“Pleased, I thought? Pleased, and still no guiding hand? Pleased, and still nothing was pointed out? I was left by myself with the enigma? At length, I discovered a few of the other brothers had also noticed these things in the manuscripts, but once again it was the same story: Secrecy prevailed.”
He sighed. “Now, my dear friends, the need is pressing. I am used to communicating with my own kind. It is most fatiguing for me to restructure my language in a way that you will understand. I must be alone with my orchids, to meditate. Our visit must come to an end.”
“But what happened... did you ever find out about Lodovico and the Unknown Men?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You’re not going to tell us?”
“At a future date all will be revealed. There is plenty of time.” He smiled.
So that was his tactic, I thought. To control us with curiosity. The Scheherazade technique. I was maddened, but he had us. He had us completely. He was too powerful physically to overcome, like a jaguar or jungle cat.
As he gently began to shuffle us out I noticed once again the peculiarity of his movements. I could no longer contain my curiosity. “Why does the vampire walk differently?” I asked.
“Why does a child walk differently from an adult?” he countered. “Each age has its vocabulary of movements. How often have you noticed that a young girl no longer walks like a girl, but a woman? Look at a very tiny and very old woman. Does it not seem incongruous that a being with the stature of a child walks with such maturity? If you observe them closely you will notice that a twenty-year-old man moves differently than a thirty-year-old man. Little do most mortals realize, but there is a silent and complex language of gestures and walks. These continue to change distinctively with each stage of human development. They cease, of course, with death. However, if one does not die, they continue to evolve. Just as a mineral contains the predestined lattice of a crystal and each rose unfolds anew, so each vampire contains the components of a constantly unfolding language of movement. It is quite natural that you may see my walk as strange. You are observing the gait of a thousand-year-old man.”
When he had finished I realized that I had been deeply moved by what he had said. More than ever I realized we could not underestimate our host. We were dealing with a being who was far removed from anyone we had ever before encountered. Once again he tried to escort us out, but I resisted. “I have a final question,” I said.
He looked at me with surprise, as if vaguely startled I dare go against his immediate desires.
“Yes?” he said sibilantly.
I glanced at my companion before I continued. “Well, for two consecutive nights I’ve called to Lady Dunaway, and although she says she is a light sleeper, she has not heard me. I’m certain I’ve called to her. Why hasn’t she heard me? Have you drugged her and taken her away?”
Lady Dunaway turned toward Monsieur des Esseintes with obvious concern.
“Oh, yes, I overheard you whispering in the foyer. Silly of you to think I could not hear. No, Monsieur le Docteur; I can tell you with absolute honesty that I do not ferret good Hespeth away every night. If it’s true she is a light sleeper and you are positive you were not dreaming, I can provide only one answer to your puzzle.”
“What is that?”
He reached into a wall of foliage and withdrew what looked like a cluster of leaves covered with shiny blue wasps. “They’re flowers,” he explained. “Ophrys speculum. They grow in the Mediterranean. Not only do they resemble wasps, but also they emit the same odor as the female of the species they mimic. That way when the male tries to mate with the flower he picks up pollen masses, and unwittingly fertilizes the next flower he comes in contact with. Seduction by proxy.” He chuckled.
“I don’t understand. How does that answer my question?”
“Well,” he said, holding up his fingers and counting off the points of his argument, “if Hespeth is a light sleeper, and if you are certain you are not dreaming, something else entirely must be going on, something that has not even crossed your mind. Perhaps while you sleep your room is not next to Hespeth’s. Perhaps the rooms of this oil house move about at night. One thing is certain: You are in the same position as the wasp. You are confronting a reality you do not have the powers of conceptualization to understand. The only explanations you have come up with are incorrect, and you have not figured out the proper solution.”
He allowed the foliage to snap back into its hiding place.
“Please,” he ended, “now I must be left alone.” He stopped to busy himself with one final blossom before he showed us out, and I once again became aware of the hissing of the steam and the stifling fragrances of the all-pervading greenhouse. Another wave of images swept through the flowers. Was it just the alcohol, I thought? Was it some sort of shock from all the information des Esseintes had spewed forth, or was there some chance I had been drugged? Again I discerned a movement in the periphery of my vision, but I did not turn in its direction. I was certain it would simply pop out of existence, as all the other hallucinatory movements had done. To my alarm the movement did not vanish. There was a chink of gravel, a rushing sound coming toward me, like a creature making its pounce. In terror I pivoted around, expecting to see that the flowers had, indeed, come to life and were closing in upon me.
To my relief I saw that it was only Ilga. Some unknown agent had activated her, and she brushed by me, face blank and arms limp as a sleepwalker’s. Des Esseintes readily discerned the alarm in my expression. For many seconds he held his blue eyes upon me, smiling, knowing, as if the vastness of his experience allowed him to see every facet of my soul laid bare. At last he spoke. “Meditate upon this question, Monsieur le Docteur. Think about it for a long time and answer it only to yourself.” He twirled a blossom between his fingers as he stared at me out of the corner of his eye. “Are you sure you have not seen something in the flowers?”
XIX
With that last remark des Esseintes escorted us back past the double glass doors and into the peacock sitting room, where, inexplicably, Grelot was waiting for us. I was a little surprised to see the falcon still standing in the hallway. I wondered why it had not followed us into the orchid conservatory. “‘Take care of my friends,” our captor ended as he vanished once again into the hissing and the steam. Grelot grunted and cocked his head toward the door.
When we reached our cells we discovered Grelot had made a trip to the Hotel Madeleine, and all of our possessions had been transferred to our plush but limited quarters. It was more than Lady Dunaway could take, as if the presence of our luggage gave a more ominous note of permanency to our situation. She gave a cry and started to fall backward. I rushed and caught her as the falcon thrashed dangerously close. I did not want her to lose hope. I needed her. For the first time I realized the extent of the strength I myself had derived from her own unusual fortitude and courage. As I caught her I became acutely aware of her body. To my relief it was warm. Perhaps it was the gauzy influence of the liqueur I had drunk, but the mere pressure of her form, even of her very bones pressing through the svelte contour of her clothing, comforted me. Was that all? No, there is an ineffable something that comes from a woman. I felt it then, from this strange, beautiful creature in my arms. As I have said, she was large for a woman, but she seemed almost weightless.
Grelot angrily intervened and helped her into her cell. After he had left I heard her voice close to the intervening partition.
“Dr. Gladstone?”
“Yes, Lady Dunaway?”
“Please, I’m so frightened. Are you sure you called as loudly as you could last night?”
I did not want to frighten her. I hesitated, imagining her dark and panic-stricken eyes behind the incongruous lenses. “I’m afraid I did,” I said softly.
There was silence. I imagined her standing motionless as she fearfully contemplated my remark. It was rare to sense such a helplessness in her—she who had risked everything, who had crossed half of England and half
of France to find her child.
“What do you think is going on?” she finally gasped. What did it all mean, des Esseintes’s cabalistic talk of orchids and rooms moving about? “I do not know.”
“We must escape. We have to keep looking for our children.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Somehow, in some way we must find a way out of here.”
There was the sound of pacing, as if she had turned and walked to the center of her cell. The steps returned.
“Dr. Gladstone?”
“Yes, Lady Dunaway?”
“We are friends, aren’t we.”
It was not a question. It was a statement. It embodied all of our impotence and frustration, and yet it reached through the very bars themselves and soothed.
“Yes,” I returned, “we are friends.”
Her steps returned to the center of her cell and I heard her sit down on her bed. I stood at the bars for many more minutes. When I finally turned toward my own quarters I suddenly spied a letter Grelot must have retrieved from the Hotel Madeleine sitting on top of my trunk. It was from Ursula, dear Ursula. What would she think when I did not reply? How was my work? My laboratory? I opened it and found but a brief inquiry. How was I and what was my progress? She did not even inquire about Lady Dunaway. I opened the thermidor of tobacco and filled my pipe.
The night passed without incident. The falcon watched. Geneviève brought us another splendid breakfast. By afternoon I had already emotionally prepared myself for being locked up for several days when Grelot appeared in the cellar doorway.
“Monsieur des Esseintes has requested I inform you, tonight one of you will be granted the freedom of the house.”
“One of us?” I asked.
“The falcon cannot guard both of you.”
“The freedom of the house?” I heard Lady Dunaway question.
“You will be allowed to wander around as you wish,” the butler said contemptuously. “There are some rooms you are not allowed in but the falcon will let you know which rooms. Of course, the falcon will not let you leave the house.”
“Well, if only one of us can go, why don’t you go,” I called to my companion.
“Oh, no, Dr. Gladstone, you are too kind, but I insist you go.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t.”
“No, no, I insist.”
“But if I go—”
Grelot scuffed his foot. “So it’s you, Monsieur le Docteur?”
He jingled the large ring of keys and approached the bars. The cell door opened with a creak. The falcon jumped off its perch the moment I stepped into the anteroom. As we left I glanced back and saw her sitting in front of the fireplace with one hand under a shawl on her lap. She was reading a book. “Do have fun and remember what we discussed,” she bid happily.
When we reached the lavender foyer I noticed that the bustle of the human maids and cleaning boys had moved down into the corridor of the statues. Grelot lit a candelabrum, handed it to me, and started to walk briskly away.
“Wait,” I called. “Aren’t you going to watch me?”
“Monsieur des Esseintes says you can walk around with only the falcon as your guard tonight. He gives you that measure of trust.”
With that he sauntered swiftly up the rosewood staircase.
Infernal creature, I thought as I glanced down at the little beast. Nictitating membranes flicked quickly over its dark copper eyes. So I was free to wander around the house. Was it mere kindness or did the vampire have other motives in this unusual liberty? I glanced longingly at the front door, and back at the bird. I still fancied it possessed the sentience of more than just a falcon. I decided to test my freedom.
I took a step toward the door.
The bird did nothing.
I took another step.
Still nothing.
At last when I lifted my foot to step within about three feet of the heavy latch... calmly... silently, the falcon haunched its shoulders, readying its attack. From the tension of its muscles and the sudden prickle of the feathers about its neck I could tell that my slightest movement would spur it into action. I looked at the meathook edge of the talons. I very gingerly moved away from the door. I admired the bullrushes and stuffed birds and ran my fingers across the black harmonium before I made my way up the circular staircase.
As always, the falcon hobbled behind me, hopping ludicrously up each step like a court dwarf. On occasion it gave a flap or two with its broad wings to propel it, but it never really took to the air Aside from my shadow, I was like a child on Christmas morning wandering about the house. On impulse I made a motion to move toward one of the thin and narrow outside windows. I had become so disoriented keeping such odd hours and being locked up. I wanted to see Paris to reassure myself that it was still there.
Again the falcon acted. It casually jumped upon the sill. It blinked at me. It ruffled its feathers. It was as if it were daring me to make a further move. At first I thought this was odd. The window was heavily grated. I could not escape. Then I remembered des Esseintes’s remarks about keeping the windows dark so no one would notice his nocturnal habits. It was true: All of the rooms were separated from the outer walls of the house by hallways. Thus, any windows they possessed faced inward to one of the various courtyards of the house. Even when the rooms were being used it enabled the gentleman monk to keep the hallways and outer façade dark. Was it possible the falcon was keeping me from flashing a light in the window? Could it possibly be so well trained?
Undeniably, it was guarding the window.
I felt a chill. What was I up against in this bird?
I moved farther into the darkness of the house, and heard the tap tap of its talons following me on the slate floor. Although it was dark I noticed the vast labyrinth of rooms seemed to be quite empty. Grelot had vanished and the rest of the servants were apparently cleaning the downstairs corridor. I opened each door cautiously, but with a youthful anticipation, as if opening a gift, to marvel at the room beyond. First I returned to the playroom where Lady Dunaway and I had hidden. I wanted to examine the toys more carefully, the puppets, the circus ornaments, the eighteenth-century French carousel horses. Some of the music boxes seemed very old and I wondered if any of them had been made by the monks of the Vosges. I took a particular liking to a tiny nightingale in a miniature cage. I touched it and was entranced to see it tinkle into life. The song it sang varied little from the songs of other music-box birds, but its repertoire of movements was impressive. It lifted its feet. It moved its wings. It blinked. It preened.
When the song was finished it even tilted its little head and seemed to gaze at me sadly with its lifeless glass eyes. The falcon tilted its head curiously at the captive bird. So you are not infallible, I thought. You do not realize that this is a clockwork creature. The discovery made me feel slightly more at ease about my adversary.
It was then, in the midst of this reverie, that I noticed something most significant about the playroom. From the corners of the floor to the corners of the dollhouse, everything was immaculate. This room was used, I thought to myself, but used by whom? An unseen child in the house? Camille or Ambrose?
I moved on with a new hope, searching for some further clue. After all, the house was massive. Our children could be under our very noses and we might never know.
In one wing of the second floor I discovered the quarters of the human servants. Their furnishings were meager and they displayed but the simplest array of possessions: here a scenic French postcard tacked tastelessly on the wall; there a shawl of Flanders lace. In what I presumed to be Geneviève’s room I saw shelf upon shelf of empty wicker and wire birdcages. I gave a grim smile, amused by the pathetic irony of it all.
In other wings I discovered the more sumptuous rooms of Monsieur des Esseintes, and here I stood in awe. So this was the inner sanctum of a vampire. All of my notions about his breed, of castles and dark belfries were banished, for the endless splay of rooms exuded life, more life than is found in most mortal dwelling
s. To describe the splendor of the rooms would take many books. Suffice it to say, they were the palatial chambers of an extremely wealthy nineteenth-century Parisian gentleman. Each one was as incredible in its own way as the turquoise-and-gilt sitting room. The first thing I noticed was the openness of the spaces. Unlike Victorian interiors, one room flowed into the next, and from the warm glow of many lamps I discerned an airy maze of Arabian columns and arches. There was also a magnificent richness of color and texture: fine woods and Indian mattings, Japanese papers and iridescent Tiffany glasses. Indeed, there was an unusual accumulation of these Tiffany glasses with their deep and flowing colors, slender vases and blown glass orbs. My eye fell upon a Favrile paperweight on a low table and for a moment I was lost in the swirls of indigo and Prussian blue. Somehow the very spirit of the rooms was distilled in these glasses.
All of this served to substantiate a theory I was forming, that in some strange way des Esseintes needed this richness. Everything suggested it: his use of drugs, the incense, the orchids. He was not unlike an elderly person who has salted his food until he can no longer taste it. It was as if he had been jaded by the centuries into needing greater texture and complexity in his surroundings.
As I strolled from room to room I realized it was like being in a museum. As always, there was a clutter of furniture, ornately carved tables and bureaus, Turkish sofas, gossamer curtains, and stained-glass lamps. These in themselves were impressive. What was truly unbelievable was the profusion of treasures large and small. My eye never stopped taking in more details. Every inch of floor and wall space housed an endless array of objects. An Art Nouveau gramophone with a horn shaped like a blossoming flower. A suit of armor. Scarabs. Postage stamps. Snowstorms in glass globes. Hundreds of portraits and miniature paintings. Doll’s heads. Austrian crystals. Shadow boxes filled with seashells. Ebony walking sticks. A crystal unicorn. A twelfth-century ivory chess set. Innumerable jeweled boxes, vases of peacock feathers, porcelains, and ormolu clocks. It was not unlike the horde of a noble ancestry, like the endless memorabilia one finds in an old English manor house—save that there were no family trees, crests, or coats of arms. It was the collection of a single personality, and for all its clutter it possessed an odd homogeneity.
The Delicate Dependency: A Novel of the Vampire Life Page 24