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coffin. It wasn't locked. Its rotted wooden lid fell almost off the
hinges wheat I opened it. And though the old master had said he was
leaving me his treasure, I was flabbergasted by what I saw here. The
chest was crammed with gems and gold and silver. There were
countless jeweled rings, diamond necklaces, ropes of pearls, plate and
coins and hundreds upon hundreds of miscellaneous valuables. I ran
my fingers lightly over the heap and then held up handfuls of it,
gasping as the light ignited the red of the rubies, the green of the
emeralds. I saw refractions of color of which I'd never dreamed, and
wealth beyond any calculation. It was the fabled Caribbean pirates'
chest, the proverbial king's ransom. And it was mine now. More
slowly I examined it. Scattered throughout were personal and
perishable articles. Satin masks rotting away from their trimming of
gold, lace handkerchiefs and bits of cloth to which were fixed pins and
brooches. Here was a strip of leather harness hung with gold bells, a
moldering bit of lace slipped through a ring, snuffboxes by the dozens,
lockets of velvet ribbon. Had Magnus taken all this from his victims?
I lifted up a jewel-encrusted sword, far too heavy for these times, and a
worn slipper saved perhaps for its rhinestone buckle. Of course he had
taken what he wanted. Yet he himself had worn rags, the tattered
costume of another age, and he lived here as a hermit might have lived
in some earlier century. I couldn't understand it. But there were other
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objects scattered about in this treasure. Rosaries made up of gorgeous
gems, and they still had their crucifixes! I touched the small sacred
images. I shook my head and bit my lip, as if to say, How awful that
he should have stolen these! But I also found it very funny. And
further proof that God had no power over me. And as I was thinking
about this, trying to decide if it was as fortuitous as it seemed for the
moment, I lifted from the treasure an exquisite pearl-handled mirror.
I looked into it almost unconsciously as one often glances in mirrors.
And there I saw myself as a man might expect, except that my skin was
very white, as the old fiend's had been white, and my eyes had been
transformed from their usual blue to a mingling of violet and cobalt
that was softly iridescent. My hair had a high luminous sheen, and
when I ran my fingers back through it I felt a new and strange vitality
there. In fact, this was not Lestat in the mirror at all, but some replica
of him made of other substances! And the few lines time had given me
by the age of twenty years were gone or greatly simplified and just a
little deeper than they had been. I stared at my reflection. I became
frantic to discover myself in it. I rubbed my face, even rubbed the
mirror and pressed my lips together to keep from crying. Finally I
closed my eyes and opened them again, and I smiled very gently at the
creature. He smiled back. That was Lestat, all right. And there
seemed nothing in his face that was any way malevolent. Well, not
very malevolent, just the old mischief, the impulsiveness. He could
have been an angel, in fact, this creature, except that when his tears did
rise, they were red, and the entire image was tinted red because his
vision was red. And he had these evil little teeth that he could press
into his lower lip when he smiled that made him look absolutely
terrifying. A good enough face with one thing horribly, horribly
wrong with it! But it suddenly occurred to me, I am looking at my
own reflection! And hadn't it been said enough that ghosts and spirits
and those who have, lost their souls to hell have no reflections in
mirrors? A lust to know all things about what I was came over me. A
lust to know how I should walk among mortal men. I wanted to walk
in the streets of Paris, seeing with my new eyes all the miracles of life
that I'd ever glimpsed. I wanted to see the faces of the people, to see
the flowers in bloom, and the butterflies. To see Nicki, to hear Nicki
play his music-no. Forswear that. But there were a thousand forms of
music, weren't there? And as I closed my eyes I could almost hear the
orchestra of the Opera, the arias rising in my ears. So sharp the,
recollection so clear. But nothing would be ordinary now. Not joy or
pain, or the simplest memory. All would possess this magnificent
luster, even grief for things that were forever lost. I put down the
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mirror, and taking one of the old yellowed lace handkerchiefs from the
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