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About two months after that fateful night, near midnight, a young man hurried along Pall Mall, his face twisted in the wildest despair. His headlong rush was abruptly halted by a firm grasp, and a familiar, chilling voice whispered in his ear.
“It is useless to contemplate self-destruction, Anthony Darcy,” said the figure that had seized him. “If you find life unbearable, I can make it tolerable for you.”
Anthony turned, recognizing the tall man shrouded in a long black cloak. The sinister features of Cyprian Rougemont, well-known to him, leered back.
“Leave me, Rougemont!” Anthony cried fiercely. “I want no company—least of all yours. You know you’ve ruined me, and there’s nothing more to take. Leave, or I might harm you.”
“Tut, tut, Anthony. I am your friend,” Rougemont replied, a dark smile playing on his lips. “I aim to ease your suffering.”
“Will you return the money you’ve won from me?” Anthony demanded. “Will you pay my relentless creditors? Save me from prison?”
“I will do all this, and more,” Rougemont said smoothly. “I will make you one of the richest men in London.”
“Spare me your cruel jests,” Anthony snapped. “I’m in no mood for them.”
“I’m not jesting,” Rougemont said, his tone unwavering. “Come with me, and you’ll see my sincerity.”
Reluctantly, Anthony followed. They turned into Saint James’s Square and paused before a magnificent house. Rougemont ascended the steps, while Anthony, almost mechanically, stared in astonishment.
“Do you live here?” he asked.
“Ask no questions,” Rougemont replied, knocking at the door, which was promptly opened by a hall porter. Other servants in rich liveries appeared at a distance. Rougemont spoke softly to them, and they bowed respectfully to Anthony, leading the way up a grand staircase.
All this was a bewildering mystery to Anthony, but he followed in silence, soon ushered into a lavishly furnished, brilliantly illuminated room.
Once alone, Anthony exploded, “Is it to mock me that you’ve brought me here?”
“To mock you? No,” Rougemont replied. “I told you, I mean to make you rich. But you look exhausted. A glass of wine will revive you.”
Rougemont moved to a small cabinet, retrieving a curiously-shaped bottle and a goblet. “Taste this wine—it has been in my family for generations,” he said, filling the cup.
Anthony drank it down in one gulp. “It’s a strange, bewildering drink,” he muttered, setting down the empty goblet and rubbing his eyes.
“You drank it on an empty stomach, that’s all,” Rougemont reassured. “You’ll feel better soon.”
“I feel like I’m going mad,” Anthony cried. “What have you given me? Some damnable potion?”
“Ha! ha!” Rougemont laughed. “Reminds you of the elixir you once quaffed, doesn’t it?”
“Enough of this mockery!” Anthony snapped. “I told you, I’m in no mood for it.”
“Pshaw! No offence meant,” Rougemont said, changing his tone. “What do you think of this house?”
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“It’s magnificent,” Anthony admitted, glancing around. “I envy you its possession.”
“It can be yours, if you wish,” Rougemont offered.
“Mine? You’re mocking me again.”
“Not at all. You can buy it from me, if you please.”
“At what price?” Anthony asked bitterly.
“At a price you can easily pay,” Rougemont replied. “Come, let’s conclude the bargain.”
They moved to the far end of the room, entering a small, exquisitely furnished chamber, surrounded by luxurious sofas. In the center was a table with writing materials.
“It would be pointless to give you this house without the means to maintain it,” Rougemont said, carefully closing the door. “This pocket-book will provide for you.”
“Notes to an immense amount!” Anthony gasped, opening the pocket-book and glimpsing its contents.
“They are yours, along with the house,” Rougemont said, his voice a silken whisper, “if you will but sign a compact with me.”
“A compact?” Anthony echoed, his eyes widening with indefinable terror. “Who—what are you?”
“Some might call me the devil,” Rougemont replied nonchalantly. “But you know me too well to believe such nonsense. I offer you wealth. What more could you desire?”
“But on what terms?” Anthony demanded, suspicion lacing his words.
“The easiest imaginable,” Rougemont replied smoothly. “See for yourself.”
He opened a writing desk on the table and pulled out a parchment. “Sit down,” he added. “Read this.”
Anthony complied, his hands trembling as he scanned the document. Fear and astonishment paralyzed him, causing the pocket-book to slip from his grasp. After a long, tense silence, he looked up at Rougemont, who was leaning over his shoulder, a derisive smile twisting his lips.
“Then you are the Fiend?” Anthony cried.
“If you insist,” Rougemont replied with a careless shrug.
“You are Satan in the guise of a man I once knew,” Anthony shouted, recoiling. “Begone! I will have no dealings with you.”
“I thought you wiser than to succumb to such childish fears,” Rougemont chided. “Even if your foolish notion of me is correct, why should you be alarmed? You are immortal.”
“True,” Anthony conceded, his voice thoughtful. “But yet—”
“Pshaw!” Rougemont interrupted. “Sign, and be done with it.”
“By this compact, I am bound to deliver a victim—a female victim—whenever you require it,” Anthony said, horror dawning on his face.
“Precisely,” Rougemont affirmed. “You will find it a simple task.”
“But if I fail, I am doomed—”
“You will not fail,” Rougemont interrupted, lighting a taper and sealing the parchment. “Now, sign it.”
Anthony mechanically took the pen, his eyes fixed on the document. “I will bring eternal destruction upon myself if I sign it,” he muttered.
“A stroke of the pen will rescue you from utter ruin,” Rougemont whispered, leaning close. “Riches and happiness are yours. You won’t have such another chance.”
“Tempter!” Anthony cried, hastily scrawling his signature. But he recoiled in horror at the fiendish laugh that echoed through the room.
“I repent—give it back!” he cried, lunging for the parchment, which Rougemont quickly tucked into his cloak.
“It is too late!” Rougemont declared triumphantly. “You are mine—irredeemably mine.”
“Ha!” Anthony exclaimed, collapsing onto a couch.
“I leave you in possession of your house,” Rougemont continued, his voice dripping with malice. “But I shall return in a week, when I will require my first victim.”
“Your first victim! Oh, Heaven!” Anthony gasped.
“Indeed. And my choice falls on Edith Talbot,” Rougemont said with a cruel smile.
“Edith Talbot!” Anthony cried. “You want her? The one I love more than life itself?”
“It is precisely because she loves you that I have chosen her,” Rougemont sneered. “Such will always be the case for you. Do not seek to love again, for your affection will be fatal to its object. When the week has passed, I will require Edith from you. Until then, farewell!”
“Stay!” Anthony shouted. “I break the bargain with you, fiend. I want none of it. I abjure you.”
He dashed after Rougemont, who had already reached the larger chamber. But before Anthony could catch him, Rougemont had slipped through the outer door, vanishing into the night. Anthony burst onto the gallery, but the man was gone.
Servants hurriedly answered Anthony’s frantic shouts, informing him that Mr. Rougemont had left moments ago, assuring them their master was satisfied with the arrangements.
“And we hope nothing has changed your opinion, sir?” the hall porter asked.
“You are certain Mr. Rougemont is gone?” Anthony demanded.
“Absolutely, sir,” the porter replied. “I helped him with his cloak myself. He said he would return this day next week.”
“If he comes, I will not see him,” Anthony snapped. “Deny him entry. On no account let him into the house.”
“Your orders will be strictly obeyed,” the porter assured, his eyes wide with surprise.
“Leave me,” Anthony commanded, and as the servants departed, he muttered to himself, his voice a shadow of despair, “All precautions are useless. I am indeed lost!”
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