Читать книгу The Devil - Joseph O'Brien - Страница 8

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He left the room, closing the studio doors behind him. Olga looked apprehensively about her. Some mysterious presence seemed to oppress her. She fumbled with nerveless fingers at the buttons of her waist.

"Oh, what folly!" she cried to herself. "What is the matter with me?"

Resolutely she set to work and drew from her beautiful shoulders and gleaming, rounded arms the silken waist that covered them. She turned to get the shawl, and the waist fell to the floor, as she recoiled with a shriek of terror from an apparition that arose slowly from the depths of the big arm-chair.

Where there had been no human being an instant before Olga saw a tall, strange-looking man. He was in conventional afternoon attire, save that his waistcoat was red, in sharp contrast to the somber black of his frock coat. His hair was black. His upward pointing eyebrows were black, and his eyes shone like dull-burning lumps of coal. His face was like a mask, matching his immaculate linen in whiteness. It was cynical in its expression and almost sinister as he bowed low, with his hands folded over his breast, and said in a low, musical voice:

"Pardon me, madam, I think you dropped something."

He stooped and picked up the silken waist which had fallen from Olga's hands. As he held it out to her she drew back in horror.

Olga shrank from this strange being, sensible of his serpent-like fascination, even while he repelled her. It flashed across her consciousness that he was something more than human, something worse—the embodiment of malevolent purpose—a man devoid of good—the Devil himself.

He came from behind the chair, and as he moved toward her his every action heightened the impression she had received. In a situation where any man might have been confused he was perfectly self-possessed. His attitude was neither offensive nor ingratiating. He became at once a part of her surroundings, of her thoughts, yes, of her soul. It was this influence that she felt herself combating with growing weakness.

"I hope you will forgive me," his smooth, suave voice went on, breaking the stillness almost melodiously, and he bowed again. "I permitted myself to fall asleep."

Still Olga could not find tongue, and she drew yet farther away. The man, or the devil, watched her as she groped for the shawl, found it and quickly wound its filmy length around her beautiful shoulders and arms. An expression of cynical amusement crossed his face.

"Excuse me, but I awoke just as you were about to unbutton your blouse," he said. "Propriety should have made me close my eyes, but——"

"Oh!" Olga cried, shocked into speech.

"Oh, I know, madam," he said, with a bow, "you think I am suspicious, and you only came here——"

"To have my portrait painted," Olga said quickly.

"Precisely," he acquiesced, with the same cynical expression. "Only yesterday I met a lady at the dentist's, and I observed that she permitted him to extract a perfectly good and very pretty tooth."

"But I——" Olga began, accepting the defensive position into which he placed her, when he interrupted her:

"Yes, you, I know, speak the truth. I am even at liberty to believe you, but I cannot."

For an instant Olga recovered her self-possession, and her indignation sprang into a flame that she should be addressed in this manner by a man whom she had never seen before—an intruder.

"I don't know why I permit a stranger to talk to me in this fashion," she exclaimed. "It amazes me."

The man stepped toward her. Terrified, she turned and fled toward the door of the studio.

"Karl! Karl!" she called.

The stranger smiled as the doors were flung open and Karl burst into the room. The young artist paused, astonished at the presence of the stranger. He was more amazed when the man cried out in the voice of genial comradeship:

"Hello, Karl; how do you do?"

"Why, how do you do?" Karl faltered, looking blankly from Olga to the mysterious visitor. "I don't——"

"You don't remember me," the other said. "Don't you recall me at Monte Carlo?"

"Oh, yes, at Monte Carlo," Karl said with dawning recollection.

"It was an eventful day," the stranger said.

"Yes, yes, of course, I remember; it was last fall, when I had lost all my money playing roulette. Some one stood behind me, and it was you. I was afraid when I turned and saw you, because I fancied I had seen you a moment before, beside the croupier, grinning at me as my gold pieces were swept away. But when I had lost everything you offered me a handful of gold."

"Which you refused, but I saw the longing to accept in your eyes."

"I did not know you."

"But I offered it again and you accepted."

"Yes, and in ten minutes I had recouped my losses and won $20,000 besides," Karl cried with growing enthusiasm. "I remember indeed. Your money seemed to possess mystic luck. When you put it in my hands it glowed, and I thought it was hot. It seemed to burn me."

"You were excited, my boy," said the other genially. "But you repaid me and invited me to dine. I could not accept, because I was forced to leave for Spain that same evening. I promised, however, to call on you when you needed me—and here I am."

He bowed to Karl and Olga, who stood in speechless astonishment at this strange dialogue. She could understand nothing of this uncanny stranger; this specter in black and white, who seemed to emit a lurid radiance as if his red waistcoat were alive.

"It was kind of you to come," Karl said. "I am glad."

"You were not here when I entered," the visitor said, "and I took a seat in that comfortable arm-chair. The warmth of the fire affected me, and I permitted myself to fall asleep."

He indicated, with a sweeping gesture, the big pulpit-backed arm-chair. Olga started and cried out:

"That chair was empty; I remember quite well, when my husband was here. There was no one in it, I am absolutely certain."

Karl was so strangely affected by the stranger's presence that he did not notice Olga's agitation. The other regarded her with his expression of cynical amusement, bowed gravely and said:

"Then I was mistaken, madam."

"Won't you sit down?" Karl said. "Allow me to present you to—but I can't remember your name."

"It does not matter," the other said with an expansive outward gesture of his restless, eloquent hands. "I am a philanthropist, traveling incognito. You may call me anything you like; call me Dr. Millar."

"Dr. Millar," Karl repeated, seeming for the first time to have some doubt as to the character of his guest.

"Oh, you may rest assured my social position is beyond question," the stranger said, as if divining his thought.