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It's Marie’s idea to hold a dinner party. As Louis’ only sister, she’s devoted herself to preserving what little is left of the former glory of the Pointe du Lac family when she isn’t busy doting over her husband. His name is Pierre, he is disgustingly handsome to the point of it being distracting, but has the personality of a piece of a loaf of bread.
Louis does not like him. He invites himself over every Sunday night all the same and insists they share drinks and secrets – brother-in-law to brother-in-law. Of course, these social visits end when one day Lestat accidentally enters the room, wearing nothing but an oversized white shirt and chatting rapidly about his plan to sneak into a staging of Romeo and Juliet.
At the end of the day, Louis never told Pierre any secrets. He dropped little stories about his old days, back when he would frequent bars and nearly fight duels. Nothing more than that – he doesn’t need Pierre to know about what really goes on between him and Lestat, and certainly not about his vampirism.
But then Marie decides she wants a dinner party, and it’s only six months after the death of their mother. Louis never went to her funeral, claiming a bout of malaria, and he can’t help but feel a little sorry for her. She shows up and cries, talking about how Mama used to hold dinner parties at least twice a year and how oh, shouldn’t they at least prove to New Orleans that the Pointe du Lacs are still alive?
They have this conversation while Lestat and his father sit in one of the upstairs bedrooms, carefully concealed. Lestat later complains about it. “Marie knows I exist! Why should I hide myself from her?”
“She doesn’t know about your father.”
“Oh, I’m sure she’s figured it out by now. He has a very strange scent, the one of an old man who’s one foot from rotting in his grave. She’s definitely caught it by now. It permeates even the strongest of perfumes.”
Sometimes, Lestat talks nonsense like that. Of course, Louis tries to avoid speaking to him in general – but he’s always there, prattling on about the piano or theatre or some ghastly plan of his to suck out the blood of as many civilians as possible. There is not a single thing he does not want. Thus, upon hearing the idea of a dinner party, he embraces it wholeheartedly.
“We shall serve geese!” he proclaims. “Geese and ducks and every sort of poultry out there. Is chicken refined? I don’t believe it to be, but perhaps if it is cooked correctly…”
“We are not having a dinner party.”
“Why not?”
“Because you and I do not eat food.”
Lestat laughs at this. “Whoever said you have to eat the food at a dinner party?”
“Is that not the purpose of such an event?”
Lestat laughs again, and it is infuriating. He is unaware that he has two different kinds of laughs – one for social situations, and the other for the privacy of the home. The latter is a high pitched giggle that resembles the death rattle of a hyena. “Oh, Louis,” he says. “You sweet misanthrope. No, a party is for the conversations! This will be the greatest night held by the Pointe du Lacs in years. I shall restore your family’s reputation!”
…
Louis doubts it, because Lestat sends out one hundred invitations only three days before the date of the actual party. He is careful in his selection of guests, only choosing to contact New Orleans’ finest families.
The invitations are handwritten, and due to the poor quality of Lestat’s handwriting he forces Louis to write them. Truth be told, Louis’ penmanship is also lacking. It is a subject of embarrassment for them both, and in the end they bite the bullet and send the invitations with deep sighs.
Louis thinks: This party will be nothing short of a disaster. Our family is not what we used to be. Marie will be so humiliated. Does she realize I am not human? God. Am I even real?
Lestat thinks: I simply adore parties. Should I wear my blue or black jacket?
…
New Orleans is a big city, but its wealthiest families behave as if they live in a small town. Simply put, they show up to the dinner party at Pointe du Lac because they enjoy gossip. Whatever is going on with Louis is the talk of the town. The chance to even glimpse his face is worth losing the hottest night of the summer.
The fact they get to see Lestat is even more exciting. Louis begs him to take his father and hide, but Lestat is adamant that this will never happen. When asked why, he shrugs. “I’m wearing my blue jacket! The people need to see it.”
So be it. Louis does think that the blue jacket looks good, sort of brings out the brightness in Lestat’s eyes. Not that he’d ever admit that. There’s a delicate balance that comes to managing Lestat, and it requires a mixture of careful compliments and insults. Enough to keep him from becoming a complete egotistical mess or an insecure child who stands by Louis’ coffin before he wakes, begging for opinions on things like the way he shines his shoes.
Actually, they are quite terrible to each other. Louis knows this as a fact. Both of them have done nothing to fix it because that would take work, and that would take far too much energy. It must be the lack of feeding that keeps Louis so sluggish. Some mornings he can hardly lift his head, and he has to muster up the courage to ask Lestat to help him.
In every way, they are completely even. That is why it hurts even more to see Lestat greeting guests at the door, smiling and gesturing wildly as they get themselves seated. He has a type of social grace that comes not with any training but rather a sort of savage instinct. Louis acknowledges this, and then ducks when old Madame Durand comes to his side.
“Louis!” she croons. “You have your father’s eyes. So sorry to hear about your mother. At least dear Marie is doing well.”
“Yes. Nice to see you, too.”
“My Bella had her nineteenth birthday last week. You ought to call on her sometime. She thinks you are dreadfully handsome.”
“Not too – not too dreadfully, I hope? Sit down, Madame Durand. The food will be out soon. Oh, Frances is here! Hello Frances!”
He could certainly be better at this.
He hasn’t seen Frances Alexandre since his eighth birthday party, either. But she has grown shockingly tall, with a broad face and a playful smile. Her hair is long and blonde, and her eyes gleam blue underneath her bright eyeshadow. “My, Louis de Pointe du Lac! I’m surprised you recognize me.”
“Of course I do.” He has her sit beside him, thus sandwiching him between her and Marie. From where he stands in the dining room, Louis can also see Lestat charming Babette Freniere’s mother. How ironic.
Marie and Pierre arrive shortly after. She gives Louis a hug, but Pierre excuses himself before the meal even starts and claims he has work to attend to.
When dinner is served, Louis makes a show of pushing his food around his plate. Lestat drinks cup after cup of “wine,” the claims that he ate before the party began. Still, some old woman manages to get a few bites of duck into him. Louis catches him spitting it out into his napkin, and can’t help but laugh at the sight.
He never liked duck even before he became a vampire. Food never tasted very good to him, and neither does blood. Still, it is a refreshing sight to see his guests enjoy their meals. Frances touches the back of Louis’ hand and proclaims that this is the best duck she has had in her entire life.
“You live in this grand house all alone, I heard,” she says. “Eating this brilliant food with no companion at all. How sad!”
He shrugs. “I have my friend Lestat.”
“I meant a woman, Louis.”
“Marriage is always on my mind. I simply lack the time and resources.” he lies.
Frances seems to find this hilarious. “The heart is a muscle!” she proclaims “And I don’t mean simply in physical strength – I mean in emotion, too. The more you love, the better you become at it.” She drops her voice. “I know you’ve taken girls by the docks. And I know what happened between you and Babette. I think you need someone new in your life.”
Frances means herself. Louis is tempted to reply with something equally as flirtatious, but then catches Lestat’s questioning glance across the table. He decides to not bother with any of Lestat’s outbursts today, and settles with giving Frances a weak smile.
…
Halfway through dinner, Louis goes up to his room to fetch a copy of Candide for Frances to borrow. She expresses a great interest in French literature, and converses intensely with Marie about her recent trip to Paris.
Louis has not yet reached the stairs when he hears the voice of Lestat’s father through the walls. “Son? Son?”
He is never quite sure how to deal with the old man. Louis cannot help but pity him, though Lestat either regards him with the angelic patience of a saint or the vengeance of Lucifer himself. Still, Louis goes back to the dining room and takes Lestat upstairs with him.
They settle in Marie’s old room while Louis explains the situation. “Your father’s calling for you. Has he had dinner? I will have a place at the table made for him. He can eat with the rest of us tonight.”
Lestat shakes his head. "Bring him a plate, nothing more."
"Lestat."
"I cannot have him telling the guests about me. And besides, he can hardly speak English.”
"It’s passable. The poor old man deserves to sit with everyone else."
“It may surprise you, but I do not always seek to humiliate you. I am doing this out of mercy for your reputation.”
"In that case, you must remember that we are in Louisiana. My guests know French."
"The old man is not very skilled at French, either." Lestat crosses his arms. "You'd know that if you spoke more than the Creole variant of the language. His native tongue is Occitan Auvergnat."
“So? His French is more than passable. An accent is nothing to be ashamed of.”
Lestat’s mouth falls open. “I cannot have him among these – these high society gentlemen and their glamorous wives, wearing tailored clothing twice the cost of this house. They will hear him speak and they will know.”
“Well –”
Louis does not have a chance to talk. Lestat has fully entered one of his rages. He reaches out and knocks a lamp to the ground with a deafening crash, then stomps his feet with a renewed vigor. “What will that do to your family name? What will that do to mine? They will know! He is a shriveled old man with half a brain and no eyes to speak of! You will bring him out there and let him humiliate us both? They will know!”
A long silence. Louis takes a heavy step back. “Lestat –”
“Did you not hear what I said?”
“Lord, let me speak!” he snaps back. “What do you mean when you say they will know? Know what, Lestat?”
All the air has left the room. Louis becomes distinctly aware that the guests are still downstairs, and he can hear their worried voices filtering upstairs. Oh God.
Meanwhile, Lestat is sinking to the floor with his hands covering his face. “The guests.”
Louis sighs. “Yes, the guests. What were you thinking, throwing a fit with these people around? I will speak with them. You must buy a new lamp for me. This was a good one.”
Truth be told, he doesn’t actually care about the lamp. However, it is nice to see irritation flit across Lestat’s narrow features.
...
Louis thinks: Lord almighty, Lestat is another one of his moods. Does he have no capacity for emotional regulation?
Lestat thinks: Lord almighty, does Louis have no capacity for empathy?
…
The guests are told that Louis’ cat knocked over a lamp, and that Lestat is busy cleaning the poor creature up. Most of them seem to buy it, although Marie grabs onto Louis’ arm and demands the truth. “You do not have a cat! You despise such creatures!”
“It is nothing to worry about.”
“Are you and Lestat quarreling?” She looks around to make sure that no one is listening, then hisses under her breath. “Pierre has told me some alarming stories about him. Is it true he walks around the house unclothed? It seems rather improper for two bachelor gentlemen.”
Louis almost bursts out laughing. He holds his tongue, however, and takes the time to swipe a stray strand of Marie’s hair behind her ear. “He is peculiar. I despise him at times. But he remains a dear friend to me.”
Marie considers this. Then, she frowns. “You are not – I mean, you would still like to marry someday? There are many good women in the French Quarter. It is unfortunate what happened with Babette Freniere, though I have heard that her sister’s husband has recently passed. The girl herself is still young and eligible.”
Louis’ heart sinks. He excuses himself from his seat and goes around putting together a plate of food for Lestat’s father.
…
Eventually, Lestat rejoins the dinner party with a tale of subduing a rabid kitten. He had it in his mind to drown it, he explains to his captive audience, and it was only the mercy in his heart and his faint memory of a childhood pet that kept him from putting the poor thing out of its misery.
Apparently, the feline has been sent off to a professional veterinarian located ten miles away. The guests seem enraptured by this tale. Go figure.
…
The party drops off around 3 AM. The guests grow tired and begin to yawn, then declare that they have had far too much wine and not enough sleep. A haze of alcohol-induced mildness drifts over the party, and it is useful at subduing any guest who points out that Louis has not eaten a single bite. When Frances brings Louis a plate of duck – “Haven’t eaten all night, poor thing, you’re far too thin!” – he simply offers her another glass of wine.
Madame Durand is the first to leave. At the door, she kisses both of Louis' cheeks. "A delightful night, darling," she croons. "You must hold more of these. Tell Lestat I shall expect both you and him at the debutante ball next Friday. We require eligible bachelors for the girls."
Louis smiles between gritted teeth. "It would be my honor."
"Oh, of course." She gives his cheek another kiss. If it's evident how cold his face is, she doesn't show it. Instead, she is off in a flurry of skirts and perfume.
Frances is next. "I worry about you," she says into Louis' ear when she hugs him goodbye. "Let me know if you get lonely, yes?"
"I shall send a raven to your window," he jokes. She laughs, but lets her hands linger on his arm as she walks towards the door.
The rest of the guests leave mostly without incident. One intoxicated young man attempts to kiss Lestat. Louis watches as he doesn't quite push him off – instead, he plays with him for a moment, tugging at his hair and straightening his collar. While doing this, he meets Louis’ eyes.
The intention is clear. Two can play the game. Yet Louis cannot help but feel annoyance rise hot and low beneath his ribcage.
By the time the last guest leaves, he heads upstairs to get some sleep. It has been a long night.
…
Before he can even think about settling in his coffin, he finds Lestat sitting on the balcony. He is still dressed in his clothes from the party, though his hair is loose and flows freely in the summer wind. He looks as if he’s very deep in thought. Probably formulating his next scheme, Louis thinks. But that doesn’t stop him from walking over and sitting down beside him.
“Is Frances a good friend?” Lestat says with a raised eyebrow.
“Could ask the same question about John-Baptiste.”
“Who?”
“That boy.”
“Oh, yes. He’s a great friend of mine. In fact, I might marry him next weekend.” Lestat crosses his arms and makes a face. It is absolutely ridiculous.
Louis decides to scoff in response to this. Lestat takes mortal offense. They spend around two minutes glaring at one another, until Lestat reaches out and kicks Louis lightly on the ankle.
“You love me.”
“I do not.”
“Well, you certainly love something. What is it? Frances with the ugly dress?”
The question sits unanswered for a moment that stretches between the two of them, filling up the space between their individual bodies with old arguments. Deep in his heart, Louis wishes he could grab them and throw them off the balcony. But he knows Lestat wouldn’t feel that way – he loves going over each sentence over and over, diagramming each insult out to a science. It’s an obsession for him.
Two inches away, Lestat thinks that perhaps if Louis were more clear about his intentions, he would think about them less.
“I love that I hate you,” Louis says at last. “Because at least – at least it proves I can still feel something.”
The night is beginning to fade into morning and the air is quiet.
Louis thinks: I want to kiss him. But I cannot bring myself to stoop that low. At least, not tonight.
Lestat thinks: I want to kiss him. But he would probably push me off. Besides, I am still mad at him. He is not even that good-looking. It is just the dark hair. God. Aren’t I predictable?
Neither of them makes the first move. The night passes as all nights do, and life goes on.