"Can you ask? Just think of the ferocious satisfaction it would give you to receive the ma.n.u.scripts of your literary enemies, and reject them! To throw their letters into the waste-paper basket, and send back their poems, stories, political articles and what not, with '_Returned with thanks_' or '_Not up to our mark_' type-written on the backs thereof! To dig knives into your rivals through the medium of anonymous criticism!

The howling joy of a savage with twenty scalps at his belt would be tame in comparison to it! I was an editor once myself, and I know!"

I laughed at his whimsical earnestness.

"I daresay you are right,"--I said--"I can grasp the vengeful position thoroughly! But the management of a magazine would be too much trouble to me,--too much of a tie."

"_Don't_ manage it! Follow the example of all the big editors, and live out of the business altogether,--but take the profits! You never see the real editor of a leading daily newspaper you know,--you can only interview the sub. The real man is, according to the seasons of the year, at Ascot, in Scotland, at Newmarket, or wintering in Egypt,--he is supposed to be responsible for everything in his journal, but he is generally the last person who knows anything about it. He relies on his 'staff'--a very bad crutch at times,--and when his 'staff' are in a difficulty, they get out of it by saying they are unable to decide without the editor. Meanwhile the editor is miles away, comfortably free from worry. You could bamboozle the public in that way if you liked."

"I could, but I shouldn't care to do so," I answered--"If I had a business I would not neglect it. I believe in doing things thoroughly."

"So do I!" responded Rimanez promptly. "I am a very thorough-going fellow myself, and whatever my hand findeth to do, I do it with my might!--excuse me for quoting Scripture!" He smiled, a little ironically I thought, then resumed--"Well, in what, at present does your idea of enjoying your heritage consist?"

"In publishing my book," I answered. "That very book I could get no one to accept,--I tell you, I will make it the talk of London!"

"Possibly you will"--he said, looking at me through half-closed eyes and a cloud of smoke,--"London easily talks. Particularly on unsavoury and questionable subjects. Therefore,--as I have already hinted,--if your book were a judicious mixture of Zola, Huysmans and Baudelaire, or had for its heroine a 'modest' maid who considered honourable marriage a 'degradation,' it would be quite sure of success in these days of new Sodom and Gomorrah." Here he suddenly sprang up, and flinging away his cigar, confronted me. "Why do not the heavens rain fire on this accursed city! It is ripe for punishment,--full of abhorrent creatures not worth the torturing in h.e.l.l to which it is said liars and hypocrites are condemned! Tempest, if there is one human being more than another that I utterly abhor, it is the type of man so common to the present time, the man who huddles his own loathly vices under a cloak of a.s.sumed broad-mindedness and virtue. Such an one will even deify the loss of chast.i.ty in woman by the name of 'purity,'--because he knows that it is by her moral and physical ruin alone that he can gratify his brutal l.u.s.ts. Rather than be such a sanctimonious coward I would openly proclaim myself vile!"

"That is because yours is a n.o.ble nature"--I said--"You are an exception to the rule."

"An exception? I?"--and he laughed bitterly--"Yes, you are right; I am an exception among men perhaps,--but I am one with the beasts in honesty! The lion does not a.s.sume the manners of the dove,--he loudly announces his own ferocity. The very cobra, stealthy though its movements be, evinces its meaning by a warning hiss or rattle. The hungry wolf's bay is heard far down the wind, intimidating the hurrying traveller among the wastes of snow. But man gives no clue to his intent--more malignant than the lion, more treacherous than the snake, more greedy than the wolf, he takes his fellow-man's hand in pretended friendship, and an hour later defames his character behind his back,--with a smiling face he hides a false and selfish heart,--flinging his pigmy mockery at the riddle of the Universe, he stands gibing at G.o.d, feebly a-straddle on his own earth-grave--Heavens!"--here he stopped short with a pa.s.sionate gesture--"What should the Eternities do with such a thankless, blind worm as he!"

His voice rang out with singular emphasis,--his eyes glowed with a fiery ardour; startled by his impressive manner I let my cigar die out and stared at him in mute amazement. What an inspired countenance!--what an imposing figure!--how sovereignly supreme and almost G.o.d-like in his looks he seemed at the moment;--and yet there was something terrifying in his att.i.tude of protest and defiance. He caught my wondering glance,--the glow of pa.s.sion faded from his face,--he laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

"I think I was born to be an actor"--he said carelessly--"Now and then the love of declamation masters me. Then I speak--as Prime Ministers and men in Parliament speak--to suit the humour of the hour, and without meaning a single word I say!"

"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 stedfast 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 Rimanez 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 t.i.tle, 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 l.u.s.tre 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 G.o.d'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 a.s.sist him to retrieve his error. Man will reject G.o.d fast enough and gladly enough--but never the devil. Judge then, how, under the peculiar circ.u.mstances 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 Rimanez--"He swore before G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 Rimanez--"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 Levee 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 a.s.semble 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!"