Dracula: The Un-Dead. Ian Holt
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“Thank you for everything, Henri,” Seward said, forcing a smile.
“Bon chance, mon ami.”
Henri kissed Seward on both cheeks and pumped his hand.
Seward watched as Henri ran off toward the road. He knew this could well be the last time he’d set eyes upon his friend’s cheery face. He could think of no words more meaningful, so he kept his farewell simple and called out as he waved, “Good-bye, old friend!”
Seward turned in the opposite direction and checked his pocket watch. There was barely enough time to return to his room, gather his arsenal, and double back southward to the theatre. He would meet Bathory and her harpies fully armed. As the sun continued to set, he stopped to stare at the magnificent color in the heavenly sky. For too long, he had taken such grandeur in the natural world for granted, living alone in darkness. Tonight, he was glad, one way or the other, that he would at last bask beside God in His light.
Quincey arrived early at l’Odéon to purchase his ticket and took his time walking through the foyer of the old theatre. Each wall was adorned with busts, medallions, and portraits of actors. He drank them all in, recognizing a large portrait of Sarah Bernhardt mounted in a gold-leafed frame. Beneath the photo were her name and the title: La reine de l’Odéon. Quincey stopped at the photograph of Sir Henry Irving from his touring production of Hamlet. Irving was considered by most to be the greatest actor ever to voice Shakespeare’s prose. Most actors used their talent to affect the emotions of their audience through the strength of their own emotions. They watched for opportunities to tear the heartstrings of their listeners. In contrast, Irving approached a character from an intellectual perspective, taking into account the author’s intention and the character’s personal history. Though greatly ridiculed by other actors, Irving’s new approach captivated audiences. Much of the press said the same of Basarab; one reviewer had even raved that Basarab had inherited the mantle of “World’s Greatest Actor” from Sir Henry Irving.
Quincey became aware that he was still holding the envelope that he had carefully put together. He had purchased fine writing paper and paid a few francs for a local street artist to decorate the envelope with theatre masks in blood red. With fine calligraphy, an art he’d learned from his mother, Quincey addressed the envelope: To Basarab—from Quincey Harker, Esq. After seeing the pandemonium of adoring fans the night before, Quincey needed to make his envelope stand out from the countless other letters of admiration Basarab was sure to receive. He hoped that it would look important, and prayed it was not too much.
Quincey saw a short, elderly, uniformed man with a large set of keys in one hand and an electric torchlight in the other. Quincey knew this must be the head usher.
“Excuse me,” he said, extending the envelope toward him. “Could I ask you to deliver this backstage for me?”
The head usher read the name on the envelope, shook his head, and answered simply, “Non.”
Quincey’s mind raced. “Very well, I must speak to Monsieur Antoine at once.”
“André Antoine? He cannot be disturbed.”
“I think the theatre manager would like to know why Basarab won’t be performing tonight.”
The head usher studied Quincey. “What are you talking about?”
“Monsieur Basarab is expecting this letter. He is so anxious, I fear that he may be too distraught to perform if he doesn’t receive…”
“Very well,” the head usher interrupted, stretching out his hand. “I will take it to him.”
“Merci.” As Quincey gave him the envelope, the head usher’s hand remained outstretched until Quincey gave him some money. Then the man retreated. The lie had come so easily to Quincey.
Quincey turned to see that the wealthy and cultured, dressed in their best evening attire, had begun to pour into the opulent theatre. He knew that most of them were here to be seen rather than to see the play. Many of them shared his father’s view that actors were vagabonds and heathens. Hypocrites. His father was the worst of them; he seemed to have forgotten he was the son of a cobbler, a mere clerk at law fortunate enough to inherit the firm upon the death of its owner, Mr. Hawkins. The senior partner, Mr. Renfield, who had been destined to inherit the firm, had committed suicide in an insane asylum. Quincey suddenly felt a cold sensation as if the temperature in the room had dropped significantly. He glanced about, wondering where such a blast of cold could have come from, when a striking vision caught his eye. A woman had entered the foyer, towering over all others. The nearby crowd hurled disapproving glares. She was dressed like a man, in an extremely well-fitted dinner jacket.
Elizabeth Bathory could hardly believe this was le Théâtre de l’Odéon. She rested her hand on the gilded column as she looked about the theatre. The last time she had been here was March 18, 1799. The night of the great fire. The theatre rebuilt seemed smaller now. She glanced upward at the glass painting on the ceiling, which was illuminated by new electrical lights. In Michelangelo-style artistry, the painting depicted dancing women who seemed to be floating in the air. Some of the women were cloaked in virginal white flowing robes, chaste and angelic, but most were in various forms of undress, and yet appeared more like little girls than women capable of desire. Of course, the artist did not understand that women were sexual beings, with needs like men. Only a God-fearing man would depict a woman with such contempt.
Bathory’s eyes were fixed on the image of a raven-haired young maiden running with her white robe carelessly trailing behind her as if she had not a worry in the world. Bathory knew well enough from her own dark past that such a creature did not exist.
A fifteen-year-old Elizabeth Bathory had gasped in horror as her bejeweled wedding gown had been ripped violently from her body. Her terrified eyes had looked up at her assailant as he groped her breasts—her new husband, Count Ferenc Nádasdy, a fat, drunken slob of a man more than twenty years her senior.
“You are my wife…As such you have an obligation to God to consummate this marriage…Bathory!” slurred Nádasdy, and his wine-drenched breath was rancid. The way he emphasized her surname confirmed he was still outraged that she was allowed to retain her maiden name since her family was more powerful than his. When she didn’t move quickly enough, he struck her backhanded across her face, the full weight of his girth behind the blow. The signet ring on his hand had cut her lip. She tried to scream, but the bastard covered her mouth. She could still smell the manure since he had not cared to wash his hands after coming in from the fields. That had been the very first time she tasted blood and it had been her own.
In her youth, she had read countless books and poems written in Hungarian, Latin, and German. The stories always portrayed “romance” as a magical fairy tale sealed with a kiss. At fifteen she knew nothing of sexual intercourse or the pain of losing one’s virginity. Such things were meant to be handled gently and with care. Every young girl dreamed of their wedding day. But for Bathory the dream had become a living nightmare from which she could not wake up.
Hers was an arranged marriage, to secure military alliances and lands; romance had no part in it. For Count Nádasdy, she was nothing more than a bucking mare to be broken. Every orifice in her body became his plaything. Her flesh meant no more to him than paper to rend and tear.
After the fat oaf had fallen at last into intoxicated slumber, Bathory had stolen away from her wedding chambers and tried to flee into the night. The Castle Csejthe, which was his wedding gift to her, was situated deep in the Carpathian Mountains. Unlike the lively, edifying estate where she had grown up in Nyírbátor, Hungary, this picturesque setting offered a bucolic tapestry of small fields and meandering stone walls. The castle itself was set high among the jagged outcrops of the frozen mountains. It was May, but at this altitude, it was as cold as winter. Bathory had stood naked, exposed, the freezing air soothing her wounds, her blood frosting on her skin. To freeze to death would surely be better than life with the grotesque monster to whom she had been given. But even in this, God had shown her no mercy. The servants ran from the castle and covered her with blankets. When she fought