I gave a little gasp at the cruelty of it. I was powerfully fascinated! I think I loved 
him already, doing what he wanted like that.
  
  "Of course he'll never be anything," she went on.
  
  "Why not?"
  
  "He's too old. You can't take up the violin when you're twenty. But what do I know? He 
plays magically in his own way. And maybe he can sell his soul to the devil."
  
  I laughed a little uneasily. It sounded magic.
  
  "But why don't you go down to the town and make a friend of him?" she asked.
  
  "Why the hell should I do that?" I asked.
  
  "Lestat, really. Your brothers will hate it. And the old merchant will be beside 
himself with joy. His son and the Marquis's son."
  
  "Those aren't good enough reasons."
  
  "He's been to Paris," she said. She watched me for a long moment. Then she went back to 
her book, brushing her hair now and then lazily.
  
  I watched her reading, hating it. I wanted to ask her how she was, if her cough was 
very bad that day. But I couldn't broach the subject to her.
  
  "Go on down and talk to him, Lestat," she said, without another glance at me.
  
       4     
  
  It took me a week to make up my mind I would seek out Nicolas de Lenfent.
  
  I put on the red velvet fur-lined cloak and fur lined suede boots, and I went down the 
winding main street of the village towards the inn.
  
  The shop owned by Nicolas's father was right across from the inn, but I didn't see or 
hear Nicolas.
  
  I had no more than enough for one glass of wine and I wasn't sure just how to proceed 
when the innkeeper came out, bowed to me, and set a bottle of his best vintage before me.
  
  Of course these people had always treated me like the son of the lord. But I could see 
that things had changed on account of the wolves, and strangely enough, this made me feel 
even more alone than I usually felt.
  
  But as soon as I poured the first glass, Nicolas appeared, a great blaze of color in 
the open doorway.
  
  He was not so finely dressed as before, thank heaven, yet everything about him exuded 
wealth. Silk and velvet and brand-new leather.
  
  But he was flushed as if he'd been running and his hair was windblown and messy, and 
his eyes full of excitement. He bowed to me, waited for me to invite him to sit down, and 
then he asked me:
  
  "What was it like, Monsieur, killing the wolves?" And folding his arms on the table, he 
stared at me.
  
  "Why don't you tell me what's it like in Paris, Monsieur?" I said, and I realized right 
away that it sounded mocking and rude. "I'm sorry," I said immediately. "I would really 
like to know. Did you go to the university? Did you really study with Mozart? What do 
people in Paris do? What do they talk about? What do they think?"
  
  He laughed softly at the barrage of questions. I had to laugh myself. I signaled for 
another glass and pushed the bottle towards him.
  
  "Tell me," I said, "did you go to the theaters in Paris? Did you see the 
Comedie-Francaise?"
  
  "Many times," he answered a little dismissively. "But listen, the diligence will be 
coming in any minute. There'll be too much noise. Allow me the honor of providing your 
supper in a private room upstairs. I should so like to do it -- "
  
  And before I could make a gentlemanly protest, he was ordering everything. We were 
shown up to a crude but comfortable little chamber.
  
  I was almost never in small wooden rooms, and I loved it immediately. The table was 
laid for the meal that would come later on, the fire was truly warming the place, unlike 
the roaring blazes in our castle, and the thick glass of the window was clean enough to 
see the blue winter sky over the snow-covered mountains.
  
  "Now, I shall tell you everything you want to know about Paris," he said agreeably, 
waiting for me to sit first. "Yes, I did go to the university." He made a little sneer as 
if it had all been contemptible. "And I did study with Mozart, who would have told me I 
was hopeless if he hadn't needed pupils. Now where do you want me to begin? The stench of 
the city, or the infernal noise of it? The hungry crowds that surround you everywhere? 
The thieves in every alley ready to cut your throat?"
  
  I waved all that away. His smile was very different from his tone, his manner open and 
appealing.
  
  "A really big Paris theater..." I said. "Describe it to me ... what is it like?"
  
  I think we stayed in that room for four solid hours and all we did was drink and talk.
  
  He drew plans of the theaters on the tabletop with a wet finger, described the plays he 
had seen, the famous actors, the little houses of the boulevards. Soon he was describing 
all of Paris and he'd forgotten to be cynical, my curiosity firing him as he talked of 
the Ile de la Cite, and the Latin Quarter, the Sorbonne, the Louvre.