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

“To those lawyers who wrote to me last night. Bentham and Ellis is the name of the firm. The sooner I interview them the better, don’t you think so?”

“Yes – but see here,” and he drew me aside. “You must have some cash. It doesn’t look well to apply at once for advances. Take this wallet. Remember you promised to let me be your banker. On your way you might go to some well-reputed tailor.”

He moved off at a rapid pace. I hurried after him, touched by his kindness.

“But wait, Lucio!”

I called him thus by his familiar name for the first time. He stopped at once and stood quite still.

“Well?” he said, regarding me with an attentive smile.

“You don’t give me time to speak,” I answered in a low voice. “The fact is I have some money, or rather I can get it directly. Carrington sent me a draft for fifty pounds in his letter. I forgot to tell you about it. It was very good of him to lend it to me. Take it as security for this wallet. By the way, how much is there inside it?”

“Five hundred, in banknotes of tens and twenties,” he responded with brevity.

“Five hundred! My dear fellow, I don’t want all that. It’s too much!”

“Better have too much than too little nowadays,” he retorted with a laugh. “My dear Tempest, five hundred pounds is really nothing. You can spend it all on your dress, for example. Better send back John Carrington’s draft. I don’t believe in his generosity considering that he came into a mine [12] he came into a mine – он открыл руду worth a hundred thousand pounds sterling, a few days before I left Australia.”

I heard this with great surprise, and with a slight feeling of resentment too. The frank and generous character of my old ‘Boffles’ darkened suddenly in my eyes. Why did not he tell me of his good fortune in his letter? Was he afraid I might trouble him for further loans?

Rimanez, who had observed me intently, presently added,

“Did he not tell you of his luck? That was not very friendly of him – but as I remarked last night, money often spoils a man.”

“Oh I daresay he meant no secret,” I said hurriedly. “No doubt he will make it the subject of his next letter. Now as to this five hundred…”

“Keep it, man, keep it,” he interposed impatiently. “What do you talk about security for? Haven’t I got you as security?”

I laughed.

“Well, I am fairly reliable now,” I said. “And I’m not going to run away.”

“From me?” he queried, with a half cold half kind glance. “No, I fancy not!”

He waved his hand lightly and left me. I put the leather wallet in my inner pocket, hailed a hansom and was driven off rapidly to Basinghall Street where my solicitors awaited me.

I was received at once with the utmost respect by two small men in black who represented ‘the firm.’ At my request they sent down their clerk to pay and dismiss my cab. Then we went into business together. My deceased relative, whom I had never seen as far as I myself remembered, had left me everything he possessed, including several rare collections of pictures and jewels. His will was concisely and clearly worded. In a week or ten days everything will be in order and at my sole disposition.

“You are a very fortunate 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!”