The Delicate Dependency: A Novel of the Vampire Life (41 page)

“I died,” she said unadornedly.

Again I noticed the ambiguity of her age. There was something both youthful and timeworn in her.

“My last human memory is of touching my hard, dry lips. I was taken in a pestilence. I drifted into darkness.”

“How is it that you are here to tell me these things?”

“I am here because an astrologer of the court also favored my countenance, a vampire. In China the dead were not immediately buried. They were kept in their coffins in the stables, often for many months, until the astrologers fixed upon a favorable day for their interment. In the delirium of my fever the astrologer infected me. My first vampire memory is of the coffin opening and seeing the face of the astrologer framed by the stars.”

She emitted a long exhalation and I gazed at her rising breast behind the veil of her dress. There was no trace of pestilence, of chancre or open sore. Her flesh was as healthy, as smooth and golden as a fallow deer.

“So you were changed because of your beauty.”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you are an outcast?”

She turned to me and glowered.

“
Madame
, I most humbly beg your pardon—”

She shook her head, anger brimming in her eyes. “The times... the times,” she said. She looked past me and lapsed into a deep reflection. “I once met an artist here in a café. He was a very disturbed man. His name was Edvard. He said there were three types of women, only three: the virgin, the widow, and the whore. He could not desire without feeling it was evil. He was afraid of women. He thought their hair was embued with life. He feared it would entwine and smother him.”

I was at a loss as to why she was telling me this.

She looked back at me. “Why did you come to my house? Why did you chase me all over Paris?”

I told her the entire story, of Camille and Lodovico, and she raised her eyebrow. When I finished she spoke.

“You see, they are up to something.”

“You do not know what?”

She became scornful. “They do not tell me anything. But I do know they are very busy these days. There are vampire all over Paris, stealing about and mingling with the unsuspecting. They are playing a strange game. I do not know what the game is, but I do know one thing: If Lodovico was here on the Île Saint-Louis, des Esseintes knew about it. Des Esseintes knows everything that goes on in this city There is no stone he does not have eyes under.”

I had already realized it was true, but her confirmation still had its effect upon me. It had happened again. Like Niccolo, des Esseintes had lied from the beginning. He, too, was working for Lodovico. He had used Ambrose to gain control of Lady Dunaway. He most assuredly knew where Camille was. And where was Camille? Something in my heart told me she was not in this old house.

A breeze once again fluttered the candle flames and the flower in Madame Villehardouin’s ebony hair. Once again the visage of a young girl, ardent and nubile, appeared like a specter in the mature lines of the face. The advent of the apparition caused her to take another deep breath.

“What do you think of des Esseintes?” I ventured to ask.

The eyes darted sadly. “What can I think? I despise him.”

It was as I had thought. Here was my chance, my one opportunity. “Madame Villehardouin,” I entreated, “if you have any notion of how I must feel here, if you have ever loved as I love my daughters, would you help me escape?” She was struck dumb with horror and surprise. The youthful presence instantly faded. “Oh, no,
monsieur,
I cannot do that,” she said, shaking her head as the full extent of her dread slowly shone in her face. “I dare not.”

“
Madame,
with all submission I beg of you.”

She shrunk back, still shaking her head. She gently lifted her skirts and turned to leave. “Daintily, daintily, I retire,” she said, saturnine and deranged, “with a footfall so light not even the moth is disturbed.” Her dress scraped against the rotted carpet as she quickly rushed away.

There was one thought in my mind, one thought alone. I tinned in the opposite direction and rushed down the hallway. I descended the first set of stairs, the falcon flapping and hopping behind me. When I reached the rosewood staircase I discovered the party had moved into the foyer and were lounging about on chairs and pillows, passing the hookah. Their eyes were glassy, and a cloud of blue smoke hovered in the room. Monsieur des Esseintes was seated at the black harmonium. Around him were strewn orchids.

He looked up.

“Monsieur le Docteur, you are just in time. I’m going to play now.”

I noticed Fernande smiling.

“I did not know you were musical,” I said.

“It is not music, exactly,” des Esseintes returned. “You see, I’ve disconnected the pipes. A different fragrance of orchid has been placed in each bellows. When I play, sound does not come out, but smells!”

He adjusted the harmonium.

“How like the vampire the orchid is,” he said, holding a bloom aloft. “They are called parasites, and yet they do not kill their host.” He placed the bloom in a receptacle attached to one of the pipes. “They can live in darkness. They would wither in the hot sun.” He sealed another bloom. “They are rare and delicate creatures, and they grow in hidden places.”

I noticed Lady Dunaway sitting next to the glass globe containing the bullrushes. To her left the young gentleman with the Hapsburg mustache finished with the hookah and passed it to her. To my horror she accepted it. She inhaled deeply and then gazed at me. She was not sheepish, but blank. Changed.

Des Esseintes posed his white hands over the keyboard. He began to play.

Silence.

A chorus of admiration rose from the throng as the first smell swelled in the room. His long fingers danced over the keys in haunting silence. He brought them crashing down in empty cadenzas and graceful imaginary arpeggios as fragrance after fragrance filled the room.
Cattleya. Cymbidium. Lepanthes.
A dream garden. A phantasmagoric fugue of scent.

They were lost, lost in their own world.

I was not a part of it. I was awed by its foreign splendor, as I might be awed by the world of the shark, or the deep-sea fishes, but I could never survive in it. I looked at des Esseintes. He had lied with such ease. At least Niccolo had felt some anguish, but des Esseintes had woven a tapestry of deception with callous and unflinching facility. How could I ever feel safe again? He had assured me I would not be hurt, but how did I know that was not just another deception? Nothing could surprise me. Anything could happen next. I had to escape.

I left the foyer and wandered into the corridor of the statues, searching still another time for something I had overlooked. The falcon watched me closely. I burst into the turquoise sitting room and madly scanned the black-lacquered fan-vaulted ceiling, the wainscoted walls. I spun about and gave a slight gasp when I noticed
la machine
standing motionless in the corner.

“Ilga,” I burst, “is it true? Will I die if I attempt to leave this house?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then it is impossible for me ever to escape?”

Her pale gray eyes fluttered. “Oh, no.”

I was stunned. “What do you mean?”

“You would die if you attempted it on your own. But you could escape if you had help.”

She rattled off the words mechanically. Not a speck of emotion played in her face.

I trembled. “Ilga,” I asked falteringly, “would you help me? Would you tell me how I might escape?”

“Why, yes,” she said with perhaps just the tiniest bit of surprise.

I checked the hall to make sure no one was within earshot, and then I returned to the timid creature. She explained in detail how I might make my escape, noting to the second precisely how much time I would have for each of my actions. She finished and lapsed back into her vapid, dreamy state.

“Ilga,” I prodded, “if I do this, des Esseintes will not be able to stop me?”

She looked vaguely worried. “If you do everything correctly. As I have said, time is the crucial element. You must not waste a second, or all is lost.”

I looked down into her eyes. There was only a fleeting and bleary awareness in them. “Ilga, I have one other question.”

She made no reaction.

“Do you know where my daughter, Camille, is?”

“In Italy.”

“Where in Italy?”

“I do not know.”

“Do you know why they have taken her?”

“No.”

I looked toward the door. I had to hurry. I did not want anyone to see me speaking with her. I grasped her cold, lifeless hand within my own. “Thank you, Ilga.”

I ran over everything in my mind as I returned to the foyer. Des Esseintes was still seated at the black harmonium, crooking his arms and swaying like a spider over its web. His head fell back weightlessly. His eyes were closed in ecstasy. The vaporous tracings of the hookah hung low over the room. Each face smiled, eyes closed. Even Lady Dunaway was enchanted by the spell.

I had a decision to make. Would I take her with me?

I no longer trusted her. I had no idea what concessions she had made to the vampire, but my sense of English honor ran too deeply I could not abandon her. It would be the ultimate act of cowardice and dishonor. I crept behind the crowd and placed a hand upon her shoulder. I was somewhat relieved to feel the warmth of her flesh. Her head lolled back, eyes glassy. When she saw the expression on my face she took a grip upon herself Her gaze became more serious. She followed me into the corridor of the statues.

“I’m leaving,” I said.

“Now?” she demanded.

“I’ve asked Ilga. She’s explained to me a way.”

“What about the falcon?”

“Ilga has told me something about our little friend here. He doesn’t like the orchid conservatory. He’s afraid of it. He never goes in. If we enter through the sitting room and cross over to the parlor entrance to the cellar we will gain exactly three minutes, forty-seven seconds’ lead on our little demon. Enough time for us to escape through the cellar and into the sewers.”

“It’s a trick. It won’t work.”

“I’ll have to take that chance.”

“They’ll catch you in the sewers. You can’t outrun them.”

“I have a trick of my own up my sleeve. I believe it will work.”

She was obviously very troubled. She glanced back anxiously in the direction of the foyer.

“Lady Dunaway,” I said, gripping her arm, “I know about Ambrose.”

Her eyes widened.

“I know they are using him to control you, but if you ever want to get away from here, have your child back on your own terms, we must leave.”

“Then what?”

“The authorities.”

Her temper flared. “No, you can’t... we can’t. The vampire are not evil. I have spoken with des Esseintes at length. He does not confide in me any more than he confides in you, but I have observed him closely. I believe he is a creature of ethics.”

“
His
ethics.”

“But he is not evil .”

“He lied to me.”

“He lets me see Ambrose. He has been kind to Ambrose.”

“If they are not evil, why have they taken our children?”

“If you turn him in, what do you think it will gain for you? The authorities laughed at me. Do you think they will believe you?”

“At the very least we can use what we know of his identity as ransom to get our children back.”

She could not argue with that.

“I am leaving. Do you want to come with me?”

She looked upward. “What about him? We can’t leave without him.”

“Where are they keeping him?”

“There are rooms inside the house, secret rooms. He is locked in one of them.”

“Do you have any notion how we would get him out without arousing their attention?”

“We have to try. Surely you don’t expect me to leave him here.”

“My good Lady Dunaway, I do not expect you to do anything. I felt it was my moral obligation to ask you to accompany me. We would have to leave Ambrose here. As I have said, if you ever want your child back on your own terms, I feel this is your only chance. Will you come with me?”

I could see it in her eyes, thoughts of Lucien and her barren life in Cornwall. She could not go back. Was it possible that this had become her world, a dazzling and alien treasure trove for a woman misplaced and unhappy in her human existence? I braced myself for her refusal. Her lip quivered hesitantly.

“Yes,” she returned at length, and much to my surprise. “I will go with you.”

“Then it’s now or never,” I returned. “We must not give the falcon any indication of what we are about to do until the very last second. As Ilga has explained, the moment it realizes we intend to enter the conservatory it will attack. If we get in and start to make our way across it will immediately go around through the house and try to head us off. We must move with speed and precision.”

She nodded as we walked slowly toward the sitting room. The falcon followed dutifully. When we reached the chamber of turquoise and gilt we pretended to be examining the walls. Ilga still hovered in the corner, alabaster and mute. I glanced down at the falcon. It watched as it always watched, never tiring of its scrutiny. Always acute.

“The craftsmanship is superb,” I said, allowing my finger to drag along the wainscoting. We took a step back and toward the secret panel concealing the French doors. I gestured at the black-lacquered ceiling, taking still a further step backward.

Nictitating membranes flicked.

I glanced at Lady Dunaway. She watched intently. Casually I made a motion as if I were merely leaning against the wall. In an instant my hand hit the secret button I had seen des Esseintes hit One of the painted panels hissed out of sight, and as the pinions spread to fan the air we burst through the steam-covered doors.

The falcon gave a cry.

It was too late. It flapped helplessly beyond the threshold, oddly intimidated by des Esseintes’s bejeweled and balmy garden. We were on our way. I looked back only once to make sure the bird was not following. Beyond that every second was too important to spend time watching as the feathered devil set off on its own course of interception. After making our way through the diminutive jungle we darted through the conservatory entrance into the parlor. Lady Dunaway fell.