Dismay makes itself plain in the widening of Lestat's eyes, a look that would have been far more appropriate for the chapel itself than any other he adopted there. He goes so far to wince at Louis' mention of cremation, the rictus of distaste he would don for a sour note in a performance of a beloved composition.

"Mon cher," Lestat says, his accent inflected by all those long years of Louisiana French. He reaches out to touch the curve of Louis' jaw lightly, as if balancing a globe of spun glass on his fingertips. "Why speak of such things?"

He cannot help but wonder if Louis shared this dark wish with one of the mortals he's confided his true nature in. The image of Louis, stilled in eternal silence, butchered, consigned to flames by some indifferent human hand -

"Do you think our nature gives itself up to the poking and prodding of the natural philosopher? All they would find in our veins is death itself." He does not know if this is true, but there's a poetry to it that demands it to be so. The idea of all they are reduced to a mere scientific curiosity under glass revolts him.

"And I would dissect whoever dared to presume upon this beautiful body with their own knives. Also, I forbid you to die. You worry about such ridiculous ideas."