Ah Anne… this was my favourite discovery from Tulane. Because I write this Nicolas in terms of how he thinks & feels, I think (you’ll be the judge of that!) I know this Nicolas. Even though Anne took his words away… And Anne took his words from the final book, but she didn’t take his essence - she wrote these words once, and so they are still within the Nicolas on her pages, living inside him, even as he cannot speak them.
I understand why she removed them, why you might choose that Nicolas could never speak this truth… though it makes what happens this very night so much more poignant. The “Let’s go to bed.” Wasn’t there in this draft, just added in to replace the previous text.
So Nicolas and Lestat’s last words to each other as mortals would have been Nicolas begging Lestat not to forget him when he’s successful, and then asking him to never give up on him… And Lestat says he loves him too much… and then is gone forever that very night.
I love the first bit, too. Lestat claiming to have precious little imagination, then angrily adding coal to the fire, hehehe.
I think Nicolas could have spoken these words to Lestat. I think he could have spoken them exactly ONE time… alas…
He didn’t say them here… but he would have thought them. Imagine the pain of waking, and knowing you thought this, but never said it aloud.
"Ah, Lestat," he said. He sat back on the bench. He was smiling at me in the most endearing way. He looked wonderfully handsome. "Next you'll be seeing ghosts. You have the strongest imagination of anyone I've ever known."
"There are no ghosts," I think I answered softly. "And I have precious little imagination, in fact, I’m of such a practical nature that I can hardly endure the unknown as you know!” I scowled at our little fire. I laid a few more lumps of coal on it. I knew I'd have to open the window soon for a little air.
All the humour had gone out of Nicolas.
"How in the hell could he know about the wolves? And how could you..."
"I told you already, I don't know!" I said. I sat thinking and not saying anything, disgusted, maybe, at how ridiculous it all seemed.
And then as we remained silent together, and the fire was the only sound or movement in the room, the name, Wolfkiller, came to me very distinctly as if some one had spoken it.
I looked at Nicki, painfully aware that his lips had never moved, and I think all the blood drained from my face. I felt not the dread of death as I had on so many other nights, but an emotion that was really alien to me: fear.
I was still sitting there, too unsure of myself to say anything, when Nicolas kissed me gently.
"It's someone from one of the big theatres," he said, “And I want you to promise me one thing."
"What? " I asked. I half heard him. He kissed my cheek again.
“That when you’re a very famous actor and spend all of our time performing in the Queen's private theatre, you’ll still have a glass of wine with me now and then. We’ll meet at the Blind Cupid on the left bank and we’ll go on with ‘our conversation.'"
"After what you said last night?" I asked. “About being such an evil fellow? I wouldn't allow myself to be seen with you!"
He got sombre suddenly. Almost frighteningly so.
"Don't ever give up on me, Lestat,” he said.
"I love you too much," I whispered. "You know that."
(“Let's go to bed," he said.)
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