The devil rubbed his hands with delight.
“But if we always behave like true gentlemen,” continues Gösta, “then you may never again make any contract about Ekeby, and no pay do you get for this year either from us or from the major’s wife.”
“That is hard,” says the devil. “Oh, dear Gösta, I must have one soul, just one little, poor soul. Couldn’t I have the major’s wife? Why should you spare the major’s wife?”
“I do not drive any bargains with such wares,” roars Gösta; “but if you must have some one, you can take old Sintram at Fors; he is ready, I can answer for that.”
“Well, well, that will do,” says the devil, without blinking. “The pensioners or Sintram, they can balance one another. This will be a good year.”
And so the contract was written, with blood from Gösta’s little finger, on the devil’s black paper and with his quill-pen.
And when it was done the pensioners rejoiced. Now the world should belong to them for a whole year, and afterwards there would always be some way.
They push aside the chairs, make a ring about the kettle, which stands in the middle of the black floor, and whirl in a wild dance. Innermost in the circle dances the devil, with wild bounds; and at last he falls flat beside the kettle, rolls it over, and drinks.
Then Beerencreutz throws himself down beside him, and also Gösta Berling; and after them all the others lay themselves in a circle round the kettle, which is rolled from mouth to mouth. At last it is tipped over by a push, and the hot, sticky drink pours over them.