The Vampire Armand - Anne Rice [60]
“Weep for one of them, at least one!” he said. His voice grew wrathful. “Is that too much to ask? That one death be regretted among so many?” He rose from the table. He seemed to quake with his rage.
I pushed the handkerchief over my face, sobbing into it.
“For a nameless beggar in a makeshift boat for a bed we have no tears, do we, and would not our pretty Bianca suffer because we’ve played the young Adonis in her bed! And of some of those, we weep for none but that one, the very most evil without question, because he flatters us, is it not so?”
“I knew him,” I whispered. “I mean, in this short time I knew him, and …”
“And you would have them run from you, anonymous as foxes in the brush!” He pointed to the tapestries blazoned with the Courtly Hunt. “Behold with a man’s eyes what I show you.”
There was a sudden darkening of the room, a flutter of all the many candles. I gasped, but it was only he, come to stand right in front of me and look down at me, a feverish, blushing being whose very heat I could feel as if every pore of him gave forth warm breath.
“Master” I cried, swallowing my sobs. “Are you happy with what you’ve taught me or not? Are you happy with what I’ve learnt or not! Don’t you play with me over this! I’m not your puppet, Sir, no, never that! What would you have me be, then? Why this anger?” I shuddered all over, the tears veritably flooding from my eyes. “I would be strong for you, but I … I knew him.”
“Why? Because he kissed you?” He leant down and picked up my hair in his left hand. He yanked me towards him.
“Marius, for the love of God!”
He kissed me. He kissed me as Martino had, and his mouth was as human and as hot. He slipped his tongue into mine, and I felt not blood but manly passion. His finger burnt against my cheek.
I broke away. He let me break away. “Oh, come back to me, my cold white one, my god,” I whispered. I lay my face on his chest. I could hear his heart. I could hear it beating. I had never before heard it, never heard a pulse within the stone chapel of his body. “Come back to me, most dispassionate teacher. I don’t know what you want.”
“Oh, my darling,” he sighed. “Oh, my love.” And there came the old demon shower of his kisses, not the mock of a passionate man, but his affection, petal soft, so many tributes laid upon my face and hair. “Oh, my beautiful Amadeo, oh, my child,” he said.
“Love me, love me, love me,” I whispered. “Love me and take me into it with you. I am yours.”
In stillness, he held me. I drowsed on his shoulders.
A little breeze came, but it did not move the heavy tapestries in which the French lords and ladies drifted in their eternal and leafy green forest among hounds that would forever bay and birds that would always sing.
Finally, he released me and he stepped back.
He walked away from me, his shoulders hunched, his head down.
Then with a lazy gesture he beckoned for me to come, and yet he moved out of the room too fast.
I ran after him, down the stone stairs to the street. The doors were open when I got there. The cold wind washed away my tears. It washed away the evil heat of the room. I ran and ran along the stone quays, over the bridges, and after him towards the square.
I didn’t catch him until I reached the Molo, and there he was walking, a tall man in a red hood and cape, past San Marco and towards the harbor. I ran after him. The wind from the sea was icy and very strong. It blasted me, and I felt doubly cleansed.
“Don’t leave me, Master,” I called out. My words were swallowed up, but he heard.
He came to a stop, as if it really were my doing. He turned and waited for me to catch up with him, and then he picked up my outstretched hand.
“Master, hear my lesson,” I said. “Judge my work.” I caught my breath in haste and went on. “I saw you drink from those who were evil, convicted in your heart of some gross crime. I saw you feast as it is your nature; I saw you take the blood with which you must live. And all about you lies