an opal; its radiant wings expanded, and it rose at once to its protector’s hand and clung there. He lifted it out and held it aloft, then shaking it to and fro lightly, he exclaimed—
“Off, Sprite! Fly, and return to me!”
The creature soared away through the room and round and round the ceiling, looking like a beautiful iridescent jewel, the whirr of its wings making a faint buzzing sound as it flew. I watched it fascinated, till after a few graceful movements hither and thither, it returned to its owner’s still outstretched hand, and again settled there making no further attempt to fly.
“There is a well-worn platitude which declares that ‘in the midst of life we are in death’”—said the prince then softly, bending his dark deep eyes on the insect’s quivering wings—“But as a matter of fact that maxim is wrong as so many trite human maxims are. It should be ‘in the midst of death we are in life.’ This creature is a rare and curious production of death, but not I believe the only one of its kind. Others have been found under precisely similar circumstances. I took possession of this one myself in rather a weird fashion,—will the story bore you?”
“On the contrary”—I rejoined eagerly, my eyes fixed on the radiant bat-shaped thing that glittered in the light as though its veins were phosphorescent.
He paused a moment, watching me.
“Well,—it happened simply thus,—I was present at the uncasing of an Egyptian female mummy;—her talismans described her as a princess of a famous royal house. Several curious jewels were tied round her neck, and on her chest was a piece of beaten gold quarter of an inch thick. Underneath this gold plate, her body was swathed round and round in an unusual number of scented wrappings; and when these were removed it was discovered that the mummified flesh between her breasts had decayed away, and in the hollow or nest thus formed by the process of decomposition, this insect I hold was found alive, as brilliant in colour as it is now!”
I could not repress a slight nervous shudder.
“Horrible!” I said—“I confess, if I were you, I should not care to make a pet of such an uncanny object. I should kill it, I think.”
He kept his bright intent gaze upon me.
“Why?” he asked. “I’m afraid, my dear Geoffrey, you are not disposed to study science. To kill the poor thing who managed to find life in the very bosom of death, is a cruel suggestion, is it not? To me, this unclassified insect is a valuable proof (if I needed one) of the indestructibility of the germs of conscious existence; it has eyes, and the senses of taste, smell, touch and hearing,—and it gained these together with its intelligence, out of the dead flesh of a woman who lived, and no doubt loved and sinned and suffered more than four thousand years ago!” He broke off,—then suddenly added—“All the same I frankly admit to you that I believe it to be an evil creature. I do indeed! But I like it none the less for that. In fact I have rather a fantastic notion about it myself. I am much inclined to accept the idea of the transmigration of souls, and so I please my humour sometimes by thinking that perhaps the princess of that Royal Egyptian house had a wicked, brilliant, vampire soul,—and that … here it is!”
A cold thrill ran through me from head to foot at these words, and as I looked at the speaker standing opposite me in the wintry light, dark and tall, with the ‘wicked, brilliant, vampire soul’ clinging to his hand, there seemed to me to be a sudden hideousness declared in his excessive personal beauty. I was conscious of a vague terror, but I attributed it to the gruesome nature of the story, and, determining to combat my sensations, I examined the weird insect more closely. As I did so, its bright beady eyes sparkled, I thought, vindictively, and I stepped back, vexed with myself at the foolish fear of the thing which overpowered me.
“It is certainly remarkable,”—I murmured—“No wonder you value it,—as a curiosity. Its eyes are quite distinct, almost intelligent in fact.”
“No doubt she had beautiful eyes,”—said Rimânez smiling.
“She? Whom do you mean?”
“The princess, of course!” he answered, evidently amused; “The dear dead lady,—some of whose personality must be in this creature, seeing that it had nothing but her body to nourish itself upon.”
And here he replaced the creature in its crystal habitation with the utmost care.
“I suppose”—I said slowly, “you, in your pursuit of science, would infer from this that nothing actually perishes completely?”
“Exactly!” returned Rimânez emphatically. “There, my dear Tempest, is the mischief,—or the deity,—of things. Nothing can be entirely annihilated;—not even a thought.”
I was silent, watching him while he put the glass case with its uncanny occupant away out of sight.
“And now for luncheon,” he said gaily, passing his arm through mine—“You look twenty per cent. better than when you went out this morning, Geoffrey, so I conclude your legal matters are disposed of satisfactorily. And what else have you done with yourself?”
Seated at table with the dark-faced Amiel in attendance, I related my morning’s adventures, dwelling at length on my chance meeting with the publisher who had on the previous day refused my manuscript, and who now, I felt sure, would be only too glad to close with the offer I had made him. Rimânez listened attentively, smiling now and then.
“Of course!” he said, when I had concluded. “There is nothing in the least surprising in the conduct of the worthy man. In fact I think he showed remarkable discretion and decency in not at once jumping at your proposition,—his pleasant hypocrisy in retiring to think it over, shows him to be a person of tact and foresight. Did you ever imagine that a human being or a human conscience existed that could not be bought? My good fellow, you can buy a king if you only give a long price enough; and the Pope will sell you a specially reserved seat in his heaven if you will only hand him the cash down while he is on earth! Nothing is given free in this world save the air and the sunshine,—everything else must be bought,—with blood, tears and groans occasionally,—but oftenest with money.”
I fancied that Amiel, behind his master’s chair, smiled darkly at this,—and my instinctive dislike of the fellow kept me more or less reticent concerning my affairs till the luncheon was over. I could not formulate to myself any substantial reason for my aversion to this confidential servant of the prince’s,—but do what I would the aversion remained, and increased each time I saw his sullen, and as I thought, sneering features. Yet he was perfectly respectful and deferential; I could find no actual fault with him,—nevertheless when at last he placed the coffee, cognac, and cigars on the table and noiselessly withdrew, I was conscious of a great relief, and breathed more freely. As soon as we were alone, Rimânez lit a cigar and settled himself for a smoke, looking over at me with a personal interest and kindness which made his handsome face more than ever attractive.
“Now let us talk,”—he said—“I believe I am at present the best friend you have, and I certainly know the world better than you do. What do you propose to make of your life? Or in other words how do you mean to begin spending your money?”
I laughed. “Well, I shan’t provide funds for the building of a church, or the endowment of a hospital,”—I said—“I shall not even start a Free Library, for these institutions, besides becoming centres for infectious diseases, generally get presided over by a committee of local grocers who presume to consider themselves judges of literature. My dear Prince Rimânez, I mean to spend my money on my own pleasure, and I daresay I shall find plenty of ways to do it.”
Rimânez fanned away the smoke of his cigar with one hand, and
