“I cannot accept that statement”—I answered him, smiling a little—“You do mean what you say,—though I fancy you are rather a creature of impulse.”

“Do you really!” he exclaimed—“How wise of you!—good Geoffrey Tempest, how very wise of you! But you are wrong. There never was a being created who was less impulsive, or more charged with set purpose than I. Believe me or not as you like,—belief is a sentiment that cannot be forced. If I told you that I am a dangerous companion,—that I like evil things better than good,—that I am not a safe guide for any man, what would you think?”

“I should think you were whimsically fond of under-estimating your own qualities”—I said, re-lighting my cigar, and feeling somewhat amused by his earnestness—“And I should like you just as well as I do now,—perhaps better,—though that would be difficult.”

At these words, he seated himself, bending his steadfast dark eyes full upon me.

“Tempest, you follow the fashion of the prettiest women about town,—they always like the greatest scoundrels!”

“But you are not a scoundrel;”—I rejoined, smoking peacefully.

“No,—I’m not a scoundrel, but there’s a good deal of the devil in me.”

“All the better!” I said, stretching myself out in my chair with lazy comfort—“I hope there’s something of him in me too.”

“Do you believe in him?” asked Rimânez smiling.

“The devil? of course not!”

“He is a very fascinating legendary personage;”—continued the prince, lighting another cigar and beginning to puff at it slowly—“And he is the subject of many a fine story. Picture his fall from heaven!—‘Lucifer Son of the Morning’—what a title, and what a birthright! To be born of the morning implies to be a creature formed of translucent light undefiled, with all the warm rose of a million orbs of day colouring his bright essence, and all the lustre of fiery planets flaming in his eyes. Splendid and supreme, at the right hand of Deity itself he stood, this majestic Arch-angel, and before his unwearied vision rolled the grandest creative splendours of God’s thoughts and dreams. All at once he perceived in the vista of embryonic things a new small world, and on it a being forming itself slowly as it were into the Angelic likeness,—a being weak yet strong, sublime yet foolish,—a strange paradox, destined to work its way through all the phases of life, till imbibing the very breath and soul of the Creator it should touch Conscious Immortality,—Eternal Joy. Then Lucifer, full of wrath, turned on the Master of the Spheres, and flung forth his reckless defiance, crying aloud—‘Wilt thou make of this slight poor creature an Angel even as I? I do protest against thee and condemn! Lo, if thou makest Man in Our image I will destroy him utterly, as unfit to share with me the splendours of Thy Wisdom,—the glory of Thy love!’ And the Voice Supreme in accents terrible and beautiful replied; ‘Lucifer, Son of the Morning, full well dost thou know that never can an idle or wasted word be spoken before Me. For Free-will is the gift of the Immortals; therefore what thou sayest, thou must needs do! Fall, proud Spirit from thy high estate!—thou and thy companions with thee!—and return no more till Man himself redeem thee! Each human soul that yields unto thy tempting shall be a new barrier set between thee and heaven; each one that of its own choice doth repel and overcome thee, shall lift thee nearer thy lost home! When the world rejects thee, I will pardon and again receive thee,—but not till then.’”

“I never heard exactly that version of the legend before,”—I said,—“The idea that Man should redeem the devil is quite new to me.”

“Is it?” and he looked at me fixedly—“Well—it is one form of the story, and by no means the most unpoetical. Poor Lucifer! His punishment is of course eternal, and the distance between himself and Heaven must be rapidly increasing every day,—for Man will never assist him to retrieve his error. Man will reject God fast enough and gladly enough—but never the devil. Judge then, how, under the peculiar circumstances of his doom, this ‘Lucifer, Son of the Morning,’ Satan, or whatever else he is called, must hate Humanity!”

I smiled. “Well he has one remedy left to him”—I observed—“He need not tempt anybody.”

“You forget!—he is bound to keep his word, according to the legend”—said Rimânez—“He swore before God that he would destroy Man utterly,—he must therefore fulfil that oath, if he can. Angels, it would seem, may not swear before the Eternal without endeavouring at least to fulfil their vows,—men swear in the name of God every day without the slightest intention of carrying out their promises.”

“But it’s all the veriest nonsense,”—I said somewhat impatiently—“All these old legends are rubbish. You tell the story well, and almost as if you believed in it,—that is because you have the gift of speaking with eloquence. Nowadays no one believes in either devils or angels;—I, for example, do not even believe in the soul.”

“I know you do not”—he answered suavely—“And your scepticism is very comfortable because it relieves you of all personal responsibility. I envy you! For—I regret to say, I am compelled to believe in the soul.”

“Compelled!” I echoed—“That is absurd—no one can compel you to accept a mere theory.”

He looked at me with a flitting smile that darkened rather than lightened his face.

“True! very true! There is no compelling force in the whole Universe,—Man is the supreme and independent creature,—master of all he surveys and owning no other dominion save his personal desire. True—I forgot! Let us avoid theology, please, and psychology also,—let us talk about the only subject that has any sense or interest in it—namely, Money. I perceive your present plans are definite,—you wish to publish a book that shall create a stir and make you famous. It seems a modest enough campaign! Have you no wider ambitions? There are several ways, you know, of getting talked about. Shall I enumerate them for your consideration?”

I laughed. “If you like!”

“Well, in the first place I should suggest your getting yourself properly paragraphed. It must be known to the press that you are an exceedingly rich man. There is an Agency for the circulation of paragraphs,—I daresay they’ll do it sufficiently well for about ten or twenty guineas.”

I opened my eyes a little at this.

“Oh, is that the way these things are done?”

“My dear fellow, how else should they be done?” he demanded somewhat impatiently—“Do you think anything in the world is done without money? Are the poor, hard-working journalists your brothers or your bosom friends that they should lift you into public notice without getting something for their trouble? If you do not manage them properly in this way, they’ll abuse you quite heartily and free of cost,—that I can promise you! I know a ‘literary agent,’ a very worthy man too, who for a hundred guineas down, will so ply the paragraph wheel that in a few weeks it shall seem to the outside public that Geoffrey Tempest, the millionaire, is the only person worth talking about, and the one desirable creature whom to shake hands with is next in honour to meeting Royalty itself.”

“Secure him!” I said indolently—“And pay him two hundred guineas! So shall all the world hear of me!”

“When you have been paragraphed thoroughly,” went on Rimânez—“the next move will be a dash into what is called ‘swagger’ society. This must be done cautiously and by degrees. You must be presented at the first Levée of the season, and later on, I will get you an invitation to some great lady’s house, where you will meet the Prince of Wales privately at dinner. If you can oblige or please His Royal Highness in any way so much the better for you,—he is at least the most popular royalty in Europe, so it should not be difficult to you to make yourself agreeable. Following upon this event, you must purchase a fine country seat, and have that fact ‘paragraphed’—then you can rest and look round,—Society will have taken you up, and you will find yourself in the swim!”

I laughed heartily,—well entertained by his fluent discourse.

“I should not,” he resumed—“propose your putting yourself to the trouble of getting into Parliament. That is no longer necessary to the career of a gentleman. But I should strongly recommend your winning the Derby.”

“I daresay you would!” I answered mirthfully—“It’s an admirable suggestion,—but not very easy to follow!”

“If you wish to win the Derby,” he rejoined quietly—“you shall win it. I’ll guarantee both horse and jockey!”

Something in his decisive tone impressed me, and I leaned forward to study his features more closely.

“Are you a worker of miracles?” I asked him jestingly—“Do you mean it?”

“Try me!” he responded—“Shall I enter a horse for you?”

“You can’t; it’s too late,” I said. “You would need to be the devil himself to do it. Besides I don’t care about racing.”

“You will have to amend your taste then,”—he replied—“That is, if you want to make yourself agreeable to the English aristocracy, for they are interested in little else. No really great lady is without her betting book, though she may be deficient in her knowledge of spelling. You may make the biggest literary furore of the season, and that will count as nothing among ‘swagger’ people, but if you win the Derby you will be a really famous man. Personally speaking I have a great deal to do with racing,—in fact I am devoted to it. I am always present at every great race,—I never miss one; I always bet, and I never lose! And now let me proceed with your social plan of action. After winning the Derby you will enter for a yacht race at Cowes, and allow the Prince of Wales to beat you just narrowly. Then you will give a grand dinner, arranged by a perfect chef,—and you will entertain His Royal Highness to the strains of ‘Britannia rules the waves,’ which will serve as a pretty compliment. You will allude to the same well-worn song in a graceful speech,—and the probable result of all this will be one, or perhaps two Royal invitations. So far, so good. With the heats of summer you will go to Homburg to drink the waters there whether you require them or not,—and in the autumn you will assemble a shooting-party at the country seat before-mentioned which you will have purchased, and invite Royalty to join you in killing the poor little partridges. Then your name in society may be considered as made, and you can marry whatever fair lady happens to be in the market!”

“Thanks!—much obliged!” and I gave way to hearty laughter—“Upon my word Lucio, your programme is perfect! It lacks nothing!”

“It is the orthodox round of social success,” said Lucio with admirable gravity—“Intellect and originality have nothing whatever to do with it,—only money is needed to perform it all.”

“You forget my book”—I interposed—“I know there is some intellect in that, and some originality too. Surely that will give me an extra lift up the heights of fashionable light and leading.”

“I doubt it!” he answered—“I very much doubt it. It will be received with a certain amount of favour of course, as a production of a rich man amusing himself with literature as a sort of whim. But, as I told you before, genius seldom develops itself under the influence of wealth. Then again ‘swagger’ folks can never get it out of their fuddled heads that Literature belongs to Grub Street. Great poets, great philosophers, great romancists are always vaguely alluded to by ‘swagger’ society as ‘those sort of people.’ Those sort of people are so ‘interesting’ say the blue-blooded noodles deprecatingly, excusing themselves as it were for knowing any members of the class literary. You can fancy a ‘swagger’ lady of Elizabeth’s time asking a friend—‘O do you mind, my dear, if I bring one Master William Shakespeare to see you? He writes plays, and does something or other at the Globe theatre,—in fact I’m afraid he acts a little—he’s not very well off poor man,—but these sort of people are always so amusing!’ Now you, my dear Tempest, are not a Shakespeare, but your millions will give you a better chance than he ever had in his life-time, as you will not have to sue for patronage, or practise a reverence for ‘my lord’ or ‘my lady,’—these exalted personages will be only too delighted to borrow money of you if you will lend it.”

“I shall not lend,”—I said.

“Nor give?”

“Nor give.”

His keen eyes flashed approval.

“I am very glad,” he observed, “that you are determined not to ‘go about doing good’ as the canting humbugs say, with your money. You are wise. Spend on yourself,—because your very act of spending cannot but benefit others through various channels. Now I pursue a different course. I always help charities, and put my name on subscription-lists,—and I never fail to assist a certain portion of clergy.”

“I rather wonder at that—” I remarked—“Especially as you tell me you are not a Christian.”

“Yes,—it does seem strange,—doesn’t it?”—he said with an extraordinary accent of what might be termed apologetic derision—“But perhaps you don’t look at it in the proper light. Many of the clergy are doing their utmost best to destroy religion,—by cant, by hypocrisy, by sensuality, by shams of every description,—and when they seek my help in this noble work, I give it,—freely!”

I laughed “You must have your joke evidently”—I said, throwing the end of my finished cigar into the fire—“And I see you are fond of satirizing your own good actions. Hullo, what’s this?”

For at that moment Amiel entered, bearing a telegram for me on a silver salver. I opened it,—it was from my friend the publisher, and ran as follows—

“Accept book with pleasure. Send manuscript immediately.”

I showed this to Rimânez with a kind of triumph. He smiled.

“Of course! what else did you expect? Only the man should have worded his telegram differently, for I do not suppose he would accept the book with pleasure if he had to lay out his own cash upon it. ‘Accept money for publishing book with pleasure’ should have been the true message of the wire. Well, what are you going to do?”

“I shall see about this at once”—I answered, feeling a thrill of satisfaction that at last the time of vengeance on certain of my enemies was approaching—“The book must be hurried through the press as quickly as possible,—and I shall take a particular pleasure in personally attending to all the details concerning it. For the rest of my plans,—”

“Leave them to me!” said Rimânez laying his finely shaped white hand with a masterful pressure on my shoulder; “Leave them to me!—and be sure that before very long I shall have set you aloft like the bear who has successfully reached the bun on the top of a greased pole,—a spectacle for the envy of men, and the wonder of angels!”