Danse Macabre

When everything else is gone, death is what survives. 

- Jed McKenna

Catherine sat quietly at the edge of the dance hall, eagerly awaiting an invitation to dance the Viennese Waltz. 

Sparkling crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their candles filling the hall with a radiant yellow glow. The flickering flames seemed to dance with the gentlemen and ladies as they waltzed cheerfully across the polished pine floor.

Catherine maintained her composure in an effort to appeal to potential suitors, even though the corset of her gown was deathly uncomfortable and made it difficult for her to breathe. Hoping to quell the woozy feeling, she flapped her ivory-handled fan as though she were a fledgling trying to keep itself airborne, the warm air feeling only marginally cool against her flushed skin.

Catherine scanned the ballroom, and then noticed a handsome gentleman moving slowly towards her, a slender smile across his face. He stopped in front of her and bowed, his well-combed black hair slightly falling across his forehead.

He wore a black tailcoat and black trousers. His necktie was light blue — an unusual departure from the traditional white color typically worn by men. He had a queer air about him.

His black eyes penetrated hers as he offered her his hand. “May I have the pleasure of this dance?” he said in a pleasing French accent.

Catherine swallowed her excitement and nodded gently, placing her gloved hand into his. As she stood, her lavender satin gown ruffled open into its soft bell shape, its pearl-white trim matching her long, silken gloves. She curtsied as she stood, and the golden curls framing her pale, delicate face gleamed in the warmth of the candlelight.

Now that the formalities were out of the way, the two began their waltz. As they danced, Catherine surrendered herself to the effortless movements of this dark stranger.

“Forgive me, Miss,” he began in a soft voice, “but I have not seen you here before. And I have seen everyone.” His melodic words entranced her as he spoke. “Allow me to introduce myself. They call me Duke Pierre Morte.”

“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Duke Morte,” Catherine said, smiling sweetly. “This is my first ball,” she added shyly, “and that is surely why you have not seen me here before.”

“I would remember such a…vital face as yours, Miss Catherine. So fresh with life, you are.”

Catherine tried to hide her infatuation for the handsome Duke Morte, but she feared that the fire in her cheeks gave her away.

“Pierre Morte,” Catherine said aloud. “Pardon my saying so, but what a curious name it is.”

“Yes,” the dark man replied. “Morte is my legacy, Miss Catherine. It is the legacy of every man, woman, and child…a legacy that cannot be escaped.” He paused, and then continued. “Dancing with me is a danse macabre,” he smiled, his eyes wide like a feral cat.

“I’m not certain I understand,” Catherine said.

“Where do you think you are, my dear?” he pressed gently.

Catherine looked around, uneasily. “I—I…well…I mean…the ball, of course,” she said.

“And how did you come to find yourself here, Miss Catherine?”

“Well…I…I’m not…I was…and then I was…” she spoke as though trying to piece a puzzle together in her mind. “I…I’m afraid I don’t know,” she said finally.

The music ended and Duke Morte stopped in his tracks, the two standing together at the center of the ballroom. Without a word, the people in the ballroom all turned toward Catherine. As she looked around, Catherine saw the faces of Dukes and Lords and Kings and Queens and beggars and common folk. Each stood, as still as a statue, their eyes fixed on her.

A heavy chill rolled through the air. “What is this?” Catherine said fearfully, clinging to Pierre’s coat sleeves. “What’s going on, Duke Morte?”

“My dear Catherine,” he said kindly, placing an ice cold hand on her face, “you have just had your dance with death.”