In his last visit Grelot brought us a sleeping draught, but both Lady Dunaway and I judiciously refused to touch it. Once again I lay awake in the canopied bed listening to the constant running of the water. I drifted in and out of sleep as in a fever, and I have no idea how many hours passed when I became aware of a movement in my room. I sat up quickly and listened.
For a moment there was silence, but then, in the constant glow of the torches, I spotted a large rat standing on its hind legs and sniffing at the reading table where I had taken my meals. The falcon, of course, had seen it long before and had frozen into a stare. “Good God!” I cried, throwing a copy of Le Comte de Monte-Cristo at the creature. The book clattered against the chair, but the rat did not appear to be intimidated. It turned away from the table, content that there were no remains, and ambled bravely toward the bed. I lifted a candlestick up from the night table, preparing to bludgeon the little monster if it came any closer.
The falcon remained motionless.
At length I spied the uneaten remains of a biscuit, also on the night table, and I gently tossed it outside the bars. The rat immediately waddled toward the scrap, but just as it reached the barrier it paused. It sniffed, looking at me suspiciously, and then back at the food. It contemplated the situation. And then finally it passed beyond the safety of the cell.
Like the branch of a young sapling being pulled back and released, the falcon pounced. The rat squealed piteously. The little neck snapped within the beak. The long tail quivered in a final convulsion.
At the same instant I thought I heard another sound, a disruption in the water similar to the splash I had heard the night before. I rushed over to the opposite wall and listened. This time it was unmistakable, the sound of human, or vampire, voices and the agitated lapping of the water. I heard a hideous rending of flesh as the falcon started to eat its filthy prey.
“Lady Dunaway!” I shouted.
She did not stir.
“Lady Dunaway!”
Still no reply. I ran to the bars and called as loudly as I could. The falcon attacked and narrowly missed my fingers. Was it possible she was so deeply asleep? Had someone come in and taken her, and if so,where?
At last the falcon finished its meal. The sounds subsided into the distant rushing. I lit all the torches and candles in my room and sat up for hours listening for some faint indication that Lady Dunaway was still in the cell beside me, or to hear the sound of someone bringing her back. If she had been taken away I reasoned that it must have been through a passage other than the cell door. The sound of the metal bars being opened and closed would surely have roused me from my sleep. I have no idea how long I sat in that timeless, quiet world. Finally, I went back to the bed and fell into a leaden sleep.
XVII
I awoke groggy and confused about my whereabouts. It took me several vigorous blinks to orient myself. When I finally pieced the world together out of the blur, I saw a well-dressed gentleman standing like a dandy in the middle of the room with his foot upon the chair.
“You did not like Le Comte de Monte-Cristo, Docteur Gladstone?” said a familiar voice as the man stared at the fallen book. To my surprise it was des Esseintes.
I sat up in bed.
“You sleep very late,” he said, walking over to my side. “It is well past midnight. Get up. Get dressed.”
“You’ve changed considerably,” I said, eyeing his attire. He was fastidiously dressed in a black pinstriped suit with a white silk shirt, and a resplendent white orchid on his lapel. His fingers were covered with scintillant opals, as was his stickpin, and he boasted an expensive gilt cane. He was the complete antithesis of the monkish figure; the heir apparent of the loftiest aristocracy.
“I’ve already run an errand,” he explained, gesturing at the suit. “I only wear the monk’s robe when I’m being the monk.”
“An errand?”
He chuckled as he swept around the bed, his eyes never losing me in their focus. “Oh, it’s not what you think. I don’t go out digging up graves or playing ghoul. I had a few papers to sign.”
Again I was puzzled.
“Well, I do have business holdings. I have to have an income, you know.”
“May I ask what businesses you own?”
“Of course not.”
“Why?”
“Because the only other person besides myself who knows my business holdings is Ilga. It’s safer that way.”
“What about your solicitors?”
“What about them?”
“Are they human?”
“Most of them.”
I pondered the remark. “And do the human ones know your business holdings?”
“Of course they do... but they do not know I am a vampire.”
This surprised me once again. “Well, how do you manage that?”
“It is really very easy,” he said, polishing his cane, “for two very simple reasons. First, solicitors and men of business care very little who it is they are taking their money from. I could be a murderer or a political maniac and they would not ask questions. In their way of thinking there is no good money or bad money. And second, if you are very rich you can get away with being as quaint as you want. As far as my solicitors and business managers know, I am an obsessive recluse. When I am with them, I pretend to hate going out. I also pretend to be morbidly afraid of the germs of human contact.” Again he laughed. “Indeed, if you ever learn of an extremely wealthy person who seems to be a terrified hermit and never goes out, you might ponder the possibility that he is not an eccentric, but merely clever, a being of a higher order—”
“Oh, so you’re a being of a higher order?”
“Most definitely, Monsieur le Docteur. Did you think I would be modest? Come now, you must accept my apology for leaving you in here so long. Unfortunately, a very urgent matter arose that took up most of my time these last few nights. I wouldn’t normally be so cruel as to leave you locked up. As soon as you’ve finished dressing we must have a more leisurely chat, both you and Lady Dunaway.”
“Lady Dunaway,” I said abruptly as I remembered the incident of the night before. “Is she all right?”
“Are you all right, my dear?” des Esseintes called.
“I’ll be all right in a minute,” grumbled Lady Dunaway’s voice as she obviously aroused from a deep sleep.
“Come now,” des Esseintes prodded. “I told you to get dressed.”
I heard her sniff again followed by the distinct sound of the brush going through her hair.
“What are we going to chat about?”
“About you. For instance, I don’t even know what kind of a doctor you are.”
“I’m a virologist.”
“You’re a virologist—see, I’ve learned something already. We have many things to chat about... about your future. Since our first encounter I’ve had time to think about a lot of things. I’m so isolated, so attached to my own perspective. I’ve been myself for so long, I don’t immediately grasp how you might be viewing all of this. Well, I’ve had time to put myself in your shoes and I’ve realized how confused and frightened you must be. Especially after I was so insidious the other evening, talking about the falcon and all. I’m not really such a bad fellow. I thought if we had a more leisurely conversation you might be put more at ease.”
“And will we still be kept prisoners?”
“We will talk about that also.”
At last Lady Dunaway appeared, dazed but carefully groomed and still wearing her ulster, only minus the hat. I scrutinized her closely. It was Lady Dunaway, not an imposter. She didn’t seem changed in any significant moods or aspects. There were no markings upon her neck. “Good morning,” she greeted.
“Ah, yes,” des Esseintes returned. “Shall we leave these dreary surroundings?”
We both nodded and followed as he led us past the falcon. It hopped down behind us. When we reached the first floor I saw that the house was a hubbub of activity. The women were all busy cleaning the foye
r. They were dressed simply in black and magenta dresses trimmed in white lace. The older boys were polishing the glass globes containing the bullrushes as the youngest boy replaced candles. Grelot supervised everything.
Des Esseintes paused to point out some detail that needed polishing, and I took advantage of the distraction to move closer to Lady Dunaway. “Didn’t you hear me last night?” I whispered.
She looked at me surreptitiously “What?”
“Two nights in a row now I’ve heard voices and a movement in the water and I’ve called out to you. But you don’t answer.”
She pursed her brow. “Do you call loudly?”
“Yes, last night there was a rat in my room and I fairly screamed.”
“That’s impossible. I heard nothing.”
Des Esseintes pointed at an icon high on the wall that needed straightening and the young boy clambered up to fix it.
Lady Dunaway went on in a hush, “I’m a very light sleeper and I didn’t hear a thing. Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?”
“Of course not, I’m positive I—” I began, but des Esseintes once again turned to us. He made a gesture to follow him. Instead of going up the rosewood staircase he led us down a corridor to the left of the lavender foyer. This was lined with various alabaster statues of women. Some of them were life-sized nudes and others, busts and partial heads. All of them were done in a style that more closely resembled faces and body parts trying to break through sheets of wet gauze than statues. It took me a minute to realize they were of a single person, a woman, and in the midst of the frozen throng my eyes finally came to rest on a portrait.
Once again it was the same thirtyish lady, a frail wisp of a woman with meek brown eyes and spinsterly drawn hair. There was something a little different about the painting. In the statues she moved, lounged, danced. Occasionally there was anguish in the stone liknesses, but it was the anguish of a being struggling to be born, to free itself from the marble. It was the painting that revealed a deep melancholy. In front of the painting was a table, an altar of sorts, on which were assembled several simple but elegant long-stemmed vases. Each contained a purple orchid.
“Will you wait here please,” des Esseintes murmured. He went to the opposite side of the corridor and unlocked a cupboard. Inside was a camera on a tall black tripod with a hood and flashboard.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“Take your photograph.”
“Why?”
“For my scrapbook.”
“That’s a fine to-do. You keep a scrapbook of all of your human prisoners? How many of these pleasant forget-me-nots have you amassed?”
He carefully positioned the tripod and then looked up at us. “You amuse me, Monsieur le Docteur. I was joking about the scrapbook. I am taking your pictures as a precaution. There may come a time when I need such photographs.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Smile.”
“What possible need could you have—”
The magnesium powder went off in a burst of white light. Des Esseintes came out from under the hood. “Very nice. I think I captured Lady Dunaway’s trenchant beauty perfectly.”
Lady Dunaway blushed.
The vampire withdrew the photographic plate and handed it to Grelot, who had appeared with a silver tray. He carried it away officiously. Des Esseintes gathered the photographic paraphernalia together and once again locked it in the cupboard. He motioned us on.
At last he paused in front of one of the doors and pushed it open. Inside was an explosion of deep turquoise and gold, a simple and stunningly symmetrical Art Nouveau sitting room. It was in the Japanese style with wainscoted walls, upper walls painted with blue and gilt peacocks, and a black-lacquered fan-vaulted ceiling. There were carpets and pillows on the floor, a low table, a hookah, and a number of potted palms.
“The room was designed by Thomas Jeckyll, perhaps you’ve heard of him?” des Esseintes boasted as I caught a glimpse of the falcon watching us from outside the doorway. “The peacocks were painted by the American painter, J. McNeill Whistler.”
I once again admired the rich and exquisite room as the Frenchman motioned for us to sit upon the pillows. When I glanced at the hookah I remembered Geneviève telling us how des Esseintes always had them smoke before he suckled them. Des Esseintes seemed not unlike a Chinese camprador on his opium mat. I experienced a flush of alarm.
“What is the matter?” our host asked. He gazed at me for a second and then his face lit knowingly. “Oh, yes, yes... you’re probably wondering how I know something is the matter. I forgot, I must explain things to you. I’m so used to being around my own kind.” He removed what appeared to be a small ivory snuff box from the inside pocket of his jacket. “There’s a quiver in the air. I have seen the quiver for so long that I forgot you cannot see it. It’s similar to what you might see if you stared at a splay of frost on a window through a magnifying glass—a delicate cross-hatching that’s so transparent it takes most vampire many lifetimes before it suddenly pops into their vision and they wonder why they ignored it for so long. We are like magnets in a box of needles; when we walk, we affect the quiver. Even our emotions—like the tinge of alarm you just felt—changes the pattern in the frost.”
He took a dried crimson substance from the snuff box and placed it in the hookah as a second flicker of realization went across his face. “Ohh, Geneviève’s been telling you about our personal habits. You needn’t worry. This is not a feeding. But it was only a tinge, wasn’t it? You’re not really afraid of me, are you?”
“No,” I said, “I’m not afraid of you in an emotional sense. Neither do I trust you. What are you putting into the hookah?”
“It’s substance I create myself from orchids. You must have guessed my hobby is orchids.”
He lit the hookah and inhaled. A very subtle but pleasant smell, not unlike the scent of camomile cigarettes, filled the air. “It’s really quite enjoyable. Would you like to try it?”
“What does it do to one?”
“I couldn’t begin to tell you. All I can tell you is that it is enjoyable to me.”
“No, thank you,” I returned. “I would never take anything into my lungs that I had not studied completely.”
“I admire your caution,” he said, nodding. He turned to Lady Dunaway. “And you?”
She blinked, a little shocked that a gentleman would offer such an indiscretion to a lady. Her eyes played back and forth between us for a moment. She demurred politely.
“Funny...” he said wistfully. “I rather thought you would.” He smiled faintly at my compatriot. “I know your name, but would you recite it for me?”
She looked at him curiously. “Lady Hespeth Dunaway,” she repeated.
“Hespeth...” He allowed the sound to roll slowly over his tongue as he took another puff. “That’s a very old name. Did you know that?”
She nodded, still not quite following what he was saying.
“That’s another thing you’re probably not aware of. Names are often much more transient creatures than you realize. For example, there are many young men named Paul and Marc today, bat these names may not last forever. They may die, just as Childeric and Pepin have died. Even my beloved Paris has not always been called Paris. I first knew the city as Lutèce. For centuries and centuries, since the time of Caesar, it was Lutèce. And then, under the reign of Clovis, it became Paris. It was named after the Parisii, the first tribal community to settle on these two tiny islands. These islands are very old, you know. In any case, I like your name. Hespeth. That is what I shall call you if you would allow me to.” Lady Dunaway melted into a smile. I could tell she was endeared by the gesture.
Des Esseintes turned once again toward me. “I have not forgotten that you said you don’t trust me. I think that is wise on your part. May I ask, is there any particular reason you don’t trust me?”
I was surprised by the question. “Isn’t it obvious? Because Niccolo deceived me and took my dau
ghter.”
“So for you there is wisdom in mistrust?”
“Yes.”
“I am glad to hear you say that because you may more readily understand my own position. I have thought about it a great deal and I am forced to the conclusion that I must also mistrust you. I’m afraid you and Hespeth must remain my prisoners for an indefinite length of time—” I’m sure our shock registered in the quiver. “What about our children?” Lady Dunaway asked frantically.
“Indefinite?” I retorted. “How long is indefinite?” I was incensed, but I contained my temper. “Oh, how long do we mortals live, anyway?” I asked mockingly. “A mere sixty years? It will be like keeping a pet, a bird locked up for a while, won’t it?”
“I was hoping we could deal with this without such hard feelings—”
“You’re talking about the rest of bur lives.”
“Monsieur le Docteur,” he said placidly, “how many times must I remind you that it was you who broke into my home. I did not invite you. I did not ask for this situation.” He took another healthy puff from the hookah and sank back against the pillows. A faint smile crossed his face as he closed his eyes pleasurably and twitched once or twice. “What was it the caterpillar said in Alice in Wonderland? Take a bite from one side and you grow. Take a bite from the other side and you... get small?”
I found his enigmatic sense of humor flippant and irritating.
“Come, come,” he continued, “I think you are only looking at the bad side of the matter. You forget what an opportunity you have in meeting a creature such as myself. You must remember, I am even much older than this vampire you speak of, this Niccolo. Think about it. I am as ancient to him as he was to you. That makes me a different creature entirely. Why, you haven’t the faintest glimmer of the fantastical things swirling about in this narrow skull.” He fanned his slender hands. “Oh... the things I could teach you; the stories I could tell. I’ve lived the lives of dozens of men. I’ve moved through a world that is alien and dazzling to you. I could even make you enjoy staying here, I could hypnotize you with my words.” I greeted this remark with mixed emotions. He was quite correct. I yearned more than anything to probe the vastness of his memories, but I also prickled at the thought of abandoning my pursuit. I felt compelled to speak. “My good Monsieur des Esseintes, I’m sure you could tell me much, but I can inform you with utter conviction, nothing will ever make me give up my search for my daughter.”
The Delicate Dependency: A Novel of the Vampire Life Page 21