Читать книгу Скорбь сатаны / The sorrows of Satan. Уровень 4 - Мария Корелли - Страница 3

With an effort, I read every word of the document deliberately, and the stupefaction of my wonder increased. Was I going mad, or sickening for a fever? Can this startling, this stupendous information be really true? If it is true, I am king instead of beggar! The letter, the amazing letter, bore the printed name of a well-known firm of London solicitors. It stated in precise terms that a distant relative of my father’s, of whom I had scarcely heard, had died suddenly in South America, leaving me his sole heir.

“The real and personal estate[8] now amounting to something over five millions of pounds sterling, we should esteem it a favour if you could make it convenient to call upon us any day this week in order that we may go through the necessary formalities together. The larger bulk of the cash is lodged in the Bank of England, and a considerable amount is placed in French government securities.

Trusting you will call on us without delay, we are, Sir, yours obediently…”

Five millions! I, the starving literary hack, the friendless, hopeless, almost reckless haunter of low newspaper dens, I, the possessor of “over five millions of pounds sterling”! The fact seemed to me a wild delusion, born of the dizzy vagueness which lack of food engendered in my brain. I stared round the room. The mean miserable furniture, the fireless grate, the dirty lamp, the low truckle bedstead, – and then, then the overwhelming contrast between the poverty that environed me and the news I had just received, struck me as the wildest, most ridiculous incongruity I had ever heard of or imagined.

“Was there ever such a caprice of mad Fortune!” I cried aloud. “Who would have imagined it! Good God!”

And I laughed loudly again; laughed just as I had previously sworn, simply by way of relief to my feelings. Some one laughed in answer. A laugh that seemed to echo mine. I checked myself abruptly, somewhat startled, and listened. Rain poured outside, and the wind shrieked like a petulant shrew. The violinist next door was practising a brilliant roulade up and down his instrument. Yet I could have sworn I heard a man’s laughter close behind me where I stood.

“It must have been my fancy;” I murmured, turning the flame of the lamp up higher in order to obtain more light in the room. “I am nervous I suppose, no wonder! Poor Boffles! Good old fellow!” I continued, remembering my friend’s draft for fifty pounds. “What a surprise for you! You will have your loan back as promptly as you sent it, with an extra fifty added for your generosity. And as for the rich friend you are sending to help me over my difficulties, well, he may be a very excellent old gentleman, but he will find himself quite useless this time. I want neither assistance nor advice nor patronage. I can buy them all! Titles, honours, possessions, – they are all purchaseable, – love, friendship, position, – they are all for sale in this admirably commercial age! The wealthy ‘philanthropist’ will find it difficult to match me in power[9]! He will scarcely have more than five millions to waste, I think! And now for supper, I shall have to live on credit till I get some cash. And there is no reason why I should not leave this wretched hole at once, and go to one of the best hotels!”

I was about to leave the room on the swift impulse of excitement and joy, when a fresh and violent gust of wind cast some soot on my rejected manuscript. It lay forgotten on the floor, as I had despairingly thrown it. I hastily picked it up and shook it. Now I could publish it myself, and not only publish it but advertise it, and not only advertise it, but ‘push’ it, in all the crafty and cautious ways! I smiled as I thought of the vengeance I would take on all those who had scorned and slighted me and my labour. Now they will fawn and whine at my feet like curs! Every stiff and stubborn neck will bend before me. Brains and money together can move the world!

Full of ambitious thought, I caught wild sounds from the violin, and all at once I remembered I had not yet opened the third letter addressed to me, the one coroneted in scarlet and gold, which had remained where it was on the table almost unnoticed till now. I took it up and turned it over with an odd sense of reluctance in my fingers, I read the following lines,

Dear Sir.

I am the bearer of a letter of introduction to you from your former college companion Mr. John Carrington, now of Melbourne, who has been good enough to thus give me the means of making the acquaintance of one, who, I understand, is more than exceptionally endowed with the gift of literary genius. I shall call upon you this evening between eight and nine o’clock, trusting to find you at home and disengaged. I enclose my card, and present address, and beg to remain,

Very faithfully yours

Lucio Rimanez.

The card mentioned dropped on the table as I finished reading the note. It bore a small, exquisitely engraved coronet and the words “Prince Lucio Rimanez” while, scribbled lightly in pencil underneath was the address ‘Grand Hotel.’

I read the brief letter through again, it was simple enough, expressed with clearness and civility. There was nothing remarkable about it, nothing whatever; yet it seemed to me surcharged with meaning. Why, I could not imagine. How the wind roared! And how that violin next door wailed! My brain swam and my heart ached heavily. I grew irritable and nervous. An impulse of shame possessed me, shame that this foreign prince, with limitless wealth, should be coming to visit me, – me, now a millionaire, – in my present wretched lodging. If I had had a sixpence about me, (which I had not) I should have sent a telegram to my approaching visitor.

“But in any case,” I said aloud, addressing myself to the empty room, “I will not meet him tonight. I’ll go out and leave no message. If he comes he will think I have not yet had his letter. I can make an appointment to see him when I am better lodged, and better dressed.”

I groped about the room for my hat and coat, and I was still engaged in a fruitless and annoying search, when I caught a sound of galloping horses’ hoofs coming to a stop in the street below. I paused and listened. There was a slight commotion in the basement, I heard landlady’s voice and then a deep masculine voice. After that steps, firm and even, ascended the stairs to my landing.

“The devil is in it!” I muttered vexedly. “Here comes the very man I meant to avoid!”