sensation: that in my memory she would look up from that game of solitaire, and the 
sockets of her eyes would be empty.
  " `You could have told me anything you wanted about Paris, Armand,' I said. `Long 
before now. It wouldn't have mattered.'
  " `Even that it was I who . . ?'
  "I turned to him as he lay there looking at the sky. And I saw the extraordinary pain 
in his face, in his eyes. It seemed his eyes were huge, too huge, and the white face that 
framed them too gaunt.
  `That it was you who killed her? Who forced her out into that yard and locked her 
there?' I asked. I smiled. `Don't tell me you have been feeling pain for it all these 
years, not you.'
  "And then he closed his eyes and turned his face away, his hand resting on his chest as 
if I'd struck him an awful, sudden blow.
  " `You can't convince me you care about this,' I said to him coldly. And I looked out 
towards the water, and again that feeling came over me . . . that I wished to be alone. 
In a little while I knew I would get up and go off by myself. That is, if he didn't leave 
me first. Because I would have liked to remain there actually. It was a quiet, secluded 
place.
  " `You care about nothing . . .' he was saying. And then he sat up slowly and turned to 
me so again I could see that dark fire in his eyes. `I thought you would at least care 
about that. I thought you would feel the old passion, the old anger if you were to see 
him again. I thought something would quicken and come alive in you if you saw him . . . 
if you returned to this place.'
  " 'That I would come back to life?' I said softly. And I felt the cold metallic 
hardness of my words as I spoke, the modulation, the control. It was as if I were cold 
all over, made of metal, and he were fragile suddenly; fragile, as he had been, actually, 
for a long time.
  " `Yes!' he cried out. `Yes, back to life!' And then he seemed puzzled, positively 
confused. And a strange thing occurred. He bowed his head at that moment as if he were 
defeated. And something in the way that he felt that defeat, something in the way his 
smooth white face reflected it only for an instant, reminded me of someone else I'd seen 
defeated in just that way. And it was amazing to me that it took me such a long moment to 
see Claudia's face in that attitude; Claudia, as she stood by the bed in the room at the 
Hotel Saint-Gabriel pleading with me to transform Madeleine into one of us. That same 
helpless look, that defeat which seemed to be so heartfelt that everything beyond it was 
forgotten. And then he, like Claudia, seemed to rally, to pull on some reserve of 
strength. But he said softly to the air, `I am dying!'
  "And I, watching him, hearing him, the only creature under God who heard him, knowing 
completely that it was true, said nothing.
  "A long sigh escaped his lips. His head was' bowed. His right hand lay limp beside him 
in the grass. `Hatred. . . that is passion,' he said `Revenge, that is passion.. '
  " `Not from me . . ' I murmured softly. `Not now.'
  "And then his eyes fixed on me and his face seemed very calm. `I used to believe you 
would get over it, that when the pain of all of it left you, you would grow warm again 
and filled with love, and filled with that wild and insatiable curiosity with which you 
first came to me, that inveterate conscience, and that hunger for knowledge that brought 
you all the way to Paris to my cell. I thought it was a part of you that couldn't die. 
And I thought that when the pain was gone you would forgive me for what part I played in 
her death. She never loved you, you know. Not in the way that I loved you, and the way 
that you loved us both. I knew this! I understood it! And I believed I would gather you 
to me and hold you. And time would open to us, and we would be the teachers of one 
another. All the things that gave you happiness would give me happiness; and I would be 
the protector of your pain. My power would be your power. My strength the same. But 
you're dead inside to me, you're cold and beyond my reach! It is as if I'm not here, 
beside you. And, not being here with you, I have the dreadful feeling that I don't exist 
at all. And you are as cold and distant from me as those strange modern paintings of 
lines and hard forms that I cannot love or comprehend, as alien as those hard mechanical 
sculptures of this age which have no human form. I shudder when I'm near you. I look into 
your eyes and my reflection isn't there . . . .'
  " `What you asked was impossible!' I said quickly. `Don't you see? What I asked was 
impossible, too, from the start.'
  "He protested, the negation barely forming on his lips, his hand rising as if to thrust 
it away.
  " `I wanted love and goodness in this which is living death,' I said. `It was 
impossible from the beginning, because you cannot have love and goodness when you do what 
you know to be evil, what you know to be wrong. You can only have the desperate confusion 
and longing and the chasing of phantom goodness in its human form. I knew the real answer 
to my quest before I ever reached Paris. I knew it when I first took a human life to feed 
my craving. It was my death. And yet I would not accept it, could not accept it, because 
like all creatures I don't wish to die! And so I sought for other vampires, for Cod, for 
the devil, for a hundred things under a hundred names. And it was all the same, all evil. 
And all wrong. Because no one could in any guise convince me of what I myself knew to be 
true, that I was damned in my own mind and soul. And when I came to Paris I thought you 
were powerful and beautiful and without regret, and I wanted that desperately. But you 
were a destroyer just as I was a destroyer, more ruthless and cunning even than I. You 
showed me the only thing that I could really hope to become, what depth of evil, what 
degree of coldness I would have to attain to end my pain. And I accepted that. And so 
that passion, that love you saw in me, was extinguished. And you see now simply a mirror 
of yourself.'
  "A very long time passed before he spoke. He'd risen to his feet, and he stood with his 
back to me looking down the river, head bowed as before, his hands at his sides. I was 
looking at the river also. I was thinking quietly, There is nothing more I can say, 
nothing more I can do.
  " `Louis,' he said now, lifting his head, his voice very thick and unlike itself.
  " `Yes, Armand,' I said.
  " `Is there anything else you want of me, anything else you require?'
  " `No,' I said. `What do you mean?'
  "He didn't answer this. He began to slowly walk away. I think at first I thought he 
only meant to walk a few paces, perhaps to wander by himself along the muddy beach below. 
And by the time I realized that he was leaving me, he was a mere speck down there against 
the occasional flickering in the water under the moon. I never saw him again.
  "Of course, it was several nights later before I realized he was gone. His coffin 
remained. But he did not return to it. And it was several months before I had that coffin 
taken to the St. Louis cemetery and put into the crypt beside my own. The grave, long 
neglected because my family was gone, received the only thing he'd left behind. But then 
I began to be uncomfortable with that. I thought of it on waking, and again at dawn right 
before I closed my eyes. And I went downtown one night and took the coffin out, and broke 
it into pieces and left it in the narrow aisle of the cemetery in the tall grass.
  "That vampire who was Lestat's latest child accosted me one evening not long after. He 
begged me to tell him all I knew of the world, to become his companion and his teacher. I