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The building was whole and itself.
I think the building liked having been stripped to its nineteenth-century essentials; even the naked beamed ceilings, though neverbuilt for exposure, were nevertheless beautiful without plaster, theirwood dark and heavy and level because all the carpentry of thoseyears had been done with such care.
The stairway was original. I had walked up a thousand such builtin New Orleans. This building had at least five. I knew the gentlecurve to each tread, worn down by the feet of children, the silky feelof the banister which had been waxed countless times for a century. Iknew die landing which cut directly against an exterior window,ignoring the shape or existence of the window, and simply bisecting thelight which came from the street outside.
When I reached the second floor, I realized I was at the doorwayof the chapel. It had not seemed such a large space from outside.
It was in fact as large as many a church I'd seen in my years. Sometwenty or so pews were in neat rows on either side of its main aisle.
The plastered ceiling was coved and crowned with fancy molding.
Old medallions still held firmly in the plaster from which, no doubt,gasoliers had once hung. The stained-glass windows, thoiigh withouthuman figures, were nevertheless very well executed, as thestreetlamp showed to good advantage. And the names of the patrons werebeautifully lettered on the lower panes of each window. There was nosanctuary light, only a bank of candles before a plaster Regina Maria,that is, a Virgin wearing an ornate crown.
The place must have been much as the Sisters had left it when thebuilding was sold. Even the holy water fount was there, though it hadno giant angel to hold it. It was only a simple marble basin on a stand.
I passed beneath a choir loft as I entered, somewhat amazed at thepurity and symmetry of the entire design. What was it like, living in abuilding with your own chapel? Two hundred years ago I had kneltmore than once in my father's chapel. But that had been no morethan a tiny stone room in our castle, and this vast place, with its oldoscillating electric fans for breeze in summer, seemed no lessauthentic than my father's little chapel had been.
This was more the chapel of royalty, and the entire conventseemed suddenly a palazzo梤ather than an institutional building. Iimagined myself living here, not as Dora would have approved, but insplendour, with miles of polished floors before me as I made my wayeach night into this great sanctuary to say my prayers.
I liked this place. It flamed into my mind. Buy a convent, make ityour palace, live within its safety and grandeur in some forgottenspot of a modern city! I felt covetous, or rather, my respect for Doradeepened.
Countless Europeans still lived in such buildings, multi-storeyed,wings facing each other over expensive private courts. Paris had itsshare of such mansions, surely. But in America, it presented a lovelypicture, the idea of living here in such luxury.
But that had not been Dora's dream. Dora wanted to train herwomen here, her female preachers who would declare the Word ofGod with the fire of St. Francis or Bonaventure.
Well, if her faith were suddenly swept away by Roger's death, shecould live here in splendour.
And what power had I to affect Dora's dream? Whose wisheswould be fulfilled if I somehow positioned her so that she acceptedher enormous wealth and made herself a princess in this palace? Onehappy human being saved from the misery which religion can soeffortlessly generate?
It wasn't an altogether worthless idea. Just typical of me. To thinkin terms of Heaven on Earth, freshly painted in pastel hues, flooredin fine stone, and centrally heated.
Awful, Lestat.
Who was I to think such things? Why, we could live here likeBeauty and the Beast, Dora and I. I laughed out loud. A shiver randown my back, but I didn't hear the footsteps.
I was suddenly quite alone. I listened. I bristled.
"Don't you dare come near me now," I whispered to the Stalkerwho was not there, for all I knew. "I'm in a chapel. I am safe! Safe asif I were in the cathedral."I wondered if the Stalker was laughing at me. Lestat, you imaginedit all.
Never mind. Walk up the marble aisle towards the CommunionRail. Yes, there was still a Communion Rail. Look at what is beforeyou, and don't think just now.
Roger's urgent voice was at the ear of my memory. But I lovedDora already, didn't I? I was here. I would do something. I wasmerely taking my time!
My footsteps echoed throughout the chapel. I let it happen. TheStations of the Cross, small, in deep relief in plaster, were still fixedbetween the stained-glass windows, making the usual circuit of thechurch, and the altar was gone from its deep arched niche梐nd therestood instead a giant Crucified Christ.
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