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Still clutching the bundle, refusing all help, he closeted himself up with his wound. In his arms, to his chest he clutched a flat bundle of folded cloth as if it carried the whole fate of the world embroidered on it. Loved him then, yes, I had, but this had been a bodily disaster which his evil blood would heal, and I knew from our old lore that in the healing he would gain even greater strength than serene time itself would have given him. I wanted to comfort him, to tell him wherever he'd gone and whatever had taken place, he was now safe again with us, but nothing could quiet him. Her swelling breasts, their shadowy cleft quite visible against the simple stitching of her dark low-cut dress, told more of God and Divinity. What are such holy objects now, tumbling on milky bosoms with such ease, but trinkets of the marketplace? My thoughts were merciless, but I was but an indifferent cataloger of her beauty. He kissed me quickly on the cheek.Ībout her pale sweet throat she wore a crucifix so tiny it seemed a gilded gnat suspended from a weightless chain of minuscule links woven by fairies. One shoe was left to him, the other foot bare, his coat torn, his hair wild and snagged with thorns and dried leaves and bits of errant flowers. Believe me, as you believe what you saw last night, the wildflowers clinging still to my hair, the cuts-look, my hands, they heal but not fast enough-believe me. Yes, but I have, he said, and now began to cry.I have, and I must tell you everything. But we can talk of those things for many nights hereafter. I think you were made for this, for reasoning, and given to us, if I may speculate, to force us to see our catastrophes in the new light of modern conscience. Where did this demon Memnoch take you? How comforting and reasonable your voice sounded, just as it does now. We would have waited here forever for you.
You intervened then, David.Tell us, Lestat. He looked at me, and a faint charming smile brightened his face.Don't fear for me, little devil Armand, he said.Fear for all of us. He pushed back the Chinese chair, and wringing his hands he began to pace, the inevitable prelude to his tale telling. As for the bundle he had carried in his arms, what could it have possibly been? I do not even think I thought of it. I remember only that the morning hastened us away, and if you cried too, I never heard you, I never thought to listen. I was so thankful that she loved him.īut what I'd seen now was a devastation of the soul in his anguished face, and the vision of the one blue eye, shining so vividly in his streaked and wretched face, had been unbearable. He wore new shoes.īut her greatest adornment in these moments was the tearful and eager love for him, her lack of fear of his mutilated face, the grace of her white arms as she enclosed him again, so sure of herself and so grateful for the gentle yielding of his body in towards her. He was washed and dressed, his torn and bleeding foot no doubt healed. He came quietly into the parlor of the apartment as the darkness clambered down, starry for a few precious moments before the dreary descent of snow. It won't take me but a moment, and then I'll have the eye in my hand and be the doctor myself and place it here. In a low voice I whispered to him my plan.Let me go down into the streets, let me steal from some mortal, some evil being who has wasted every physical gift that God ever gave, an eye for you I'll do it.
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