Lost City - Cussler Clive - Страница 45
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chimes. The Bells. An ape was leaning against the bar, guzzling a martini. The Murders in the Rue Morgue. The ape was talking to an oversized beetle with a death's-head on his carapace. The Gold-Bug. Madame Fauchard not only had a sense of humor, Austin thought, she had an appreciation for the grotesque.
The music stopped and the room went silent. A figure stood in the doorway, about to enter the armory. Cavendish, who had returned with drink in hand, murmured, "Dear God!" He merged back with the other guests as if seeking the protection of the crowd.
All eyes were fixed on the tall woman who looked as if she had been exhumed from a grave. Blood splattered her long shroud and her gaunt white corpse's face. The lips were withered and the eyes set deep into skeletal sockets. There were gasps as she stepped into the room. She paused once again and stared into the eyes of each guest. Then she made her way across the floor as if she were floating on a cushion of air. She stopped in front of a giant ebony clock and clapped her hands. **
"Welcome to the Masque of the Red Death," she said in the clear voice of Racine Fauchard. "Please continue your celebration, my friends. Remember" her voice gaining a melodramatic quiver "life is fleeting when the Red Death stalks the land."
The wrinkled lips widened in a hideous smile. Nervous laughter rippled through the crowd and the quartet resumed its playing. Servants who had been frozen in midstride continued on their rounds. Austin expected Madame Fauchard to greet her guests, but to his surprise the apparition came his way and removed the grisly mask to reveal her normal cameo features.
"You look quite handsome in your belled cap and tights, Monsieur Austin," she said, a seductive inflection in her tone.
"Thank you, Madame Fauchard. And I've never met a more charming plague."
Madame Fauchard cocked her head coquettishly. "You have a
courtier's way with words." She turned to Skye. "And you make a lovely black cat, Mademoiselle Bouchet."
"Merci, Madame Fauchard," Skye said with a thin smile. "I'll try not to eat the string quartet, as much as I love mice."
Madame Fauchard studied Skye with the envy an aging beauty reserves for a younger woman. "They are rats, actually. I wish we had been able to give you more of a choice of costumes. But you don't mind playing the fool, do you, Mr. Austin?"
"Not at all. Court jesters once advised kings. Better to play the fool than to be one."
Madame Fauchard laughed gaily and glanced toward the doorway. "Bien, I see that Prince Prospero has arrived."
A masked figure dressed in tights and tunic of purple velvet, trimmed with gold, and a mask to match was making his way toward them. He removed his velvet cap with a flourish and bowed before Madame Fauchard.
"A lovely entrance, Mother. Our guests were properly terrified." "As they should be. I will pay my respects to the others after I talk to Mr. Austin."
Emil bowed again, this time to Skye, and took his leave. "You have interesting friends," Austin said, scanning the crowd. "Are these people your neighbors?"
"To the contrary. These are the remnants of the great arms families of the world. Immense wealth is represented in this room, all of it built on a foundation of death and destruction. Their ancestors fashioned the spear- and arrowheads that killed hundreds of thousands, built the cannon that devastated Europe in the last century and manufactured the bombs that leveled entire cities. You should be honored to be in such august company."
"I hope you won't be insulted when I say I'm not impressed." Madame Fauchard replied with a sharp laugh. "I don't blame you.
These prancing, chattering fools are decadent eurotrash living on the riches earned by the sweat of their forebears. Their once-proud companies and cartels today are nothing but faceless corporations traded on the New York Stock Exchange."
"What about Lord Cavendish?" Austin said.
"Even more pitiful than the others, because he has only his name and no riches. His family once held the secret of forged steel before the Fauchards stole it."
"What about the Fauchards? Are they immune from decadence?
"No one is immune, not even my family. That's why I will control Spear Industries as long as I live."
"Nobody lives forever," Skye said.
"What did you say?" Madame Fauchard's head snapped around and she pinioned Skye with eyes that blazed like fanned coals. Skye had made a casual observation and wasn't prepared for the heat in Madame Fauchard's reaction.
"What I meant to say is that we're all mortal." .
The flame in Racine's eyes flickered and died. "True, but some of us are more mortal than others. The Fauchards will prosper for decades and centuries to come. Mark my words. Now, if you'll excuse me I must tend to my guests. Dinner will be served shortly."
She replaced the hideous mask and glided off to rejoin her son.
Skye seemed shaken. "What was that all about?"
"Madame Fauchard is touchy about getting old. I don't blame her. She must have been a beauty in her day. She would have caught my eye."
"If you like making love to a corpse," Skye said with a toss of her head.
Austin grinned. "It seems the pussycat has claws."
"Very sharp ones, and I'd love to use them on your lady friend. I
don't know why you were so worried. I'm bored to pieces."
Austin had been watching the arrival of more servants. A dozen or so hard-looking men had slipped quietly into the armory and taken up positions next to every door leading in or out of the great chamber.
"Sit tight," Austin murmured. "I have a feeling that the real party has yet to begin."
CAVENDISH WAS superbly intoxicated. The Englishman had shoved his raven's beak onto the top of his head to allow his rosebud mouth unimpeded access to his wine goblet. He had been gurgling wine throughout the medieval-style dinner, washing down the exotic game dishes everything from lark to boar like a human garbage disposal. Austin picked at his food to be polite, took an occasional sip of wine and advised Skye to do the same. They would need clear heads if his instincts were on the mark.
As soon as the dessert dishes were removed, Cavendish staggered to his feet and tapped the side of his water glass with a spoon. All eyes turned in his direction. He raised his goblet. "I would like to offer a toast to our host and hostess."
"Hear, hear," his fellow guests replied in boozy acknowledgment, lifting their drinks as well.
Encouraged by the response, Cavendish smiled. "As many of you know, the Fauchard and the Cavendish families go back centuries. We all know how the Fauchards, ah, borrowed the Cavendish
process for forging steel on a mass basis, thus assuring their own rise while my people faded into the sunset."
"The fortunes of war," said the ape from The Murders in the Rue
Morgue.
"I'll drink to that." Cavendish took a swig from his goblet. "Unfortunately, or fortunately, given the tendency of Fauchards to meet fatal accidents, we never married into their family."
"The fortunes of love," said the woman draped in bells. The guests around the table roared their drunken approval.
Cavendish waited for the laughter to die down, then said, "I doubt if the word love was ever uttered in this household. Butawyone can love. How many families can boast that they single-handedly started the War to End All Wars?"
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