well it should be so, seeing he had so much more experience and influence than I. We dined together that night as we often did, and our conversation was entirely taken up with monetary and business concerns. Under Lucio’s advice I was making several important investments, and these matters gave us ample subject for discussion. At about eleven o’clock, it being a fine frosty evening and fit for brisk walking, we went out, our destination being the private gambling club to which my companion had volunteered to introduce me as a guest. It was situated at the end of a mysterious little back street, not far from the respectable precincts of Pall-Mall, and was an unpretentious looking house enough outside, but within, it was sumptuously though tastelessly furnished. Apparently, the premises were presided over by a woman,—a woman with painted eyes and dyed hair who received us first of all within the lamp-lighted splendours of an Anglo-Japanese drawing-room. Her looks and manner undisguisedly proclaimed her as a demi-mondaine of the most pronounced type,—one of those ‘pure’ ladies with a ‘past’ who are represented as such martyrs to the vices of men. Lucio said something to her apart,—whereupon she glanced at me deferentially and smiled,—then rang the bell. A discreet looking man-servant in sober black made his appearance, and at a slight sign from his mistress who bowed to me as I passed her, proceeded to show us upstairs. We trod on a carpet of the softest felt,—in fact I noticed that everything was rendered as noiseless as possible in this establishment, the very doors being covered with thick baize and swinging on silent hinges. On the upper landing, the servant knocked very cautiously at a side-door,—a key turned in the lock, and we were admitted into a long double room, very brilliantly lit with electric lamps, which at a first glance seemed crowded with men playing at rouge et noir and baccarat. Some looked up as Lucio entered and nodded smilingly,—others glanced inquisitively at me, but our entrance was otherwise scarcely noticed. Lucio drawing me along by the arm, sat down to watch the play,—I followed his example and presently found myself infected by the intense excitement which permeated the room like the silent tension of the air before a thunderstorm. I recognised the faces of many well known public men,—men eminent in politics and society whom one would never have imagined capable of supporting a gambling club by their presence and authority. But I took care to betray no sign of surprise, and quietly observed the games and the gamesters with almost as impassive a demeanour as that of my companion. I was prepared to play and to lose,—I was not prepared however for the strange scene which was soon to occur and in which I, by force of circumstances was compelled to take a leading part.

      X

      As soon as the immediate game we were watching was finished, the players rose, and greeted Lucio with a good deal of eagerness and effusion. I instinctively guessed from their manner that they looked upon him as an influential member of the club, a person likely to lend them money to gamble with, and otherwise to oblige them in various ways, financially speaking. He introduced me to them all, and I was not slow to perceive the effect my name had upon most of them. I was asked if I would join in a game of baccarat, and I readily consented. The stakes were ruinously high, but I had no need to falter for that. One of the players near me was a fair-haired young man, handsome in face and of aristocratic bearing,—he had been introduced to me as Viscount Lynton. I noticed him particularly on account of the reckless way he had of doubling his stakes suddenly and apparently out of mere bravado, and when he lost, as he mostly did, he laughed uproariously as though he were drunk or delirious. On first beginning to play I was entirely indifferent as to the results of the game, caring nothing at all as to whether I had losses or gains. Lucio did not join us, but sat apart, quietly observant, and watching me, so I fancied, more than anyone. And as chance would have it, all the luck came my way, and I won steadily. The more I won the more excited I became, till presently my humour changed and I was seized by a whimsical desire to lose. I suppose it was the touch of some better impulse in my nature that made me wish this for young Lynton’s sake. For he seemed literally maddened by my constant winnings, and continued his foolhardy and desperate play,—his young face grew drawn and sharply thin, and his eyes glittered with a hungry feverishness. The other gamesters, though sharing in his run of ill-luck, seemed better able to stand it, or perhaps they concealed their feelings more cleverly,—anyhow I know I caught myself very earnestly wishing that this devil’s luck of mine would desert me and set in the young Viscount’s direction. But my wishes were no use,—again and again I gathered up the stakes, till at last the players rose, Viscount Lynton among them.

      “Well, I’m cleaned out!” he said, with a loud forced laugh. “You must give me my chance of a revanche to-morrow, Mr Tempest!”

      I bowed.

      “With pleasure!”

      He called a waiter at the end of the room to bring him a brandy and soda, and meanwhile I was surrounded by the rest of the men, all of them repeating the Viscount’s suggestion of a ‘revanche,’ and strenuously urging upon me the necessity of returning to the club the next night in order to give them an opportunity of winning back what they had lost. I readily agreed, and while we were in the midst of talk, Lucio suddenly addressed young Lynton.

      “Will you make up another game with me?” he inquired. “I’ll start the bank with this,”—and he placed two crisp notes of five hundred pounds each on the table.

      There was a moment’s silence. The Viscount was thirstily drinking his brandy-and-soda, and glanced over the rim of his tall tumbler at the notes with covetous bloodshot eyes,—then he shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “I can’t stake anything,” he said; “I’ve already told you I’m cleaned out,—‘stony-broke,’ as the slang goes. It’s no use my joining.”

      “Sit down, sit down, Lynton!” urged one man near him. “I’ll