The Count of La Rue Morgue sneered at his servant as the zombie entered, carrying the wine glass filled with dark, thick liquid. “You may go, Alfred.” The servant shuffled through the stone archway to the ajoining kitchen, within earshot should his Master call again. “It’s impossible to find good help these days,” said the Count, wiping crimson stains from the white lace of his shirt.
Laughter cut through the silence like shards of broken glass. “It’s impossible to imagine them ever leading a revolt against the aristocracy,” said the Countess. “The only brains in their heads are the ones they eat!”
Another creature said, “Don’t be so sure, my lady. The nobles of France thought the same thing before they lost their heads; did they not?”
“Oh, don’t remind me,” muttered the Count. “I’m still ambivalent about that revolution. All that glorious blood! But the rabble rising to overthrow their betters…The thought still sickens me.”
“Perhaps it’s not wise to keep so many,” said another guest. “Intelligent or not, we can still be outnumbered.”
Now it was the Countess’s turn to scoff. “Indeed! As if they would want what is in our heads! They only crave grey matter, Geoffrey, and living grey matter at that. What would a dull witted beast want from the emptying of our skulls?”
Revenge, thought Alfred, sharpening another blade.