Vintage Vampire Stories

by Robert Eighteen-Bisang

  “How can I help it?” she asked, calmly meeting my inquisitorial gaze, “do you think a sane person would choose to be imprisoned thus, and to be surrounded by the colour of death ever? Had mine not been a strong mind I would have been mad long ago.”

  “Mad!” I could not help ejaculating, in a puzzled tone.

  “Yes, mad,” she replied, “could you live here, month after month, in a hueless atmosphere and with nothing but that to look at,” and she pointed her slender finger toward the white wall, “could you, I ask, and retain your reason?”

  “I do not believe I could!” I answered, with sudden vehemence, “then again I repeat why do it?”

  “And again I reply, how can I help it?”

  I was silent. I was looking in the eyes of the beautiful being before me for a single trace of the madness I had been told of, but I could not find it. It was a lovely girl, pale and delicate from confinement, and with a manner that told of a weariness endured at least patiently. She was about twenty years old, perhaps, and the most perfect creature, I have already said, that I had ever beheld; and so we sat looking into each other’s, eyes; what mine expressed I cannot say, but hers were purity, and sweetness itself.

  “Who are you?” she asked, suddenly, “tell me something of yourself. It will be at least a change from this white solitude.”

  “I am a doctor, as you have guessed; and a rich and fashionable doctor,” I added smilingly.

  “To be either is to be also the other,” she remarked, “you need not have used the repetition.”

  “Come,” I thought to myself, “there is little appearance of lunacy in that observation.”

  “But you doubtless have name, what is it?”

  “My name is Elveston—Doctor Elveston.”

  “Your christian name?”

  “No, my christian name is Charles.”

  “Charles,” she repeated dreamily.

  “I think it is your turn now,” I remarked, “it is but fair that you should make me acquainted with your name, since I have told you mine.”

  “Oh! my name is d’Alberville—Blanche d’Alberville. Perhaps it was in consequence of my christian name that my poor uncle decided upon burying me in white,” she added, with a look round the cold room, “poor old man!”

  “Why do you pity him so?” I asked, “he seems to me little to require it. He is strong and rich, and the uncle of Blanche,” I added, with a bow; but the compliment seemed to glide off her as if it had been a liquid, and she were made of glassy marble like one of the statues that stood behind her.

  “And you are a physician,” she said, looking wonderingly at me, “and have been in the Duke’s company, without discovering it?”

  “Discovering what, my dear young lady?”

  “That he is mad.”

  “Mad!” How often had I already ejaculated that word since I had become interested in this singular household; but this time it must assuredly have expressed the utmost astonishment, for I was never more confounded in my life; and yet a light seemed to be breaking in upon my bewilderment, and I stared in wondering silence at the calm face of the lovely maiden before me.

  “Alas, yes!” she replied, sadly, to my look, “my poor uncle is a maniac, but a harmless one to all but me; it is I who suffer all.”

  “And why you?” I gasped.

  “Because it is his mania to believe me mad,” she replied, “and so he treats me.”

  “But in the name of justice why should you endure this?” I cried, angrily starting to my feet, “you are in a free land at least, and doors will open!”

  “Calm yourself, my friend,” she said, laying her white hand on my arm, and the contact, I confess, thrilled through every nerve of my system, “compose yourself, and see things as they are; what could a young, frail girl like me do out in the world alone? and I have not a living relative but my uncle. Besides, would it be charitable to desert him and leave him to his own madness thus? Poor old man!”

  “You are an angel!” I ejaculated, “and I would die for you!”

  The reader need not be told that my enthusiastic youth was at last beginning to make its way through the crust of worldly wisdom that had hitherto subdued it.

  “It is not necessary that anyone should die for me; I can do that for myself, and no doubt shall ere long, die of the want of colour and air,” she said, with a sad smile.

  There is little use following our conversation to the end. I satisfied myself that there was really nothing wrong with her constitution, save the effects of the life she was obliged to lead; and I determined, instead of interfering, with her at present, to devote myself to the poor Duke, with a hope that I might be of service to him, and succeed in gaining the liberation of poor Blanche. We parted, I might almost say as lovers, although no words of affection were spoken; but I carried away her image entwined with every fibre of my heart, and in the deep sweetness of her lingering eyes I fancied I read hope and love.

  The Duke was waiting impatiently in the corridor as I left the lovely girl, and he led me into another apartment to question me eagerly. What did I think of the princess’s state of health? Had she shown any symptoms of uneasiness during my visit? As the old gentleman asked these questions he watched my countenance keenly; while on my part I observed him with deep interest to discover traces of his unfortunate mental derangement.

  “My dear sir, I perceive nothing alarming whatever in the state of your niece; she is simply suffering from confinement and monotony of existence, and wants nothing whatever but fresh air and amusement, and exercise; in short, life.”

  “Alas! you know that is impossible; have I not told you that her state precludes everything of the sort?”

  “You must excuse me, my friend,” I said, firmly, “I have conversed for a considerable time with the Princess d’Alberville, and I am a medical man accustomed to dealing with, and the observation of lunacy, and I give you my word of honour there is no weakness whatever in the brain of this fair girl; you are simply killing her, it is my duty to tell you so, killing her under the influence of some, to me, most unaccountable whim.”

  The duke wrung his hands in silence, but his excited eye fell under my steady gaze. It was apparently with a strong effort that he composed himself sufficiently to speak, and when he did his words had a solemnity in their tone that ought to have made a deep impression upon me; but it did not, for the sweetness of the imprisoned Blanche’s voice was still lingering in my ears.

  “You are a young man, Doctor Elveston; it is one of the happy provisions of youth, no doubt, to be convinced of its own infallibility. But you must believe that one of my race does not lie, and I swear to you that my niece is the victim of a most fearful insanity, which but to name makes humanity shudder with horror.”

  “I do not doubt that you believe such to be the case, my dear sir,” I said, soothingly, for I fancied I saw the fearful light of insanity in his glaring eye at that moment, “but to my vision everything seems different.”

  “Well, my young friend, do not decide yet too hastily.Visit us again, but God in mercy grant that you may never see the reality as I have seen it!”

  “And so I did repeat my visits, and repeat them so often and that without changing my opinion, that the Duke, in spite of his mania, began to see that they were no longer necessary. One day on my leaving Blanche he requested a few moments of my time, and drawing me into his study, locked the door. I began to be a little alarmed, and more particularly as he seemed to be in a state of great agitation; but as it appeared, my alarm of personal violence was entirely without foundation.

  He placed a chair for me, and I seated myself with all the calmness I could muster, while I kept my eyes firmly fixed upon his as he addressed me.

  “My dear young friend; I hope it is unnecessary for me to say that these are no idle words, for I have truly conceived an ardent appreciation of your character; yet it is absolutely necessary that I should put a stop to your visits to my niece. Good Heavens, what could I say—how
could I over forgive myself if any—any—”

  “I beg of you to go no farther, Duke,” I said, interrupting him. “You have only by a short time anticipated what I was about to communicate myself. If your words allude to an attachment between Blanche and myself, your care is now too late. We love each other, and intend, subject to your approval, to he united immediately.”

  Had a sudden clap of thunder reverberated in the quiet room the poor man could not have been more affected. He started to his feet and glared into my eyes with terror.

  “Married!” he gasped,“Married! Blanche d’Alberville wedded! Oh God!” and then he fell back into his chair as powerless as a child.

  “And why should this alarm you?” I asked. “She is youthful and lovely, and as sane, I believe in my soul, as I am myself. I am rich, and of a family which may aspire to mate with the best.You are her only relative and guardian, and you say that you esteem me; whence then this great distaste to hear even a mention of your fair ward’s marriage?”

  “She is not my ward!” he cried, hoarsely, and it seemed to me angrily, “her father and mother are both in existence, and destroyed for all time by the horror she has brought around them! But, my God, what is the use of speaking—I talk to a madman!” and he turned to his desk and began to write rapidly.

  There I sat in bewilderment. I had not now the slightest doubt but that my poor friend was the victim of monomania; his one idea was uppermost, and that idea was that his unfortunate niece was mad. I was fully determined now to carry her away and make her my wife at once, so as to relieve the poor girl from all imprisonment, to which there seemed no other prospect of an end. And my hopes went still farther; who could tell but that the sight of Blanche living and enjoying life as did others of her sex, might have a beneficial effect upon the poor Duke’s brain, and help to eradicate his fixed idea.

  As I was thus cogitating, the old gentleman rose from his desk, and handed me a letter addressed, but unsealed. His manner was now almost unearthly calm, as if he had come to some great determination, to which he had only been driven by the most dreadful necessity.

  “My words are wasted, Charles,” he said, “and I cannot tell the truth; but if you ever prized home and name, friends and family, mother or wife, send that letter to its address after you have perused it, and await its reply.”

  I took the letter and put it into my pocket, and then I took his hand and pressed it warmly. I was truly sorry for the poor old gentleman, who suffered, no doubt, as much from his fancied trouble as if it were the most terrible of realities.

  “I hope you will forgive me for grieving you, my dear sir; believe me it pains me much to see you thus. I will do as you wish about the letter. But oh, how I wish you could see Blanche with my eyes! To me she is the most perfect of women!”

  “You have never seen her yet!”—he responded, bitterly, “could you—dare you only once witness but a part of her actions under one influence, you would shudder to your very marrow!”

  “To what influence do you allude, dear sir?”

  “To that of colour—one colour.”

  “And what colour? have you any objection to name it?”

  “It is red!” and as the duke answered he turned away abruptly, and left me standing bewildered, but still unbelieving.

  I hastened home that day, anxious to peruse the letter given me by the duke, and as soon as I had reached my own study drew it from my pocket and spread it before me. It was addressed to the Prince d’Alberville, Chateau Gris, Melun, France; and the following were its singular contents :-

  DEAR BROTHER.-A terrible necessity for letting another into our fearful secret has arisen.A young gentleman of birth and fortune has, in spite of my assurances that she is insane, determined to wed Blanche. Such a sacrifice cannot be permitted, even were such a thing not morally impossible. You are her parent, it is then your place to inform this unhappy young man of the unspoken curse that rests on our wretched name. I enclose his address.Write to him at once.

  Your afflicted brother,

  “DE ROHAN”

  I folded up this strange epistle and despatched it; and then I devoted nearly an hour to pondering over the strange contradictions of human nature and more particularly diseased human nature. Of course I carried the key to this poor man’s strangeness in my firm conviction of his insanity, and my entire belief in the martyrdom of Blanche; yet I could not divest myself of all anxiety to receive it reply to this letter, a reply which I was certain would explain the Duke’s lunacy, and beg of me to pardon it. That is to say if such a party as the Prince d’Alberville existed at all, and I did not quite lose sight of the fact that Blanche had assured me that, with the exception of her uncle, she had not a living relative.

  It seemed a long week to me ere the French reply, that made my hand tremble as I received it, was put into it. I had abstained from visiting my beloved Blanche, under a determination that I would not do so until armed with such a letter as I anticipated receiving; or until I should be able to say,“ample time for a reply to your communication has elapsed; none has come, give me then my betrothed.” Here then at last was the letter, and I shut myself into my own room and opened it; the words are engraven on my memory and will never become less vivid.

  “Sir,—you wish to wed my daughter, the Princess Blanche d’Alberville. Words would vainly try to express the pain with which I expose our—our horrible secret—to a stranger, but it is to save you from a fate worse than death. Blanche d’Alberville is an anthropophagus, already has one of her own family fallen victim to her thirst for human blood. Spare us if you can, and pray for us.

  “D’ALBERVILLE”

  I sat like one turned to stone, and stared at the fearful paper! An anthropophagus! A cannibal! Good heavens, the subject was just now engaging the attention of the medical world in a remarkable degree, in consequence of two frightful and well authenticated cases that had lately occurred in France! All the particulars of these cases, in which I had taken a deep interest, flashed before me, but not for one moment did I credit the frightful story of my beloved. Some detestable plot had been formed against her, for what vile purpose, or with what end in view I was ignorant; and I cast the whole subject from my mind with an effort, and went to attend to my daily round of duties. During the two or three hours that followed, and under the influence of the human suffering I had witnessed, a revolution took place in my feelings, God only known by what means induced; but when I returned home, to prepare for my eventful visit to the “white house,” a dreadful doubt had stolen into my heart, and filled it with a fearful determination.

  Having ordered my carriage and prepared the white suit, which I was now possessor of, I went directly to the conservatory, and looked around among the brilliant array of blossoms for the most suitable to my purpose. I chose the flaring scarlet verbena to form my bouquet; a tasteless one it is true, but one decidedly distinctive in colour. I collected quite a large nosegay of this flower, without a single spray of green to relieve its bright hue.Then I went to my carriage, and gave directions to be driven to Kensington.

  At the gate of the Duke’s residence I dressed myself in the white suit mechanically, and followed the usual servant into the house, carefully holding my flowers, which I had enveloped in newspaper. I was received as usual, also by the Duke, and in a few seconds we stood, face to face in his study. In answer to his look of fearful inquiry I handed him my French epistle, and stood silently by as he read it tremblingly.

  “Well, are you satisfied now?” he asked, looking me pitifully in the face, “has this dreadful exposure convinced you?”

  “No!” I answered, recklessly, “I am neither satisfied nor convinced of anything save that you are either a lunatic yourself, or in collusion with the writer of that abominable letter!” and as I spoke I uncovered my scarlet bouquet and shook out its blossoms. The sight of it made a terrible impression upon my companion; his knees trembled as if he were about to fall, and his face grew whiter than his garments.

&nbs
p; “In the name of heaven what are you going to do?” he gasped.

  “I am simply going to present my bride with a bouquet,” I said, and as I said so I laughed, an empty, hollow laugh. I cannot describe my strange state of mind at that moment; I felt as if myself under the influence of some terrible mania.

  “By all you hold sacred, Charles Elveston, I charge you to desist! Who or what are you that you should set your youth, and ignorance of this woman against my age and bitter experience?”

  “Ha ha!” was my only response, as I made toward the door.

  “By heavens, he is mad!” cried the excited nobleman, “young man, I tell you that you carry in your hand a colour which had better be shaken in the eyes of a mad bull than be placed in sight of my miserable niece! Fool! I tell you it will arouse in her an unquenchable thirst for blood, and the blood may be yours!”

  “Let it!” I cried, and passed on my way to Blanche.

  I was conscious of the Duke’s cries to the servants as I hurried up the broad staircase, and guessed that they were about to follow me; but to describe my feelings is utterly impossible.

  I was beginning now to believe that my betrothed was something terrible, and I faced her desperately, as one who had lost everything worth living for, or placed his last stake upon the cast of a die.

  I opened the well-known door of the white room, that seemed to me colder, and more death-like than ever; and I saw the figure of Blanche seated in her old way, and in her old seat, looking out of the window. I did not wait to scan her appearance just then, however, for I caught a glimpse of myself in a large mirror opposite, and was fascinated, as it were by the strange sight.

  The mirror reflected, in unbroken stillness, the cold whiteness of the large apartment, but it also reflected my face and form, wearing an expression that half awoke me to a consciousness of physical indisposition. There was a wild look in my pallid countenance, and a reckless air in my figure which the very garments seemed to have imbibed, and which was strangely unlike my usual calm propriety of demeanour. My coat seemed awry; the collar of my shirt was unbuttoned, and I had even neglected to put on my neck-tie; but it was upon the blood-red bouquet that my momentary gaze became riveted.