It was a silver ring with a curiously shaped cornelian, carved with
hieroglyphics. It slipped easily on his finger.
"There," said the witch. "Now don't for pity sake wish for a trained
elephant while you are in your room. It would be hard to get out."
"I won't." He held his hand up to look at the ring.
"You must act quickly."
"I see."
"Before noon Saturday next!"
This was Monday. Saturday seemed far away. Flecker smiled. "That will
give me plenty of time!"
She smiled back. Perhaps she did not agree.
"At noon Saturday, then. Shall we meet here?"...
Walking slowly along the tall iron fence of the Luxembourg Gardens he
scratched his red head and said words to himself. He did not remember
until he stood before the door of his _pension_ that he had forgotten
to pay the check!
His room, up three twisting flights, was small and triangular. In one
corner stood an easel, up to its thin knees in a disorder of canvas,
paper, color-boxes. In another corner a small iron stove, in the third
a narrow green bed. Here Flecker flung himself prone and let his
thoughts go.
The motor bus rose high in the air and turned backwards slowly like
something in an unpleasant dream. The mist lifted before a quick flood
of sunlight. The witch placed her hand on his ... and laughed that
strange, tender laugh because he said "I like you."
It would be simple enough, he thought, to decide what he wanted most
in the world. He was careful at first, however, not to be serious, and
he played with ideas of ridiculous, mad things he might do if the ring
were as she said, embued with magic.
Suppose he wished for a Rolls-Royce? Flecker's imagination worked like
a cinema lantern. He inserted the beginning of an idea, any idea at
all, and watched it flicker--close-up, flash-back, fade-out, sub-title.
The Rolls-Royce was at the curb, huge and bright, waiting. He looked
it all over, a little nervously, having never driven anything but a
Ford.
"Very _chic_, isn't it?" commented the knock-kneed fellow who was the
_pension's concierge_, shuffling out the door.
"It is mine," Spike said. "No, truly it is mine, _sans blague_!"
"_You_ bought such a car!"
"A friend, a dear, very rich friend, gave it to me. I just this minute
drove it up from the garage."
The _concierge_ stole a suspicious glance at him out of red-rimmed
eyes. "H-m-m."
A _gendarme_ with square moustaches came up through the pavement.
"Do you know whose car this is?"
The _concierge_ indicated Spike with his thumb. "M'sieu _says_ it is
his."
"Yes, it is mine."
"Well," said the _gendarme_, "you have no license plate, you're parked
before a fire-hydrant, this is a south-bound one-way street and you are
pointed north....
"Drive out of here!"
"I can't drive."
The _concierge_ and the _gendarme_ exchanged glances.
"How did you get it here?"
"Well," in desperation, "I wished for it. I turned a ring on my finger
three times and wished!"
The _gendarme_ took him firmly by the arm....
All right, Spike let the Rolls-Royce go. Suppose he turned the Eiffel
Tower upside down?
... "Last night, Professor M-m-m-mb, the Eiffel Tower reversed its
usual position and now stands upon its head!"
"Impossible!"
"It is not impossible. It is a fact. Look, here from your window!"
The Professor of physics looked, wiped his glasses, looked again and
leaped from his chair, crying: "_Nom de nom de nom de dieu!_" banged
his silk hat on his head and rushed out the door to call a Conference.
Spike felt sorry for the professor. What a useless hullabaloo, to be
sure, what ugly confusion in the minds of people!
Spike began to wonder about disentangling from things an isolated
thing. Wouldn't there nearly always be an afterward, a result,
something incalculable for which he would be responsible? If he
mischievously used black magic to turn the tower upside down the whole
world might in some strange way be different--forever....
He thought of wishing for a journey to strange countries and sounded
their romantic names in his imagination, but they did not stir his
longing.
Stretched out on his narrow green bed he decided he preferred Paris.
Water from his muddy shoes dripped into two little puddles on the red
tile floor.
He considered a wine bottle that would never run dry, and was
glad--having imaginatively gone adventuring with it--that he need not
possess such a thing. He thought of a thousand other fantastic wishes.
But he was careful not to be serious--yet. There was time to choose
from among his real desires. Saturday noon was a long time away.
His room was filling with shadows. Holding his hand up before him he
saw a strange thing. A white glow rayed out from the ring's cornelian.
It dimmed and brightened in the rhythm of a heart beating.
He stood up and looked in his long mirror and saw the glow of the ring
on his face. Until this moment he had not believed profoundly in the
magic of the witch. He fumbled around for his brush and comb whispering
expletives. "Oh, my gosh! Oh, gee whiz! Oh, gosh a' mighty."
His hair combed he peered out the window to see the clock on the School
of St. Sulpice. It was after six. Flecker strained his eyes to read, as
he had often read before, the inscription on the school's façade.
"_Qui a Jesus a Tout._"
The words now had for him a sad, lonely sound.
On the twisting stairs Flecker wondered if the witch might not be from
Satan.