Don't go on to Paris. Stop at
Calais. Live in Calais. He'd never think of looking for you in Calais."
"It's like my luck," he said, "to spend my last hours on earth with an
ass." But I was not offended. "And a treacherous ass," he strangely
added, tossing across to me a crumpled bit of paper which he had been
holding in his hand. I glanced at the writing on it--some sort of
gibberish, apparently. I laid it impatiently aside.
"Come, Soames, pull yourself together! This isn't a mere matter of
life or death. It's a question of eternal torment, mind you! You don't
mean to say you're going to wait limply here till the devil comes to fetch
you."
"I can't do anything else. I've no choice."
"Come! This is 'trusting and encouraging' with a vengeance! This
is diabolism run mad!" I filled his glass with wine. "Surely, now that
you've SEEN the brute--"
"It's no good abusing him."
"You must admit there's nothing Miltonic about him, Soames."
"I don't say he's not rather different from what I expected."
"He's a vulgarian, he's a swell mobs-man, he's the sort of man who
hangs about the corridors of trains going to the Riviera and steals ladies'
jewel-cases. Imagine eternal torment presided over by HIM!"
"You don't suppose I look forward to it, do you?"
"Then why not slip quietly out of the way?"
Again and again I filled his glass, and always, mechanically, he
emptied it; but the wine kindled no spark of enterprise in him.
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