The Mammoth Book of Dracula (36 page)

He continued to look doubtful and started to extol the virtues of other properties on his books, properties situated in places far more appropriate for one such as I. I needed this man’s trust, at least for the present, and only a plausible explanation would allay his doubts.

“I am a refugee from my own country,” I told him. “There I have offended certain high-ranking individuals who find my philosophy too radical, too threatening to their position, and who would be only too pleased to see an end to me. You will understand, sir, for has not your own lovely country had its own upheavals? I need a place to dwell where their agents would least expect to find me.”

He spread his hands in that peculiarly Gallic all-purpose gesture of accord.
“M’sieu, je comprend. Your
position is safe with Jeanmaire et Cie where discretion is a byword.”

“One final thing, friend Jeanmaire. Were I occasionally to need a ... certain companionship, where would I best go to find it?”

Ever since my attack on the vagabond in the Calais tomb, I had given serious thought to my needs. I have mentioned, Roisin, that I can abstain from feeding for very long periods; yet there is always a danger that a combination of long fasting coupled with a sudden rage can make me act carelessly.

I had decided that to lessen the chance of my making indiscriminate attacks on humans, the most sensible solution would be for me to avail myself of the services of a bordello, where from time to time I could take a little discreet nourishment without any lasting effect upon my companion of the evening.

Jeanmaire pursed his lips in a diplomatic smile. “I hear that the most popular establishment with gentlemen of quality is Madame Charmaine’s, close by to the Bois de Boulogne,” he said. He took a card from his pocket and scribbled an address on the reverse.

~ * ~

And so it was that I came back to settle in Europe for a number of years. Once established in Paris, I journeyed to Berlin where, in the alias of Le Comte de Ville, I rented a similar property and alternated my time between the two cities. Unlike a human, I need little in the way of material comfort and furnishings in my homes were kept to an essential minimum: a chair or two, table or desk, some bookcases.

I acquired books, subscribed to various popular journals and through various means I was able to smuggle much of my wealth and chattels from Transylvania. (I was pleasantly surprised that these were intact, for had I been in the shoes of Van Helsing and others I would have had little compunction in looting the castle. English gentlemen such as Godalming and Harker are strange: they will happily loot whole nations and yet leave the private property of a defeated enemy intact.)

To have once again a substantial library pleased me greatly and I resumed my studies: languages, history, politics, the arts and the sciences, I absorbed all with equal facility.

Within several weeks of taking residence in Paris I asked for an appointment to meet Madame Charmaine, the brothel keeper. Reaction at first was cool, the procurer—obviously with ideas far above her station—accepting visitors only on the basis of personal recommendation. By return I sent a sealed packet containing an appetite-whetting sum in
louis d’or,
which must have been sufficiently personal for the woman for she consented to meet with me almost immediately.

The establishment was in a large mansion house, florid and gaudy with many formally attired servants and a resident orchestra. Décor in the public areas was crimson and gilt rococo and the furnishings plush, the whole well lit by magnificent Italianate chandeliers. A pompous butler with a sergeant-major’s moustache and side whiskers led me to the proprietor’s sitting-room, which was in very much better taste.

Madame Charmaine herself was a handsome fleshy woman who would probably have made good feeding if that had been my agenda for her. But as with Jeanmaire, I needed her as a friend for now. She offered me an elegant hand which I took, fleetingly touching my lips to it. I saw that my letter with the small heap of gold coins lay on a fine Louis Quatorze desk at one side of the room.

“Please be seated, sir,” she invited and when I had taken a chair continued, “And how can I serve you, Herr ... Szekely?”

“I wish to purchase occasional services in your house,” I told her. “My needs and tastes are unusual and while not prepared to discuss them, I will pay handsomely. Before I proceed, are you prepared to accept me as a client?”

“M’sieu,
very many of my clients pay handsomely to satisfy bizarre needs and tastes,” the woman said. “My only conditions are that I am satisfied of your ability to pay and that none of my little ones suffer permanent damage.”

I placed a bag containing more gold in her lap and she blinked rapidly when she had loosened the drawstring and examined the contents. “As to the other condition,” I said. “You must accept the word of a ... gentleman. You will find that your employees may need to rest for several days after a visit from me, but my fees will compensate for their lost time.

“And now I must set certain conditions of my own.” She nodded acquiescence and I continued: “I will come here infrequently, perhaps three or four times a year and then only with ample notice. The sex of whichever employee you choose is immaterial but they must be young, strong and in perfect health. Do not deceive me on this point.

“Under no circumstances will I use the same employee twice. Whomsoever I patronize is to wear neither jewellery nor ornament of any kind, neither is the allocated chamber to have any kind of mirror, ornament or picture. For what I will pay you, I consider these conditions reasonable. I hold you personally responsible for checking them when I am to visit. Do not be tempted to act contrary to my instructions, for then you will incur my displeasure and I assure you, Madame, you would not enjoy that. I will contact you in the very near future; until then, I bid you goodnight.”

In time I made similar arrangements with a superior house in Berlin and so I lived for more than ten years, contented with my books and my studies and my occasional light feedings.

In my feedings I took every precaution to ensure that there would be no future embarrassments. I would place my companion in a deep trance and take little more than half-a-litre or so of blood. Then—satisfied if not sated—while my companion still slept I treated the wounds with holy water which I had bribed a mendicant to obtain for me. The water I kept in a gold flask and was very careful that it did not spill upon my own flesh.

It was in 1911 that the first sign of a long-term purpose altered my apparent course in life. I had paid one of my visits to the brothel and was about to leave when the butler approached. Bowing low, he told me that Madame wished to confer with me in private. This was a singular event. In the time that I had been visiting her house, we had made little contact which is how I had wanted it. We both adhered to our pact and the stated conditions and there was no reason for us to meet. At most we exchanged reserved greetings if we happened to pass each other on the stairway or in the salon.

With some asperity I agreed, and the servant led me to Madame’s sitting-room. When he had gone and the door was firmly closed, Madame Charmaine politely offered me a glass of wine. With equal courtesy I declined.

“Forgive me,” she said with a coquettish laugh. “But of course you do not wish for wine. After all, you have just feasted on blood, have you not?”

A surge of rage sprang into my breast, a feeling that I had not experienced for many years. In the old days, that emotion was the precursor to a frenzied killing. Controlling an impulse to rend and tear the impudent creature, I asked: “What do you mean by that?”

There was an audible tremor in her voice. “After all ... Herr Szekely…You are undead, are you not?”

I have heard that when fury shows in my face it is a frightening sight, demonic in its intensity. So must it be, for the woman flinched back from me, her face turning white beneath her mask of rouge. She edged her way to the desk and pulled an accursed cross from the drawer. With an effort I held back from her.

“What is this to be?” I snarled. “Extortion?”

“Not at all,
m’sieu!’
Her voice was terrified but she stood her ground, certain of the power of the object in her hand.

“Then what? And how did you know? I have conditioned your employees to remember nothing.”

“How did I know,
m’sieu?
After all these years? There were so many signs, and I am not ignorant of those.

“The pallor of your flesh and its dreadful chill that one time you kissed my hand. Never the same whore twice. Your insistence on the lack of personal and room decoration—terrified, I suppose, that you would be faced with a crucifix or a religious painting. Always the tiny scars on neck or breast or wrist, as if cauterization had taken place. It adds up. And besides, did you believe that you are the only “one?”

“What do you mean?” I stepped forward, prepared almost to risk the white-hot touch of her cross.

“One other of my regular clients is an undead,
m’sieu.
And he has once or twice brought a guest. He wishes to speak with you. He is here, in my boudoir. I will leave you together and you can rely on my total discretion. The other pays me well, has done so for more years than I have known you. I keep the cross only to ensure that he does not forget himself.”

In bygone days I had heard of other
Nosferatu
using human servitors, holding them in thrall with the promise of immortality to come. I have never done such a thing for I would not trust a human to that extent. The madman Renfield was an exception to my rule and then only as a means to an end, a dupe rather than a servant.

I stared intently at the woman until she nigh swooned with terror, then I nodded abruptly. She turned and tapped on the boudoir door before leaving the room, making sure to give me a very wide berth as she exited.

The inner door opened and a figure emerged. I can only imagine that what I saw was like gazing into a mirror. The man was tall and thin, with an aquiline nose, piercing eyes and full ruddy lips which showed a slight protrusion of sharply-pointed teeth. His shoulder-length hair, his small moustache and the neat Van Dyke beard were all iron-grey in colour. But whereas I favour all black raiment, the other was clad in a white ruffled evening shirt with scarlet trousers and smoking jacket. There could be no doubt, though; this man was
Nosferatu.

“Good evening.” He bowed his head slightly, one equal to another. “I take it that you have been using an alias here. Whom do I have the honour of addressing?”

I inclined my head in return. “I am Vlad Dracula, Prince of Wallachia.”

“Ah, I know of you. This is an honour for me, my lord Dracula; I had heard that you were destroyed but I take it that human cunning was no match for your own.” He smiled. “I am ... I was in life Armand Jean du Plessis, Cardinal Richelieu.”

“Vanity, vanity,” I muttered. “I have always supposed myself to be alone, save for my offspring and they are now destroyed.”

Richelieu gestured me to a chair, waiting with respect until I was seated before sitting down himself. “No, not alone, although there are but few of us,” he said. “I am in regular correspondence with the others, all men of power in their lifetimes. In your Transylvanian mountain fastness you were isolated—the others of us were rather more at the centre of things, being in European countries of international importance. We have been aware of your movements for several years now and your discretion has been exemplary.”

“And who else is there?” I asked.

“Perhaps six or seven, though we constantly watch out for others. But their quality and lineage must be perfect. Although unaware of your true name, your conduct indicated to us that your antecedents were almost certainly noble. Undead of lesser status we destroy as unworthy, although they are few now. And who have we among us? Well, in Italy there are the Borgias, Rodrigo and Cesare. In Germany my contemporary Wallenstein of Bohemia, in Russia Gudonov, the Spaniard Torquemada, a couple of others.” His smile was grim. “All of us combinations of princes, statesmen, warriors and religious leaders. How came we, I wonder, to be gifted with Unlife?

“Still, let us not concern ourselves with that for now—let us be thankful for what is.” His manner became businesslike. “I wished to meet with you, my lord Dracula, for two reasons. The first obviously being to ascertain your identity, to determine whether you should live or die.” Again, the grim little smile. “I am thankful that we did not have to pit ourselves against you, for I can only believe that you might well have prevailed.

“The second reason was to ask of you a special favour. It is that you leave France, for a very long time, if not necessarily forever. And to leave also any other place you may visit regularly in Europe.”

“Why should I?” I sneered. “Do you consider these lands to be exclusively your demesne?”

“Not at all, you misunderstand me,” Richelieu said, “Such is my respect for you that I would not have the temerity to stand against you. I ask you this for the common good. Please bear with me, lord Dracula, for what I have to say is of paramount importance.

“As I have said, we are few. And we are all old undead, discreet in our predations and careful to ensure, at this time, that we do not create any new Undead. In France and Germany at least, you have been acting in a similar way. For now, I believe it to be essential that we continue in this manner for the world is changing and rapidly.