Spike sat wearily on the edge of the green iron bed under the unshaded
glare of a single electric bulb. The moment had come at last.
Thumb and forefinger carefully on the magic ring he took a deep breath
and opened his mouth to say slowly, "One mil-lion dol-lars!"
The clock of the _Ecole de St. Sulpice_ started slowly tolling
midnight. Flecker relaxed and waited.
Again he set himself. This time he said aloud, "I wish for one mil--"
and there was a muffled knock at his door. It was the fat boy from
Luxembourg who could not sleep and wanted to borrow a book.
Again Spike took a deep breath, and--decided to wish for two
millions!...
The clock of St. Sulpice tolled the hour. Flecker straightened his back
with a grin of weariness. His head ached.
He could not believe the bell as it counted one, two, three--the
hours had gone so swiftly. When he decided to wish for two millions of
dollars, instead of one million, another thought came running, frantic
lest it be ignored, and this thought was:
Why Not Wish for Ten Millions? _Why not one hundred millions?_
He walked the _rue Vavin_ past the _escargots_ place knowing he had
great wealth. In the Dome he ordered champagne and his friends grouped
around him--Rosie Rosenberg, Belash, the French poet, the engraver from
Peru. They exclaimed and he ordered another bottle!
"Rosie thought I was crazy," Flecker said, laughing good-naturedly at
the bearded lad from Tennessee. "You don't think so now, do you? Well,
it's all right...." Spike looked at Belash. "I've staked Rosie to a
year's rent of that big studio in the _rue de Lambre_," he said gayly.
"Let's all go to _Montmartre_ for dinner!" Before nightfall the entire
_Quartier_ knew of his good fortune.
The _concierge_ complained that his mail over-flowed the _pension_
postbox. Madame urged him to buy the building. Bond salesmen lounged
all day in the entry.... Oh, he had to give up the little triangular
room after a day or two and take an apartment on the _Avenue President
Wilson_. The man he hired as secretary was so awed by Spike's great
wealth that he bowed every time Spike said anything. "Yes, yes, yes!"
murmured the secretary. "Certainly. Immediately, m'sieu, this very
instant." There were a dozen servants, dependents with whom he must
deal justly, and whose presence denied him the right to conduct himself
as he pleased.
When he ate in student _table d'hôtes_ on the _Boul' Mich'_, hoping
thus to stay in the world of his friends, he was uncomfortable, feeling
that they thought he was being ostentatiously democratic. When he went
to the restaurants of the rich they would rarely accompany him. With a
chemical accuracy his money separated him from the friends he wanted to
keep, and brought closer those he would have preferred to lose.
On _Montparnasse_ he was a wealthy visitor. If he lost himself in an
interesting conversation with a former comrade he was almost certain to
be shocked into recollection of his new position by some such phrase
as, "My rent is two months' over-due," or "I can't work because I
have no money for materials," or "My old aunt died, and now I don't
know how the devil I am going to stick it out...." Presently when men
cordially shook his hand, he looked at them coldly and thought--"If you
want to borrow money to go South, you're using the wrong technic, old
chap!"
When he went to Nice he traveled incognito, and spent a dull week
playing roulette and talking to strangers. He was suspicious of every
one. People only pretended to like him. They wanted his money. Candid
equality was gone. He gave generously, and with every gift generosity
dwindled from his life. It was hard to achieve a mood for painting,
the hundred million weighed so heavily. Like bees his thoughts swarmed
around his possessions.
He was constantly discovering that his money had trickled into some
enterprise of brutal exploitation of his fellows. His hundred million
insisted on working, and what was far more serious they forced him
to work. Because his money was invested in them he had to learn
about tobacco and oil and explosives and newspapers and banks and
governments. Fat, oratorical persons with political schemes bothered
him daily.
Spike was relieved to remember that he had yet to make the wish. One
hundred million was a fantastic sum.... He might better wish for ten
thousand! He could hide ten thousand and it would give him security for
five years of Paris. It was not too much, and it was not too--well, he
thought it might be just a mite too little to ask when one could have
exactly as much as one wanted.
He said aloud in a coaxing voice: "Well, then, twenty thousand!"
Again he tried to turn the ring. His mind filled with a rush of
protective, greedy thoughts. How he would regret not wishing for more!
How ill he was treating his future self, robbing it of wealth! He
raised the figure to a hundred thousand, and the weary cycle began
turning again, round and round and round.