Mr. Rogers had agreed that he would bring Paige to rational terms, and
with Clemens made a trip to Chicago. All agreed now that the machine
promised a certain fortune as soon as a contract acceptable to everybody
could be concluded--Paige and his lawyer being the last to dally and
dicker as to terms. Finally a telegram came from Chicago saying that
Paige had agreed to terms. On that day Clemens wrote in his note-book:
This is a great date in my history. Yesterday we were paupers with but 3
months' rations of cash left and $160,000 in debt, my wife & I, but this
telegram makes us wealthy.
But it was not until a fortnight later that Paige did actually sign. This
was on the 1st of February, '94, and Clemens that night cabled to Paris,
so that Mrs. Clemens would have it on her breakfast-plate the morning of
their anniversary:
"Wedding news. Our ship is safe in port. I sail the moment Rogers can
spare me."
So this painted bubble, this thing of emptiness, had become as substance
again--the grand hope. He was as concerned with it as if it had been an
actual gold-mine with ore and bullion piled in heaps--that shadow, that
farce, that nightmare. One longs to go back through the years and face
him to the light and arouse him to the vast sham of it all.