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datatime: 2022-09-26 03:49:27 Author:uCOuUFiY

I was startled. I remembered her stricken expression years ago when they'd brought me back from the Italian troupe. I looked at her for a long moment. She sounded almost angry in her persuasiveness.

I love you for it, she said.It's all too like you that you should see this in a tiny bedroom in the inn late at night when you're drinking wine. And it's entirely like you to rage against it the way you rage against everything else.

We had had a priest for a little while who called it pagan. But they got rid of him fast enough. The farmers of our mountains kept to their old rituals. It was to make the trees bear and the crops grow, all this. And on this occasion, more than any other, I felt I saw the kind of men and women who could burn witches.

I was alone in my room and the whole household had gone down to the village at twilight for the big bonfire that was the custom every year on this evening.

I didn't answer her. I can't convey to you the frame of mind. I was still raw, trembling, and we had to talk about the fact that this living, breathing woman was going to stop living and breathing and start to putrefy and rot away, that her soul would spin into an abyss, that everything she had suffered in life, including the end of it, would come to nothing at all. Her little face was like something painted on a veil.

I didn't answer her. I can't convey to you the frame of mind. I was still raw, trembling, and we had to talk about the fact that this living, breathing woman was going to stop living and breathing and start to putrefy and rot away, that her soul would spin into an abyss, that everything she had suffered in life, including the end of it, would come to nothing at all. Her little face was like something painted on a veil.

I won't go, Mother. . .

Stop, Mother, I said, aware of how selfish I was being, but unable to hold back.And this time there'll be no gifts. Put the money away.

I won't go, Mother. . .

She listened and then she said,You're such a fighter, my son. You never accept. Not even when it's the fate of all mankind, will you accept it.

I love you for it, she said.It's all too like you that you should see this in a tiny bedroom in the inn late at night when you're drinking wine. And it's entirely like you to rage against it the way you rage against everything else.

What, until I'm dead?

I want you to go to Paris, Lestat, she said.I want you to take this money, which is all I have left from my family. I want to know you're in Paris, Lestat, when my-time comes. I want to die knowing you are in Paris.

My mother came in, closed the door behind her, and told me that she must talk to me. Her whole manner was tenderness.

Sit down, she said. She pointed to the bench near the hearth. Reluctantly I did as I was told. She sat beside me.

I'm terrified of dying, she said. Her voice went almost dry.And I swear I will go mad if I don't know you're in Paris and you're free when it finally comes.

I can't I said miserably.

What, until I'm dead?

She even kissed me. She was frail in her faded dressing gown, and her hair was undone. I couldn't stand to see the streaks of gray in it. She looked starved.

What, until I'm dead?

I know, she said,that you and Nicolas are talking of running away.

What, until I'm dead?

And finally, on the first Sunday night of Lent, she came to me.

I didn't answer her. I can't convey to you the frame of mind. I was still raw, trembling, and we had to talk about the fact that this living, breathing woman was going to stop living and breathing and start to putrefy and rot away, that her soul would spin into an abyss, that everything she had suffered in life, including the end of it, would come to nothing at all. Her little face was like something painted on a veil.

Is it on account of my dying, what's come over you? she asked.Tell me if it is. And put your hands in mine.

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