It is a strange thing: this buccaneer neither hunted nor fished, he had no gun nor any kind of tackle... but he kept a notebook and a pencil in his pocket, and he wrote verse... he wrote verse about love... he thought of nothing else but love!
Hideous to look at, he detested all women and he desired them all, too...
The affair that he had just concluded with Christine, which was really only the beginning, had somewhat disciplined his cerebral frenzy, but, before that, whenever he had found himself face-to-face with a woman, he had felt the desire to bite her just as strongly as the desire to kiss her... however, since he had never known a woman (so he said), no woman was in any danger from him (he claimed) because of the timidity that paralyzed him, from the first mere gesture, to the point of annihilation.
What we have reproduced of his memoirs seem to tell us quite enough about Benedict Masson (aside from the last scene with Christine, the scene of brutality, which he quickly smoothes over throughout the remainder of his memoirs).
Too bad for him, there were six women, who had entered his desolate villa, who were never seen again!
XVII
The Seventh
This succession of disappearances had struck more than one person in the countryside as odd. At first they were amused, then they began to gossip behind his back; then, finally, after they had not seen Benedict Masson for months on end, they found other things to talk about. But there was one among them who was always thinking about these disappearances.
He was known as old Violette.
Old Violette was a gamekeeper by trade, as long as someone was prepared to do him the honour of putting him in charge of this important function... Unfortunately, the hunters’ clubs had shunned the swamps around Corbillères for many years – and so old Violette had become a poacher instead. In every way, he was a man worth knowing. You could always be sure of obtaining some game birds from him.
Old Violette had nothing about him that would remind you of the spring flower whose name he bore; he had neither freshness, nor perfume, nor modesty. He was the biggest talker on the subjects of hunting and fishing you could possibly listen to: for that reason, he thought that the land belonged to him; no-one could cross this part of the countryside without his eyes following the interloper who had penetrated his domain.
He always dressed in the same fashion: in old corduroy culottes that had very little colour left in them; riding boots; a waistcoat that was little more than pockets, from which he would pull kilometres of fishing line and extraordinary pieces of fishing tackle; a hunting sack that never left his shoulder, even when he wasn’t carrying a rifle (in which case, you could be sure that his rifle was never far away); a pipe, which looked more like a piece of glowing coal between his dry lips, over which hung his yellowish moustache, singed by the ardent coal; a face shaped like a billhook, with big ears that moved; nostrils that always sniffed at the wind, like a hunting dog... and little green eyes that could see over incredible distances, between long albino lashes. There was no-one else here that could ambush a hawk like he could, or massacre a flock of wild ducks by luring them to his hiding place, by means of a train of floating dummies, on those clear evenings when the big flights gather...
He lived in a hut among the tadpoles, as he called the pale willows with their trunks half-open, like slit throats, which grew in two lines along the edge of the marsh. He lived in a domain that was half-terrestrial and half-aquatic, among gladioli, arrowheads, and reeds... He had a boat, and a fenced-off fish pond where black perch lurked and foolish squadrons of silver ablets darted...
He detested Benedict Masson for a number of reasons. The strongest of these was that he, on one occasion, had caused old Violette to lose the opportunity to become almost a proper member of the landed bourgeoisie, on a real country estate, with a cottage fit for a true gamekeeper, when he, Benedict that is, had refused to sell his cottage to a ‘bigwig’ who asked for nothing more than to be allowed to hold the lease on all of the hunting and fishing rights to the surrounding countryside, and who would have made old Violette his gamekeeper, installing him there until the end of his days.
Certainly, the Marquis de Coulteray (for it was he) had serious designs on this area at that time...
Like a genuine lord from a bygone age, he had wanted to dominate the entire countryside – so as not to be bothered by any other person coming anywhere near the great estate that he had bought on the other side of the gorge beyond the woods where, every year, on an allotted date, his mistress, a celebrated Indian dancer called Dorga, held parties to which people came from far away – even as far away as England...
But the brute Benedict Masson, who was ignorant of all of these details, did not want to know about it.
Old Violette had gone to call on the bookbinder one day, merely to sound him out. He was pushed away from the door as if he was a thief. He had not even had time to mention the name of the Marquis. He had not even been able to pronounce ten words. Then the Marquis became completely disinterested in the whole affair... the former gamekeeper had not seen him since...
So there we have one reason why old Violette hated Benedict Masson, an important reason, but it was not the only one.
The foremost of these reasons, and the one that dated back furthest, was that this horrible boy, as ugly as the seven deadly sins, had spoiled his swamp for him: not just because Benedict Masson was repulsive to look at, but because old Violette could not understand what he intended to do there.
Long before the story of the disappearance of the women circulated – which, after all, might well be explained away by the fear that this miserable creature, ‘disgraced by Nature,’ inspired – Benedict Masson was the greatest mystery in the world for old Violette. For a long time, the former-gamekeeper-turned-poacher had observed him with a sense of disquiet that grew until, now, he could not pass by him without the terror one might feel in the presence of a dangerous madman who really ought to be feared... Just think about it: Benedict Masson lived in the marsh, just like a real savage, like old Violette himself, only far more poorly dressed (when the women weren’t there), sleeping under the stars, passing hours on end without stirring, crouching among the reeds as if he were lying in wait... and yet he never, ever hunted or fished..! He was an enigma..!
Old Violette felt positively unwell... never, never a rifle, never a fishing rod, never a piece of line, nor a snare, nothing... So what is it that he was doing throughout all these days and nights, hanging around here and there, ferreting about, his hands in his pockets; or standing there with his eyes closed for hours on end, as if he was waiting for something, as if his quarry was close, or as if he were fishing? But he neither hunted not fished! And sometimes he talked aloud to himself... old Violette had heard him!... So what does this ‘bird-brain’ have in mind? What if he wasn’t mad?... It would have to be crime...
Old Violette stuck to this position – from the moment he realised that Benedict Masson did not use the countryside for poaching, as he did, in a part of the country where there was nothing to do but poach, he had said to himself: “Here’s a lad that’s thinking up some kind of crime!” Once this idea had entered his mind, one can easily understand the impression made on the mind of old Violette by the strange disappearances of those women who followed one another into the house of our bookbinder... More than a week had passed since Benedict Masson had installed himself in Corbillères, where he had once again taken on the habits of a melancholic trapper, when old Violette, one evening, walked into the kitchen of the Green Tree, the inn that overlooked the landscape on the slope on the other side of the hill, a landscape that had nothing in common with the watery plain of Corbillères, and from where you could just make out, through the green foliage there, parts of the vast wall that surrounded Two Doves Park. This was the name of the property that the Marquis de Coulteray had acquired for his mistress, Dorga: a right royal gift...
The inn stood on the edge of the forest, facing the setting sun; it was sheltered on the
north side by a magnificent beech tree (hence, ‘The Green Tree’ Inn); it had a gateway, a courtyard, a stable block, a shed which sometimes served as a garage, a fenced enclosure that was used to cultivate potatoes and other vegetables, a few fruit trees and, above the door, a vine from which bunches of grapes hung (which were also green): a vigorous variety that cast a shadowy arbour over the old drinking hole. It had a good landlady, old Mother Muche, who was always in a good mood – especially since a fortunate accident had relieved her of her scoundrel of a husband, who had spent all his time drinking all of their income, not to mention their profits, and had, consequentially, died…
Old Violette was always received well there; he was the occult purveyor of certain clandestine ingredients, the ones that one generally only eats if they are forbidden by unjust laws. People came from far away to sample the fine dishes sold in the Green Tree. There were speciality rabbit stews and fish soups, and a certain species of pike that was stuffed and then basted in a sour wine that had made Mother Muche well-known. As for discretion: you could arrive with a lady without being stopped at the door with a demand to see your marriage certificate. Neither did anyone listen at the doors. It was not that kind of house.
When old Violette walked into the kitchen, Mother Muche was busy at her stoves. He did not say good day, or good evening, or good anything at all. He just dropped down onto a bench, by a corner of the hearth, lit his pipe with a piece of coal that he picked up using tongs, spat into the fire, and looked into the flames.
“Well, then,” Mother Muche said finally, “since his return, has your Benedict Masson gone to ground?”
To ground! That’s a funny way to describe the marshes of Corbillères! But Mother Muche had never really looked at them, and she was quite excusable for this, because she ignored the marshes. Having always been told that the land from which old Violette brought many good things was very ugly, she had never had the inclination to climb through the woods to the top of the hill to find out what it looked like.
However, for several years, she had heard talk of this solitary man – who insisted on living in this countryside alongside old Violette, and in spite of old Violette!... Ah, the gamekeeper had not allowed her to ignore a thing about this monster of ugliness, who had chosen this place of solitude in order to lure women into his abode and murder them! Since this was at the base of all old Violette’s suspicions, he had never hidden it from Mother Muche, although it was related to her under the seal of the greatest secret. She had merely laughed at him. Mother Muche had laughed at most things since her husband had died.
“What a funny face you’re pulling there, Violette,” Mother Muche resumed, “there must be something new around your hut. You look like something’s on your mind!... Perhaps a fresh glass of wine will help brighten you up!”
“Yeah, let’s have a little drink, Mother Muche, and I’ll tell you everything. The seventh has arrived!”
“What do you mean, seventh?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“You just listen to me... you know exactly what I’m talking about! And yes, I will keep coming back to the idea that this poor little lass will disappear just like the others did! And no-one will ask any more questions about her, as if she never existed! Ah, but this time she won’t be on her own... ’cause I’ll be there!”
Mother Muche continued to laugh at him:
“Yeah, that’s right! You’ll be there, you’re always there! I s’pose he’ll have to ask for your permission, you jealous old goat!”
She poured him a drink, but old Violette pushed the glass away – something gravely serious was on his mind:
“We’ll see if you joke like that on the day when I bring you the proof... just one little piece of evidence... then the rest will come together!”
“That’s for sure,” she replied, “he’s got to hide the bodies somewhere... unless he eats them!”
“Stop your joking! I tell you: none of them ever took the train back! There, that’s one proof!”
“Well, maybe they just went back by road! You’re always telling me how ugly he is, so there’s nothing to keep them there in such a miserable place... maybe they were afraid of him and ran away!”
“Afraid? You can bet they were afraid!”
“Did they tell you this?”
“The last one told me!” He picked up his glass and emptied it in a single swig, either to give him courage or to clarify his ideas, “the last one, she stayed there for nearly three weeks... yes, I managed to get to talk to her... and she told me all about Benedict!”
“So she was afraid... but she stayed there for three weeks!”
“That was the reason she stayed!”
“She stayed because she was afraid?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you!”
“Oh, it sounds like she was a strange young girl! Come on! You could just as easily believe that they had come to some arrangement! All right, so she disappeared like all the others... flew off, just vanished... it’s hard to believe... maybe she just went back to Paris...”
“No, she didn’t, I looked into it... I knew her name, that one, and I managed to find out where she lived. Her name was Catherine Belle – and she was a belle, believe me! Oh, she was a divine slip of a girl! If she had wanted, I could easily have taken her away from Benedict, ‘cause she wasn’t afraid of me, see? I tell you, I can’t explain it! The first time I spoke to her was one night, when I was patrolling near the cottage... I saw a shadow escaping, running away; then the door opened and Benedict appeared. He began calling ‘Catherine! Catherine!’ in a pleading kind of voice.
“But Catherine didn’t move, she was hiding behind a hedge of reeds, a few feet away from me, though she didn’t realise I was there... then Benedict called to her in a voice full of anger, and when Catherine didn’t answer, he slammed the door in a fury…
“Then Catherine got up and ran in the direction of the railway station. I followed her and caught up with her, just as she was getting lost in the darkness:
“‘Don’t be afraid!’ I told her, ‘I’m here, it’s only me, old Violette, the gamekeeper... what has that miserable wretch done to you now?’
“‘Oh, nothing,’ she said to me, ‘it’s just that he scares me... he hasn’t done anything... on the contrary, he’s been very nice!’
“I sneered... ‘You are the sixth one,’ I said, ‘that he has been very nice to... and all the others have gone!’
“‘That’s exactly what he told me.’
“‘They all went after twenty-four hours... or two days... or three days... but you have been there for eight days! You must certainly have patience!’
“‘He told me that, as well! It’s because he is so unhappy! He is to be pitied, the poor boy! He weeps... I have pity for him!’
“‘But now, you’ve had enough..?’ She didn’t answer that one...
“‘Why did you run away tonight?’
“‘Because he wanted to kiss me!’
“‘He wouldn’t be disgusted with that idea,’ I said, ‘but I understand how you might be a little...’
“She didn’t say anything more about that. And, so as not to detain her, I said:
“‘If you want to catch the ten-forty train, you’ve got no time to lose!’
“‘No,’ she answered brusquely, ‘it’s childish... I’ll go back...’
“‘Where?’
“‘Well, back to him!’
“‘Back to Benedict Masson?’
“‘Yes..!’
“I was dumbfounded...
“‘Listen to me,’ I told her... ‘you’re wrong about him... you’re completely wrong... listen to what I tell you... you’ll be sorry if you go back! That lad only has crime on his mind!’
“She thought about it for a moment, and then she said:
“‘It’s true that there have been moments when I said the same thing to myself!’
“‘And you’re still going back there?’
“‘Yes,
just to see... bah, it always ends with him breaking down in tears... in the end, he isn’t dangerous at all.’
“And so she went back to the house... in spite of all I had told her... I might just as well have been singing to her for her amusement... but she was still afraid of him... really, you never know with some women! The next few days, you can be sure that I was watching them... my two little lovebirds. It was enough to make you burst out laughing! The gentleman all dressed up... trying to make himself handsome, the monster! He put his city clothes on... a tie, a hat... and he was speaking to her...
“Obviously, she was toying with him – even though she was afraid of him, as if she wanted to know just how far he’d go in the affair. But I am of the opinion that she found out, to her cost, and that her curiosity did not bring her any good fortune...
The Bloody Doll Page 14