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〃Why do you love me after all I've done to you？〃 he asked。 There was no denying the beauty of his smooth poreless sun…darkened skin； and even as the dark slit of the empty socket seemed to peer at me with some secret power to relay its vision to his heart。 He was handsome and radiant； a darkish ruddy glow ing from his face as though he'd seen some powerful mystery。
〃Yes； but I have；〃 he said； and now began to cry。 〃I have； and I must tell you everything。 Believe me； as you believe what you saw last night； the wildflowers clinging still to my hair； the cuts…look； my hands； they heal but not fast enough…believe me。〃
You intervened then； David。 〃Tell us； Lestat。 We would have waited here forever for you。 Tell us。 Where did this demon Memnoch take you？〃 How forting and reasonable your voice sounded； just as it does now。 I think you were made for this； for reasoning； and given to us； if I may speculate； to force us to see our catastrophes in the new light of modern conscience。 But we can talk of those things for many nights hereafter。
Let me return to the scene； the three of us gathered in the black…lacquered Chinese chairs around the thick glass table； and Dora ing in； at once struck by the presence of him； of which her mortal senses hadn't given her a clue； a pretty picture with her short gleaming knavish black hair； cut high to show the fragile nape of her swanlike neck； her long supple body clad in a loose ungirdled gown of purple red tissue that folded itself about her small breasts and slender thighs exquisitely。 Ah； what an angel of the Lord； this； I thought musing； this heiress of the druglord Father's severed head。 She teaches doctrines with every step that would make the pagan gods of lust canonize her with glee。
About her pale sweet throat she wore a crucifix so tiny it seemed a gilded gnat suspended from a weightless chain of minuscule links woven by fairies。 What are such holy objects now； tumbling on milky bosoms with such ease； but trinkets of the marketplace？ My thoughts were merciless； but I was but an indifferent cataloger of her beauty。 Her swelling breasts； their shadowy cleft quite visible against the simple stitching of her dark low…cut dress； told more of God and Divinity。
But her greatest adornment in these moments was the tearful and eager love for him； her lack of fear of his mutilated face； the grace of her white arms as she enclosed him again； so sure of herself and so grateful for the gentle yielding of his body in towards her。 I was so thankful that she loved him。
〃So the Prince of Lies had a tale to tell； did he？〃 she asked。 She could not kill the quaver in her voice。 〃So he's taken you to his Hell and sent you back？〃 She took Lestat's face in her hands and turned it towards her。 〃Then tell us what it was； this Hell； tell us why we must be afraid。 Tell us why you are afraid； but I think it's something far worse than fear that I see now in you。〃
He nodded his head to say that it was。 He pushed back the Chinese chair； and wringing his hands he began to pace； the inevitable prelude to his tale telling。
〃Listen to all I say； before you judge；〃 he declared； fixing us now； the three who crowded about the table； an anxious little audience willing to do whatever he asked of us。 His eyes lingered on you； David； you； the English scholar in your manly tweed； who in spite of love abundantly clear beheld him with a critical eye； ready to evaluate his words with a wisdom natural to you。
He began to talk。 Hour by hour he talked。 Hour by hour the words streamed out of him； heated and rushing and sometimes tumbling over one another so that he had to stop and catch his breath； but he never really paused； as he poured it out over the long night； this tale of his adventure。
Yes； Memnoch the Devil had taken him to Hell； but it was a Hell of Memnoch's devising； a Purgatorial place in which the souls of all who had ever lived were wele to e of their own accord from the whirlwind of death which had inherited them。 And in that Purgatorial Hell； confronted with all the deeds they'd ever done； they learnt the most hideous lesson of all； the endless consequences of every action ever mitted by them。 Murderer and Mother alike； vagrant children slaughtered in seeming innocence and soldiers bathed in blood from battlefields； all were admitted to this awful place of smoke and sulfurous fire； but only to see the gaping wounds in others made by their wrathful or unwitting hands； to plumb the depths of other souls and hearts which they had injured！
All horror was an illusion in this place； but the worst horror of all was the person of God Incarnate； who had allowed this Final School for those who would be worthy to enter His Paradise。 And； this too Lestat had seen； the Heaven glimpsed a million times by saints and deathbed victims； of ever blooming trees and flowers eternally sweet and endless crystal towers of happy； happy beings； shorn of all flesh and one at last with countless choirs of singing angels。
It was an old tale。 It was too old。 It had been told too many times； this tale…of Heaven with her open gates； and God Our Maker sending forth His endless light to those who climbed the mythic stairs to join the celestial court forever。
How many mortals waking from a near death sleep have struggled to describe these same wonders！
How many saints have claimed to have glimpsed this indescribable and eternal Eden？
And how cleverly this Devil Memnoch had laid out his case to plead for mortal passion for his sin； that he and he alone had opposed a merciless and indifferent God； to beg that Deity to look down with passionate eyes on a fleshly race of beings who had by means of their own selfless love managed to engender souls worthy of His interest？
This； then； was the fall of Lucifer like the Star of Morning from the sky…an angel begging for the Sons and Daughters of Men that they had now the countenances and hearts of angels。
〃Give them Paradise； Lord； give it to them when they have learnt in my school how to love all that you have created。〃
Oh； a book has been filled with this adventure。 Memnoch the Devil cannot be condensed here in these few unjust paragraphs。
But this was the sum of what fell on my ears as I sat in this chilly New York room； gazing now and then past Lestat's frantic； pacing figure at the white sky of ever falling snow； shutting out beneath his roaring narrative the rumble of the city far below； and struggling with the awful fear in myself that I must at the climax of his tale disappoint him。 That I must remind him that he had done no more than shape the mystic journey of a thousand saints in a new and palatable fashion。
So it is a school that replaces those rings of eternal fire which the poet Dante described in such degree as to sicken the reader； and even the tender Fra Angelico felt pelled to paint； where naked mortals bathed in flame were meant to suffer for eternity。
A school； a place of hope； a promise of redemption great enough perhaps to wele even us； the Children of the Night； who counted murders among their sins as numerous as those of ancient Huns or Mongols。