“Or ask him nothing,” the beast went on. “He did it for you; and maybe you’ll think you owe him that silence. Let him live on in his fools’ paradise, taking beatitude of grace, winning his redemption, as he views it. I’ll not interfere to damn him, so you gild my tongue from speaking.”
“He did not do it.”
“Ask him.”
“What do you want of me?”
“Money. Do you understand? Money. Why, as it is, I’ve arrears to make up. You’d have seen me before, if circumstances hadn’t interfered.”
“If I give you what you want, will you—will you take it in discharge of—of this fantastic—of this debt you say I owe you—now and for ever?”
He leered derisory, crooking his jaw to rub it back and forth with deliberate fingers on which a dozen gems sparkled.
“Will I? This fantastic debt?” he said. “Do you think there is any end to that, while he lives? No, no, mistress. I commute no pension paid to my silence. Why, I’ll be frank with you. I’m no common blackmailer for a personal gain. My vileness, as you deem it, aims at a world’s redemption. This Augean stable—filth of rotten governments—there’s no way to cleanse it but by flood. Pour socialism through the stench. But funds are needed to divert a river. You shall contribute—be great by deputy. I’ll not be hard. I’ll spare you what I can, so you’ll be amenable when I can’t.”
“You’ll come again?”
“Why, I understand you. Better risk all, you think, than face that prospect. No need to. Send when I ask, what I ask, and forestall my visitations. Money’s what I want—not lives. I’ll not kill my goose with the golden eggs unless I’m driven. You can keep me away.”