“Yet you cannot know,” he went on. “Something you have learned, and
something you have guessed, but you can never know me. You are human,
and I am—the undead.
“Through the ages I have come, since first I fell victim to another
vampire—for thus is the evil spread. Deathless and not alive, bringing
fear and sorrow always, knowing the bitter agony of Tantalus, I have
gone down through the weary centuries. I have known Richard and Henry
and Elizabeth of England, and ever have I brought terror and destruction
in the night, for I am an alien thing. I am the undead.”
The quiet voice went on, holding me motionless in its weird spell.
“I, the vampire. I, the accursed, the shining evil, _negotium
perambulans in tenebris_ . . . but I was not always thus. Long ago in
Thurn, before the shadow fell upon me, I loved a girl—Sonya. But the
vampire visited me, and I sickened and died—and awoke. Then I arose.
“It is the curse of the undead to prey upon those they love. I visited
Sonya. I made her my own. She, too, died, and for a brief while we
walked the earth together, neither alive nor dead. But that was not
Sonya. It was her body, yes, but I had not loved her body alone. I
realized too late that I had destroyed her utterly.
[Illustration: "For a brief while we walked the earth together, neither
alive nor dead."]
“One day they opened her grave, and the priest drove a stake through her
heart, and gave her rest. Me they could not find, for my coffin was
hidden too well. I put love behind me then, knowing that there was none
for such as I.
“Hope came to me when I found—Jean. Hundreds of years have passed since
Sonya crumbled to dust, but I thought I had found her again. And—I took
her. Nothing human could prevent me.”
The Chevalier’s eyelids sagged. He looked infinitely old.
“Nothing human. Yet in the end I found that I could not condemn her to
the hell that is mine. I thought I had forgotten love. But, long and
long ago, I loved Sonya. And, because of her, and because I know that I
would only destroy, as I did once before, I shall not work my will on
this girl.”
I turned to watch the still figure on the couch. The Chevalier followed
my gaze and nodded slowly.
“Yes, she bears the stigmata. She will die, unless”—he met my gaze
unflinchingly—“unless I die. If you had broken into the vault
yesterday, if you had sunk that knife into my heart, she would be free
now.” He glanced at the windows again. “The sun will rise soon.”
Then he went quickly to Jean’s side. He looked down at her for a moment.
“She is very beautiful,” he murmured. “Too beautiful for hell.”
The Chevalier swung about, went toward the door. As he passed me he
threw something carelessly on the table, something that tinkled as it
fell. In the portal he paused, and a little smile twisted the scarlet
lips. I remembered him thus, framed against the black background of the
doorway, his sleek blond head erect and unafraid. He lifted his arm in a
gesture that should have been theatrical, but, somehow, wasn’t.
“And so farewell. I who am about to die——”
He did not finish. In the faint grayness of dawn I saw him striding
away, heard his footsteps on the stairs, receding and faint—heard a
muffled clang as of a great door closing. The paralysis had left me. I
was trembling a little, for I realized what I must do soon. But I knew I
would not fail.
I glanced down at the table. Even before I saw what lay beside the
knife, I knew what would be there. A silver key . . .