We shook hands. My first impression was of icy cold, and a slick kind of
dryness—and I let go of his hand too quickly to be polite. He smiled at
me.
A charming man, the Chevalier. Or so he seemed. Slender, below medium
height, his bland, round face seemed incongruously youthful. Blond hair
was plastered close to his scalp. I saw that his cheeks were
rouged—very deftly, but I know something about make-up. And under the
rouge I read a curious, deathly pallor that would have made him a marked
man had he not disguised it. Some disease, perhaps, had blanched his
skin—but his lips were not artificially reddened. And they were as
crimson as blood.
He was clean-shaved, wore impeccable evening clothes, and his eyes were
black pools of ink.
“Glad to know you,” I said. “You’re the vampire, eh?”
He smiled. “So they tell me. But we all serve the dark god of publicity,
eh, Mr. Prescott? Or—is it Mart?”
“It’s Mart,” I said, still staring at him. I saw his eyes go past me,
and an extraordinary expression appeared on his face—an expression of
amazement, disbelief. Swiftly it was gone.
I turned. Jean was approaching, was at my side as I moved. She said, “Is
this the Chevalier?”
Pierre Futaine was staring at her, his lips parted a little. Almost
inaudibly he murmured, “Sonya.” And then, on a note of interrogation,
“Sonya?”