by Rice, Anne
I was too stunned to answer. I sank down into the chair, and my own images of her blazed hot enough to eclipse everything that was emanating from him. She was alive and she was in Paris. And Nicki was still here and he was with her.
Roget came close to me, reached out as if he wanted to touch me:
“Monsieur, you go ahead while I dress. She is in the Ile St.-Louis, three doors to the right of Monsieur Nicolas. You must go at once.”
I looked up at him stupidly. I couldn’t even really see him. I was seeing her. There was less than an hour before sunrise. And it would take me three-quarters of that time to reach the tower.
“Tomorrow … tomorrow night,” I think I stammered. That line came back to me from Shakespeare’s Macbeth … “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow …”
“Monsieur, you don’t understand! There will be no trips to Italy for your mother. She has made her last journey in coming here to see you.”
When I didn’t answer he grabbed hold of me and tried to shake me. I’d never seen him like this before. I was a boy to him and he was the man who had to bring me to my senses.
“I’ve gotten lodgings for her,” he said. “Nurses, doctors, all that you could wish. But they aren’t keeping her alive. You are keeping her alive, Monsieur. She must see you before she closes her eyes. Now forget the hour and go to her. Even a will as strong as hers can’t work miracles.”
I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t form a coherent thought.
I stood up and went to the door, pulling him along with me. “Go to her now,” I said, “and tell her I’ll be there tomorrow night.”
He shook his head. He was angry and disgusted. And he tried to turn his back on me.
I wouldn’t let him.
“You go there at once, Roget,” I said. “Sit with her all day, do you understand, and see that she waits—that she waits for me to come! Watch her if she sleeps. Wake her and talk to her if she starts to go. But don’t let her die before I get there!”
1
In vampire parlance, I am an early riser. I rise when the sun has just sunk below the horizon and there is still red light in the sky. Many vampires don’t rise until there is full darkness, and so I have a tremendous advantage in this, and in that they must return to the grave a full hour or more before I do. I haven’t mentioned it before because I didn’t know it then, and it didn’t come to matter until much later.
But the next night, I was on the road to Paris when the sky was on fire.
I’d clothed myself in the most respectable garments I possessed before I slipped into the sarcophagus, and I was chasing the sun west into Paris.
It looked like the city was burning, so bright was the light to me and so terrifying, until finally I came pounding over the bridge behind Notre Dame, into the Ile St.-Louis.
I didn’t think about what I would do or say, or how I might conceal myself from her. I knew only I had to see her and hold her and be with her while there was still time. I couldn’t truly think of her death. It had the fullness of catastrophe, and belonged to the burning sky. And maybe I was being the common mortal, believing if I could grant her last wish, then somehow the horror was under my command.
Dusk was just bleeding the light away when I found her house on the quais.
It was a stylish enough mansion. Roget had done well, and a clerk was at the door waiting to direct me up the stairs. Two maids and a nurse were in the parlor of the flat when I came in.
“Monsieur de Lenfent is with her, Monsieur,” the nurse said. “She insisted on getting dressed to see you. She wanted to sit in the window and look at the towers of the cathedral, Monsieur. She saw you ride over the bridge.”
“Put out the candles in the room, except for one,” I said. “And tell Monsieur de Lenfent and my lawyer to come out.”
Roget came out at once, and then Nicolas appeared.
He too had dressed for her, all in brilliant red velvet, with his old fancy linen and his white gloves. The recent drinking had left him thinner, almost haggard. Yet it made his beauty all the more vivid. When our eyes met, the malice leapt out of him, scorching my heart.
“The Marquise is a little stronger today, Monsieur,” Roget said, “but she’s hemorrhaging badly. The doctor says she will not—”
He stopped and glanced back at the bedroom. I got it clear from his thought. She won’t last through the night.
“Get her back to bed, Monsieur, as fast you can.”
“For what purpose do I get her back to bed?” I said. My voice was dull, a murmur. “Maybe she wants to die at the damned window. Why the hell not?”
“Monsieur!” Roget implored me softly. I wanted to tell him to leave with Nicki.
But something was happening to me. I went into the hall and looked towards the bedroom. She was in there. I felt a dramatic physical change in myself. I couldn’t move or speak. She was in there and she was really dying.
All the little sounds of the flat became a hum. I saw a lovely bedroom through the double doors, a white painted bed with gold hangings, and the windows draped in the same gold, and the sky in the high panes of the windows with only the faintest wisps of gold cloud. But all this was indistinct and faintly horrible, the luxury I’d wanted to give her and she about to feel her body collapse beneath her. I wondered if it maddened her, made her laugh.
The doctor appeared. The nurse came to tell me only one candle remained, as I had ordered. The smell of medicines intruded and mingled with a rose perfume, and I realized I was hearing her thoughts.
It was the dull throb of her mind as she waited, her bones aching in her emaciated flesh so that to sit at the window even in the soft velvet chair with the comforter surrounding her was almost unendurable pain.
But what was she thinking, beneath her desperate anticipation? Lestat, Lestat, and Lestat, I could hear that. But beneath it:
“Let the pain get worse, because only when the pain is really dreadful do I want to die. If the pain would just get bad enough so that I’d be glad to die and I wouldn’t be so frightened. I want it to be so terrible that I’m not frightened.”
“Monsieur.” The doctor touched my arm. “She will not have the priest come.”
“No … she wouldn’t.”
She had turned her head towards the door. If I didn’t come in now, she would get up, no matter how it hurt her, and come to me.
It seemed I couldn’t move. And yet I pushed past the doctor and the nurse, and I went into the room and closed the doors.
Blood scent.
In the pale violet light of the window she sat, beautifully dressed in dark blue taffeta, her hand in her lap and the other on the arm of the chair, her thick yellow hair gathered behind her ears so that the curls spilled over her shoulders from the pink ribbons. There was the faintest bit of rouge on her cheeks.
For one eerie moment she looked to me as she had when I was a little boy. So pretty. The symmetry of her face was unchanged by time or illness, and so was her hair. And a heartbreaking happiness came over me, a warm delusion that I was mortal again, and innocent again, and with her, and everything was all right, really truly all right.
There was no death and no terror, just she and I in her bedroom, and she would take me in her arms. I stopped.
I’d come very close to her, and she was crying as she looked up. The girdle of the Paris dress bound her too tightly, and her skin was so thin and colorless over her throat and her hands that I couldn’t bear to look at them, and her eyes looked up at me from flesh that was almost bruised. I could smell death on her. I could smell decay.
But she was radiant, and she was mine; she was as she’d always been, and I told her so silently with all my power, that she was lovely as my earliest memory of her when she had had her old fancy clothes still, and she would dress up so carefully and carry me on her lap in the carriage to church.
And in this strange moment when I gave her to know this, how much I cherished her, I realized she heard me and she answered me that she loved me and
always had.
It was the answer to a question I hadn’t even asked. And she knew the importance of it; her eyes were clear, unentranced.
If she realized the oddity of this, that we could talk to each other without words, she gave no clue. Surely she didn’t grasp it fully. She must have felt only an outpouring of love.
“Come here so I can see you,” she said, “as you are now.”
The candle was by her arm on the windowsill. And quite deliberately I pinched it out. I saw her frown, a tightening of her blond brows, and her blue eyes grew just a little larger as she looked at me, at the bright silk brocade and the usual lace I’d chosen to wear for her, and the sword on my hip with its rather imposing jeweled hilt.
“Why don’t you want me to see you?” she asked. “I came to Paris to see you. Light the candle again.” But there was no real chastisement in the words. I was here with her and that was enough.
I knelt down before her. I had some mortal conversation in mind, that she should go to Italy with Nicki, and quite distinctly, before I could speak, she said:
“Too late, my darling, I could never finish the journey. I’ve come far enough.”
A clamp of pain stopped her, circling her waist where the girdle bound it, and to hide it from me, she made her face very blank. She looked like a girl when she did this, and again I smelt the sickness in her, the decay in her lungs, and the clots of blood.
Her mind became a riot of fear. She wanted to scream out to me that she was afraid. She wanted to beg me to hold on to her and remain with her until it was finished, but she couldn’t do this, and to my astonishment, I realized she thought I would refuse her. That I was too young and too thoughtless to ever understand.
This was agony.
I wasn’t even conscious of moving away from her, but I’d walked across the room. Stupid little details embedded themselves in my consciousness: nymphs playing on the painted ceiling, the high gilt door handles and the melted wax in brittle stalactites on the white candles that I wanted to break off and crumple in my hand. The place looked hideous, overdressed. Did she hate it? Did she want those barren stone rooms again?
I was thinking about her as if there were “tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow …” I looked back at her, her stately figure holding to the windowsill. The sky had deepened behind her and a new light, the light of house lamps and passing carriages and nearby windows, gently touched the small inverted triangle of her thin face.
“Can’t you talk to me,” she said softly. “Can’t you tell me how it’s come about? You’ve brought such happiness to all of us.” Even talking hurt her. “But how does it go with you? With you!”
I think I was on the verge of deceiving her, of creating some strong emanation of contentment with all the powers I had. I’d tell mortal lies with immortal skill. I’d start talking and talking and testing my every word to make it perfect. But something happened in the silence.
I don’t think I stood still more than a moment, but something changed inside of me. An awesome shift took place. In one instant I saw a vast and terrifying possibility, and in that same instant, without question, I made up my mind.
It had no words to it or scheme or plan. And I would have denied it had anyone questioned me at that moment. I would have said, “No, never, farthest from my thoughts. What do you think I am, what sort of monster” … And yet the choice had been made.
I understood something absolute.
Her words had completely died away, she was afraid again and in pain again, and in spite of the pain, she rose from her chair.
I saw the comforter slip away from her, and I knew she was coming towards me and that I should stop her, but I didn’t do it. I saw her hands close to me, reaching for me, and the next thing I knew she had leapt backwards as if blown by a mighty wind.
She had scuffed backwards across the carpet, and fallen past the chair against the wall. But she grew very still quickly as though she willed it, and there wasn’t fear in her face, even though her heart was racing. Rather there was wonder and then a baffled calm.
If I had thoughts at that moment, I don’t know what they were. I came towards her just as steadily as she had come towards me. Gauging her every reaction, I drew closer until we were as near to each other as we had been when she leapt away. She was staring at my skin and my eyes, and quite suddenly she reached out again and touched my face.
“Not alive!” That was the horrifying perception that came from her silently. “Changed into something. But NOT ALIVE.”
Quietly I said no. That was not right. And I sent a cool torrent of images to her, a procession of glimpses of what my existence had become. Bits, pieces of the fabric of the nighttime Paris, the sense of a blade cutting through the world soundlessly.
With a little hiss she let out her breath. The pain balled its fist in her, opened its claw. She swallowed, sealing her lips against it, her eyes veritably burning into me. She knew now these were not sensations, these communications, but that they were thoughts.
“How then?” she demanded.
And without questioning what I meant to do I gave her the tale link by link, the shattered window through which I’d been torn by the ghostly figure who had stalked me at the theater, the tower and the exchange of blood. I revealed to her the crypt in which I slept, and its treasure, my wanderings, my powers, and above all, the nature of the thirst. The taste of blood and the feel of blood, and what it meant for all passion, all greed to be sharpened in that one desire, and that one desire to be satisfied over and over with the feeding and the death.
The pain ate at her but she no longer felt it. Her eyes were all that was left of her as she stared at me. And though I didn’t mean to reveal all these things, I found I had taken hold of her and was turning so that the light of the carriages crashing along the quai below fell full on my face.
Without taking my eyes from her, I reached for the silver candelabra on the windowsill, and lifting it I slowly bent the metal, working it with my fingers into loops and twists.
The candles fell to the floor.
Her eyes rolled up into her head. She slipped backwards and away from me, and as she caught the curtains of the bed in her left hand, the blood came up out of her mouth.
It was coming from her lungs in a great silent cough. She was slipping down on her knees, and the blood was all over the side of the draped bed.
I looked at the twisted silver thing in my hands, the idiotic loops that meant nothing, and I let it drop. And I stared at her, her struggling against unconsciousness and pain, and wiping her mouth suddenly in sluggish gestures, like a vomiting drunk, on the bedclothes, as she sank unable to support herself to the floor.
I was standing over her. I was watching her, and her momentary pain meant nothing in light of the vow that I was speaking to her now. No words again, just the silent thrust of it, and the question, more immense than could ever be put into words, Do you want to come with me now? DO YOU WANT TO COME WITH ME INTO THIS NOW?
I hide nothing from you, not my ignorance, not my fear, not the simple terror that if I try I might fail. I do not even know if it is mine to give more than once, or what is the price of giving it, but I will risk this for you, and we will discover it together, whatever the mystery and the terror, just as I’ve discovered alone all else.
With her whole being she said Yes.
“Yes!” she screamed aloud suddenly, drunkenly, the voice maybe that had always been her voice yet one that I had never heard. Her eyes closed and tightened and her head turned from the left and to the right. “Yes!”
I leant forward and kissed the blood on her open lips. It sent a zinging through all my limbs and the thirst leapt out for her and tried to transform her into mere flesh. My arms slipped around her light little form and I lifted her up and up, until I was standing with her against the window, and her hair was falling down behind her, and the blood came up in her out of her lungs again, but it didn’t matter now.
All the memories of my life wit
h her surrounded us; they wove their shroud around us and closed us off from the world, the soft poems and songs of childhood, and the sense of her before words when there had only been the flicker of the light on the ceiling above her pillows and the smell of her all around me and her voice silencing my crying, and then the hatred of her and the need of her, and the losing of her behind a thousand closed doors, and cruel answers, and the terror of her and her complexity and her indifference and her indefinable strength.
And jetting up into the current came the thirst, not obliterating but heating every concept of her, until she was flesh and blood and mother and lover and all things beneath the cruel pressure of my fingers and my lips, everything I had ever desired. I drove my teeth into her, feeling her stiffen and gasp, and I felt my mouth grow wide to catch the hot flood when it came.
Her heart and soul split open. There was no age to her, no single moment. My knowledge dimmed and flickered and there was no mother anymore, no petty need and petty terror; she was simply who she was. She was Gabrielle.
And all her life came to her defense, the years and years of suffering and loneliness, the waste in those damp, hollow chambers to which she’d been condemned, and the books that were her solace, and the children who devoured her and abandoned her, and the pain and disease, her final enemy, which had, in promising release, pretended to be her friend. Beyond words and images there came the secret thudding of her passion, her seeming madness, her refusal to despair.
I was holding her, holding her off her feet, my arms crossed behind her narrow back, my hand cradling her limp head, and I was groaning so loud against her with the pumping of the blood that it was a song in time with her heart. But the heart was slowing too quickly. Her death was coming, and with all her will she pumped against it, and in a final burst of denial I pushed her away from me and held her still.
I was almost swooning. The thirst wanted her heart. It was no alchemist, the thirst. And I was standing there with my lips parted and my eyes glazed and I held her far, far away from me as if I were two beings, the one wanting to crush her and the other to bring her to me.