Скорбь сатаны / The sorrows of Satan. Уровень 4

I am here to make friends with you if you permit. To put an end to ceremony, will you accompany me back to my hotel where I have ordered supper?”

By this time I had become indescribably fascinated by his easy manner, handsome presence and mellifluous voice. The satirical turn of his humour suited mine. My first annoyance abated.

“With pleasure!” I replied. “But first of all, you must allow me to explain matters a little. You have heard about my affairs from my friend John Carrington.

I know from his private letter to me that you have come here out of pure kindness and goodwill. For that generous intention I thank you! I know you expected to find a poor wretch of a literary man. A couple of hours ago you would have amply fulfilled that expectation. But now, things have changed. I have received news which completely alters my position. I got a letter…”

“An agreeable one I trust?” interposed my companion suavely.

I smiled.

“Judge for yourself!”

I handed him the lawyer’s letter which informed me of my suddenly acquired fortune.

He glanced it through rapidly, then folded and returned it to me with a courteous bow.

“I suppose I should congratulate you,” he said. “And I do. Though of course this wealth which seems to content you, to me appears a mere trifle. It can be exhausted in about eight years or less. To be rich, really rich, one should have about a million a year.

Then one might reasonably hope to escape the workhouse!”

He laughed, and I stared at him stupidly, not knowing how to take his words, whether as truth or idle boasting. Five millions of money a mere trifle! He went on,

“The inexhaustible greed of a man, my dear sir, can never be satisfied. If he gets one thing, he wants another, and his tastes are generally expensive. A few pretty and unscrupulous women for example, will soon relieve you of your five millions.

Horse-racing will do it still more quickly. No, no, you are not rich, you are still poor, only your needs are no longer so pressing as they were.”

He broke off and raised his head,

“What is that?” he asked.

It was the violinist next door playing a well-known “Ave Maria.” I told him so.

“Dismal, very dismal!” he said with a contemptuous shrug. “I hate all that kind of mawkish devotional stuff. Well, Mr.