Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (96 page)

"Excuse—permit
me,"
he
said
softly.
"I
have
been
unable
not
to hear.
Might
I
take
a
liberty?
In
this
little
restaurant-sans-facon"—he spread
wide
his
hands—"might
I,
as
the
phrase
is,
'cut
in'?"

I
could
but
signify
our
acquiescence.
Berthe
had
appeared
at
the kitchen
door,
thinking
the
stranger
wanted
his
bill.
He
waved
her away
with
his
cigar,
and
in
another
moment
had
seated
himself
beside me,
commanding
a
full
view
of
Soames.

"Though
not
an
Englishman,"
he
explained,
"I
know
my
London well,
Mr.
Soames.
Your
name
and
fame—Mr.
Beerbohm's
too—very known
to
me.
Your
point
is:
who
am
I?"
He
glanced
quickly
over
his shoulder,
and
in
a
lowered
voice
said,
"I
am
the
Devil."

I
couldn't
help
it:
I
laughed.
I
tried
not
to,
I
knew
there
was nothing
to
laugh
at,
my
rudeness
shamed
me,
but—I
laughed
with increasing
volume.
The
Devil's
quiet
dignity,
the
surprise
and
disgust of
his
raised
eyebrows,
did
but
the
more
dissolve
me.
I
rocked
to
and fro,
I
lay
back
aching.
I
behaved
deplorably.

"I
am
a
gentleman,
and,"
he
said
with
intense
emphasis,
"I
thought I
was
in
the
company
of
gentlemen."

"Don't!"
I
gasped
faintly.
"Oh,
don't!"

"Curious,
nicht wahi?"
I
heard
him
say
to
Soames.
"There
is
a
type of
person
to
whom
the
very
mention
of
my
name
is—oh-so-awfully-funny!
In
your
theatres
the
dullest
comedien
needs
only
to
say
'The Devil!'
and
right
away
they
give
him
'the
loud
laugh
that
speaks
the vacant
mind.'
Is
it
not
so?"

I
had
now
just
breath
enough
to
offer
my
apologies.
He
accepted them,
but
coldly,
and
re-addressed
himself
to
Soames.

"I
am
a
man
of
business,"
he
said,
"and
always
I
would
put
things through
'right
now,'
as
they
say
in
the
States.
You
are
a
poet.
Les affaires—you
detest
them.
So
be
it.
But
with
me
you
will
deal,
eh? What
you
have
said
just
now
gives
me
furiously
to
hope."

Soames
had
not
moved,
except
to
light
a
fresh
cigarette.
He
sat crouched
forward,
with
his
elbows
squared
on
the
table,
and
his
head
just above the level of his hands, staring up at the Devil. "Go
on," he nodded. I had no remnant of laughter in me now.

"It
will be the more pleasant, our little deal," the Devil went on,
"because you are—I mistake not?—a Diabolist."

"A
Catholic Diabolist," said Soames.

The
Devil accepted the reservation genially. "You wish," he resumed,
"to visit now—this afternoon as-ever-is—the reading-room of the British
Museum, yes? but of a hundred years hence, yes? Parfaite-ment. Time—an
illusion. Past and future—they are as ever-present as the present, or at any
rate only what you call 'just-round-the-corner.' I switch you on to any date. I
project you—pouf! You wish to be in the reading-room just as it will be on the
afternoon of June
3,
1997?
You wish to find
yourself standing in that room, just past the swing-doors, this very minute,
yes? and to stay there till closing time? Am I right?"

Soames
nodded.

The
Devil looked at his watch. "Ten past two," he said. "Closing
time in summer same then as now: seven o'clock. That will give you almost five
hours. At seven o'clock—pouf!—you find yourself again here, sitting at this
table.
I am dining tonight dans
le
monde—dans
Je
higlit.
That concludes my present visit to your great city. I come and fetch you
here, Mr. Soames, on my way home."

"Home?"
I echoed.

"Be
it never so humble!" said the Devil lightly. "All right," said
Soames.

"Soames!"
I entreated. But my friend moved not a muscle.

The
Devil had made as though to stretch forth his hand across the table and touch
Soames' forearm; but he paused in his gesture.

"A hundred years hence, as now," he
smiled, "no smoking allowed
in the reading-room. You would better therefore
--------------
"

Soames
removed the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it into his glass of Sauteme.

"Soames!"
again I cried. "Can't you"—but the Devil had now stretched forth his
hand across the table. He brought it slowly down on—the table-cloth. Soames'
chair was empty. His cigarette floated sodden in his wine-glass. There was no
other trace of him.

For
a few moments the Devil let his hand rest where it lay, gazing at me out of the
corners of his eyes, vulgarly triumphant.

A
shudder
shook
me.
With
an
effort
I
controlled
myself
and
rose from
my
chair.
"Very
clever,"
I
said
condescendingly.
"But—"The Time
Machine'
is
a
delightful
book,
don't
you
think?
So
entirely original!"