The Sorrows of Satan (Horror Classic). Marie Corelli
gazed meditatively at the round black mark of the gas-burner where it darkened the ceiling.
“I think not,—no, I think not,” he answered—“I believe he was perfectly convinced of it.”
“And what was it?” I asked, getting impatient—“Did he want to bring out some patent?—a new notion for a flying-machine, and get rid of his money in that way?”
“No, no, no!” and Mr Ellis laughed a soft pleasant little laugh over my suggestion—“No, my dear sir—nothing of a purely mechanical or commercial turn captivated his imagination. He was too,—er—yes, I think I may say too profoundly opposed to what is called ‘progress’ in the world to aid it by any new invention or other means whatever. You see it is a little awkward for me to explain to you what really seems to be the most absurd and fantastic notion,—but—to begin with, we never really knew how he made his money, did we Bentham?”
Bentham shook his head and pursed his lips closely together.
“We had to take charge of large sums, and advise as to investments and other matters,—but it was not our business to inquire where the cash came from in the first place, was it, Bentham?”
Again Bentham shook his head solemnly.
“We were entrusted with it;”—went on his partner, pressing the tips of his fingers together caressingly as he spoke—“and we did our best to fulfil that trust—with—er—with discretion and fidelity. And it was only after we had been for many years connected in business that our client mentioned—er—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!—a weak spot in his brain somewhere evidently,—or perhaps he used the expression as a mere figure of speech?”
“I think not;”—responded Mr Ellis half interrogatively, still caressing his fingers—“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 with a trifle less boisterousness.
“Well, people have all sorts of fancies now-a-days”—I said; “What with Blavatskyism, Besantism and hypnotism, it is no wonder if some folks still have a faint credence in the silly old superstition of a devil’s existence. But for a thoroughly sensible man....” “Yes—er, yes;”—interrupted Mr Ellis—“Your relative, Mr Tempest, was a thoroughly sensible man, and this—er—this idea was the only fancy that ever appeared to have taken root in his eminently practical mind. Being only an idea, it seemed hardly worth mentioning—but perhaps it is well—Mr Bentham agreeing with me—that we have mentioned it.”
“It is a satisfaction and relief to ourselves,”—said Mr Bentham, “to have had it mentioned.”
I smiled, and thanking them, rose to go. They bowed to me once more, simultaneously, looking almost like twin brothers, so identically had their united practice of the law impressed itself upon their features.
“Good-day Mr Tempest,”—said Mr Bentham—“I need scarcely say that we shall serve you as we served our late client, to the best of our ability. And in matters where advice may be pleasant or profitable, we may possibly be of use to you. May we ask whether you require any cash advances immediately?”
“No, thank you,”—I answered, feeling grateful to my friend Rimânez for having placed me in a perfectly independent position to confront these solicitors—“I am amply provided.”
They seemed, I fancied, 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 round by the Law Courts, trying to realize that I was not in a dizzy dream, but that I was actually and solidly, five times a millionaire. As luck would have it, in turning a corner I jostled up against a man coming the other way, the very publisher who had returned me my rejected manuscript the day before.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed stopping short.
“Hullo!” I rejoined.
“Where are you off to?” he went on—“Going to try and place that unlucky novel? My dear boy, believe me it will never do as it is....”
“It will do, it shall 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 money was scarce with you——”
“It was,” I answered drily—“It isn’t now.”
Then, his utterly bewildered look, together with the whole topsy-turviness of things in my altered position, struck me so forcibly that I burst out laughing, wildly, and with a prolonged noise and violence that apparently alarmed him, for he began looking nervously about him in all directions as if meditating flight. 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 worthy publisher did not see it at all—and his features expressed so much genuine alarm that 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,—to-day I possess five millions of money! Don’t stare so! don’t have a fit of apoplexy! And as I have told you, I shall publish my book myself at my own expense, and it shall succeed! Oh I’m in earnest, grim earnest, grim as death!—I’ve more than enough in my pocketbook to pay for its publication now!”
I loosed my hold of him, and 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, another temptation to laughter threatening my composure,—“But strange things happen in life, as in fiction. And that book which the builders—I mean the readers—rejected, shall be the headstone of the corner—or—the success of the season! What will you take to bring it out?”
“Take? I? I bring it out!”
“Yes, you—why not? If I offer you a chance to turn an honest penny shall your paid pack of ‘readers’ prevent your accepting it? Fie! 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 but scrawl growling comments on the manuscript of promising work,—why in heaven’s name should you rely on such incompetent opinion? I’ll pay you for the publication of my book at as stiff a price as you choose and something over for good-will. And I guarantee you another thing—it shall not only make my name as an author, but yours as a publisher. I’ll advertise royally, and I’ll work the press. Everything in this world can be done for money ...”
“Stop, stop,”—he interrupted.—“This is so sudden! You must let me think of it—you must give me time to consider——”
“Take a day for your meditations then,” I said—“But no longer. For if you don’t