Джералд Керш - On an Odd Note

On the floor of the hut, smashed to pieces where it had been violently flung down, lay the remains of a bit of mirror.

There is a crazy old fellow who lives—or used to live, in 1937—in a crazy old skylight room in Paris, and was known as Le Borgne. He squinted horribly, and was well known for his avarice. Although he was reputed to have a large sum of money put by, he shuffled about in the ragged remains of a respectable black suit and tried to earn a few coppers doing odd jobs in cafés. He was not above begging . . . a very unsightly, disreputable, ill-tempered old man. And this is the story he told me one evening when he was trying to get two francs out of me.

“You needn’t look down on me,” he said. (He adopted a querulous, bullying tone even when asking a favor.) “I have been as well-dressed as you. I’m eighty years old, too. Ah yes, I have seen life, I have. Why, I used to be clerk to one of the greatest financiers in the world, no less a man than Mahler. That was before your time. That was fifty years ago. Mahler handled millions. I used to receive the highest of the high, the greatest of the great, in his office. There was no staff but me. Mahler worked alone, with me to write the letters. All his business was finished by three in the afternoon. He was a big man, and I was his right hand. I have met royalty in the office of Mahler. Why, once, yes, I even met the Devil.”

And when I laughed at him, Le Borgne went on, with great vehemence:

Mahler died rich. And yet it is I who can tell you that a week before his death things went wrong and Mahler was nearly twenty million francs in debt. In English money, a million pounds, let us say. I was in his confidence. He had lost everything and, gambling in a mining speculation, had lost twenty million francs which were not his to lose. He said to me—it was on the 19th, or the 20th of April, 1887—“Well, Charles, it looks as if we are finished. I have nothing left except my immortal soul; and I’d sell that if I could get the worth of it.” And then he went into his office.

I was copying a letter to the Bank, about five minutes later, when a tall, thin gentleman dressed all in black came into my room and asked to see Monsieur Mahler. He was a strange, foreign-looking gentleman, in a frock-coat of the latest cut and a big black cravat which hid his shirt. All his clothes were brand new, and there was a fine black pearl in his tie. Even his gloves were black. Yet he did not look as if he was in mourning. There was a power about him. I could not tell him that Mahler could not be disturbed. I asked him what name, and he replied, with a sweet smile: “Say—a gentleman.” I had no time to announce him; I opened Mahler’s door and this stranger walked straight in and shut the door behind him.

I used to listen to what went on. I put my ear to the door and listened hard, for this man in black intrigued me. And so I heard a very extraordinary conversation. The man in black spoke in a fine deep voice with an educated accent, and he said:

“Mahler, you are finished.”

“Nonsense,” said Mahler.

“Mahler, there is no use in your trying to deceive me. I can tell you positively that you are in debt to the tune of just over twenty million francs—to be exact, 20,002,907 francs. You have gambled, and have lost. Do you wish me to give you further details of your embezzlements?”

Calm as ice, Mahler said, “No. Obviously, you are in the know. Well, what do you want?”

“To help you.”

At this Mahler laughed, and said, “The only thing that can help me is a draft on, say, Rothschild’s, for at least twenty millions.”

“I have more than that in cash,” said the gentleman in black and I heard something fall heavily on Mahler’s desk, and Mahler’s cry of surprise.

“There are twenty-five millions there,” said the stranger.

Mahler’s voice shook a little as he replied, “Well?”

“Now let us talk. Monsieur Mahler, you are a man of the world, an educated man. Do you believe in the immortality of the soul?”

“Why, no,” said Mahler.

“Good. Well, I have a proposition to make to you.”

“But who are you?” Mahler asked.

“You’ll know that soon enough. I have a proposition. Let us say that I am a buyer of men’s time, men’s lives. In effect, I buy men’s souls. But let us not speak of souls. Let us talk in terms of time, which we all understand. I will give you twenty million francs for one year of your life—one year in which you must devote yourself utterly to me.”

A pause: then Mahler said, “No.” (Ah, he was a cunning man of business, poor Mahler!) “No. That is too long. It’s too cheap at that price. I’ve made fifty million in less than a year before now.”

I heard another little thud. The stranger said, “All right my friend. Fifty million francs.”

“Not for a year,” said Mahler.

The stranger laughed. “Then six months,” he said.

And now I could tell, by the tone of his voice, that Mahler had taken control of the situation, for he could see that the strange man in black really wanted to buy his time. And Mahler had a hard, cold head, and was a genius at negotiation. Mahler said, “Not even one month.”

Somehow, this affair brought sweat out on my forehead. It was too crazy. Mahler must have thought so too. The stranger said:

“Come. Do not let us quarrel about this. I buy time—any quantity of time, upon any terms. Time, my friend, is God’s one gift to man. Now tell me, how much of your time, all the time that is yours, will you sell to me for fifty million?”

And the cold, even voice of Mahler replied, “Monsieur. You buy a strange commodity. Time is money. But my time is worth more money than most. Consider. Once, when Salomon Gold Mines rose twenty points overnight, I made something like twenty million francs by saying one word, Soit , which took half a second. My time, at that rate, is worth forty million a second, and two thousand four hundred million francs a minute. Now think of it like that—”

“Very well,” said the visitor, quite unmoved. “I’ll be even more generous. Fifty million a second. Will you sell me one second of your time?”

“Done,” said Mahler.

The gentleman in black said, “Put the money away. Have no fear; it is real. And now I have bought one second of your time.”

Silence for a little while. Then they both walked to the window, which was a first-floor one, and I heard the stranger say:

“I have bought one second of your time for fifty million francs. Ah well. Look down at all those hurrying people, my friend. That busy street. I am very old, and have seen much of men. Why, Monsieur Mahler . . . once, many years ago, I offered a man all the kingdoms of the earth. He would not take them. Yet in the end he got them. And I stood with him on a peak, and said to him what I say to you now —Cast thyself down! ”

Silence. Then I seemed to come out of a sleep. The door of Mahler’s office was open. Nobody was there. I looked out of the open window. There was a crowd. Mahler was lying in the street, sixteen feet below, with a broken neck. I have heard that a body falls exactly sixteen feet in precisely one second. That gentleman all in black was gone. I never saw him go. They said I had been asleep and dreamed him, and that Mahler had fallen by accident. Yet in Mahler’s desk lay fifty million francs in bonds, which I had never seen there before. I am sure he never had them before. I believe, simply, that the gentleman in black was the Devil, and that he bought Mahler’s soul. Think I am crazy if you like. On my mother’s grave I swear that what I have told you is true. . . . And now can you give me fifty centimes? I want to buy a meal. . . .”