The Complete Novels of Robert Louis Stevenson - All 13 Novels in One Edition - Robert Louis Stevenson

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think you display temper,’ said Zero.

      ‘Take your ticket,’ reiterated the young man.

      ‘Well,’ said the plotter, as he returned, ticket in hand, ‘your attitude is so strange and painful, that I scarce know if I should ask you to shake hands.’

      ‘As a man, no,’ replied Somerset; ‘but I have no objection to shake hands with you, as I might with a pump-well that ran poison or bell-fire.’

      ‘This is a very cold parting,’ sighed the dynamiter; and still followed by Somerset, he began to descend the platform. This was now bustling with passengers; the train for Liverpool was just about to start, another had but recently arrived; and the double tide made movement difficult. As the pair reached the neighbourhood of the bookstall, however, they came into an open space; and here the attention of the plotter was attracted by a Standard broadside bearing the words: ‘Second Edition: Explosion in Golden Square.’ His eye lighted; groping in his pocket for the necessary coin, he sprang forward — his bag knocked sharply on the corner of the stall — and instantly, with a formidable report, the dynamite exploded. When the smoke cleared away the stall was seen much shattered, and the stall keeper running forth in terror from the ruins; but of the Irish patriot or the Gladstone bag no adequate remains were to be found.

      In the first scramble of the alarm, Somerset made good his escape, and came out upon the Euston Road, his head spinning, his body sick with hunger, and his pockets destitute of coin. Yet as he continued to walk the pavements, he wondered to find in his heart a sort of peaceful exultation, a great content, a sense, as it were, of divine presence and the kindliness of fate; and he was able to tell himself that even if the worst befell, he could now starve with a certain comfort since Zero was expunged.

      Late in the afternoon, he found himself at the door of Mr. Godall’s shop; and being quite unmanned by his long fast, and scarce considering what he did, he opened the glass door and entered.

      ‘Ha!’ said Mr. Godall, ‘Mr. Somerset! Well, have you met with an adventure? Have you the promised story? Sit down, if you please; suffer me to choose you a cigar of my own special brand; and reward me with a narrative in your best style.’

      ‘I must not take a cigar,’ said Somerset.

      ‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Godall. ‘But now I come to look at you more closely, I perceive that you are changed. My poor boy, I hope there is nothing wrong?’

      Somerset burst into tears.

      Epilogue of the Cigar Divan

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      On a certain day of lashing rain in the December of last year, and between the hours of nine and ten in the morning, Mr. Edward Challoner pioneered himself under an umbrella to the door of the Cigar Divan in Rupert Street. It was a place he had visited but once before: the memory of what had followed on that visit and the fear of Somerset having prevented his return. Even now, he looked in before he entered; but the shop was free of customers.

      The young man behind the counter was so intently writing in a penny version-book, that he paid no heed to Challoner’s arrival. On a second glance, it seemed to the latter that he recognised him.

      ‘By Jove,’ he thought, ‘unquestionably Somerset!’

      And though this was the very man he had been so sedulously careful to avoid, his unexplained position at the receipt of custom changed distaste to curiosity.

      ‘“Or opulent rotunda strike the sky,”’ said the shopman to himself, in the tone of one considering a verse. ‘I suppose it would be too much to say “orotunda,” and yet how noble it were! “Or opulent orotunda strike the sky.” But that is the bitterness of arts; you see a good effect, and some nonsense about sense continually intervenes.’

      ‘Somerset, my dear fellow,’ said Challoner, ‘is this a masquerade?’

      ‘What? Challoner!’ cried the shopman. ‘I am delighted to see you. One moment, till I finish the octave of my sonnet: only the octave.’ And with a friendly waggle of the hand, he once more buried himself in the commerce of the Muses. ‘I say,’ he said presently, looking up, ‘you seem in wonderful preservation: how about the hundred pounds?’

      ‘I have made a small inheritance from a great aunt in Wales,’ replied Challoner modestly.

      ‘Ah,’ said Somerset, ‘I very much doubt the legitimacy of inheritance. The State, in my view, should collar it. I am now going through a stage of socialism and poetry,’ he added apologetically, as one who spoke of a course of medicinal waters.

      ‘And are you really the person of the — establishment?’ inquired Challoner, deftly evading the word ‘shop.’

      ‘A vendor, sir, a vendor,’ returned the other, pocketing his poesy. ‘I help old Happy and Glorious. Can I offer you a weed?’

      ‘Well, I scarcely like . . . ‘ began Challoner.

      ‘Nonsense, my dear fellow,’ cried the shopman. ‘We are very proud of the business; and the old man, let me inform you, besides being the most egregious of created beings from the point of view of ethics, is literally sprung from the loins of kings. “De Godall je suis le fervent.” There is only one Godall.— By the way,’ he added, as Challoner lit his cigar, ‘how did you get on with the detective trade?’

      ‘I did not try,’ said Challoner curtly.

      ‘Ah, well, I did,’ returned Somerset, ‘and made the most incomparable mess of it: lost all my money and fairly covered myself with odium and ridicule. There is more in that business, Challoner, than meets the eye; there is more, in fact, in all businesses. You must believe in them, or get up the belief that you believe. Hence,’ he added, ‘the recognised inferiority of the plumber, for no one could believe in plumbing.’

      ‘A propos,’ asked Challoner, ‘do you still paint?’

      ‘Not now,’ replied Paul; ‘but I think of taking up the violin.’

      Challoner’s eye, which had been somewhat restless since the trade of the detective had been named, now rested for a moment on the columns of the morning paper, where it lay spread upon the counter.

      ‘By Jove,’ he cried, ‘that’s odd!’

      ‘What is odd?’ asked Paul.

      ‘Oh, nothing,’ returned the other: ‘only I once met a person called M’Guire.’

      ‘So did I!’ cried Somerset. ‘Is there anything about him?’

      Challoner read as follows: ‘MYSTERIOUS DEATH IN STEPNEY. An inquest was held yesterday on the body of Patrick M’Guire, described as a carpenter. Doctor Dovering stated that he had for some time treated the deceased as a dispensary patient, for sleeplessness, loss of appetite, and nervous depression. There was no cause of death to be found. He would say the deceased had sunk. Deceased was not a temperate man, which doubtless accelerated death. Deceased complained of dumb ague, but witness had never been able to detect any positive disease. He did not know that he had any family. He regarded him as a person of unsound intellect, who believed himself a member and the victim of some secret society. If he were to hazard an opinion, he would say deceased had died of fear.’

      ‘And the doctor would be right,’ cried Somerset; ‘and my dear Challoner, I am so relieved to hear of his demise, that I will — Well, after all,’ he added, ‘poor devil, he was well served.’

      The door at this moment opened, and Desborough appeared upon the threshold. He was wrapped in a long waterproof, imperfectly supplied with buttons; his boots were full of water, his hat greasy with service; and yet he wore the air of one exceeding well content with life. He was hailed by the two others with exclamations of

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