by Robert Merle
Silently and with great gravity, Carajac pulled from his pocket a large handkerchief, and, taking the heart Merdanson handed to him, he wrapped it in the cloth, knotting the corners to form a packet, which somehow reminded me of the little round blocks of butter that the farmers bring to town on market day.
When we’d resewn the wench back into her shroud, for, to be frank, she was beginning to give off a bit of that stale, sweet smell which accompanies the first stage of decomposition, we placed her back on the stretcher. Carajac placed his packet next to the dark lantern, and then picked up the orphan and brought it to the table saying, “He’s so light!”
“Orphans don’t get too much to eat,” observed Merdanson, his scalpel in hand. But scarcely had he opened up the shroud when an unbearable odour invaded our nostrils. And it got much worse, when, advised by Cabassus that the child had died of lung failure, Merdanson opened these up and they immediately produced a stench to turn the hardiest stomach. We doused them in vinegar to combat both the nauseating stink they made and any infection that it may have carried. But in addition to the fact that the vinegar had no effect whatsoever, the lungs were so decomposed that we couldn’t see anything or find anything other than small stones—at least, that’s what they call these small granulations about the size of a pea and which we couldn’t understand, for they’re usually found in the urinary tract.
When we’d done dissecting the orphan, we resewed him into his shroud, but before we dealt with him, we decided to bring the wench back to her grave and rebury her. But once the earth was shovelled back over her, Merdanson announced that he’d decided not to reinter the orphan, but to bring him back to his place and bury him in a shed in his garden, and eventually produce a skeleton which he would donate anonymously to the Royal College of Medicine for our teachers to use in their lectures. Moreover, it would be an easy thing to do and require little labour or care, since the poor child had but little flesh on his bones to begin with, having apparently died of consumption.
We were quite surprised by this proposal and objected that it would not only be difficult to do, but very dangerous. How could we carry a cadaver through the streets of Montpellier, especially since Cossolat had doubled the night watch, fearful that, after the Flanders affair, which had everyone riled up, the more excitable papists and reformers might come to blows under the cover of darkness? But we couldn’t convince him. As stubborn as a red donkey (whose hair he already bore not only on his head but on other parts of his body) Merdanson refused to give in, and Cabassus, who, like Carajac and me, was initially opposed to the plan, ended up giving in, and it was agreed that he’d find a nice big log that we could bury in place of the child, which we did. And so the three of us, wearing masks, set off with our stakes, our ropes and our lantern, I in the lead, Carajac next, carrying with extreme care the little package of you-know-what, and Merdanson bringing up the rear, carrying on his shoulder the orphan, sewn back into his shroud, itself enveloped in a sheet, a burden whose stench alone was enough to attract the attention of the nightwatchmen.
But we had to get back into Montpellier by a gate that was closed at night. It’s true that the guard was an old drunk, but he was possessed of the curiosity of his state, and he wouldn’t have failed to ask what was in the sheet. So I asked Merdanson to put his load down a few steps away from the gate, and Carajac his package as well, along with stakes, ropes and all the gear we’d employed in our dissections. Then, with empty hands, but masks still on our faces, we knocked at the gate until the hoary head of the guard appeared at the observation post.
“Guard!” I cried. “Open up!”
“Nay,” he replied, “who are you?”
“Honest fellows from Montpellier. We’re returning from a village nearby where we were courting some wenches, which dried up our purses and our throats as well. Open up and go get us a flagon of your best wine. We’ll pay handsomely and, what’s more, we’ll drink with you.”
That was enough for him. He came down. The gate opened a small way, still held by its chain, and we entered one by one, and he put down his lantern so that he could feel our bodies to be certain we weren’t carrying any arms. “How does it happen,” he asked, “that you’re wearing masks?”
“I’m the son of a nobleman,” I replied, “and my friends are the offspring of well-heeled merchants here. We didn’t want to be recognized when we were out sowing our wild oats.”
“How did your boots get so muddy?” he queried.
“In God’s good earth where we were fornicating, for lack of a dwelling.”
At which the old drunk burst our laughing, and, seeing him so well disposed towards us, I generously greased his palm and said, “Your wine, old man! Your wine, by the grace of God, or our throats will split from drought!”
“Monsieur,” he said, looking over the coins I’d put in his hand, “if you want some Frontignan, it’ll be five sols more.”
I gave him what he asked, and he hobbled off. Immediately, Merdanson and Carajac, crossing back through the gate, retrieved our various baggages and brought them inside the walls, placing them in a dark corner and at some distance from the postern so that the stench wouldn’t attract the guard’s attention. After which, all we had to do was clink glasses with the old man and empty his bottle, which we did quite happily, having so parched our throats from our night of such macabre work.
Luckily, Merdanson’s lodgings were but a stone’s throw from this gate, and when, finally, we’d opened the shed in his garden and stowed the orphan, our tools and ropes, I let out half a sigh. I said “half” by design, for we still had Carajac’s bundle in which the whore’s heart represented the worst possible proof of what we’d been up to. I tried to convince Carajac that if we saw the night watch coming, he should toss the damnable bundle into a corner or over a wall, but he wouldn’t hear of it, fearing irreparable damage to the tender organ from such a fall. I reminded him that his own organ would suffer far more pain if he were arrested and sent to the galleys. But so great was his love of learning that he didn’t want to give up at this point. I made no further effort to convince him, but secretly swore to myself that I’d never repeat such a perilous adventure with such stubborn partners.
When I finally took my leave of Carajac, I felt infinitely lighter, now that I had no companion or evidence that would indicate where I was coming from or what I’d been doing, and I believed I had nothing more to fear, except perhaps some nocturnal thievery. So, holding my dagger before me, and walking in the middle of the street as quickly as I could, I felt quite equal to any bad fortune that might befall me.
My walk having warmed me, I removed my mask and gloves and stuffed them in my doublet and so, with one hand on my dagger and the other holding my lantern, I walked along at my ease, proud and full of confidence, breathing in great lungfuls of the night air, believing myself entirely out of the woods of this perilous business. I should have realized that it’s often out of the blue that the worst storms appear.
I’d scarcely turned the corner into the rue de la Barrelerie and was almost home, only a few steps from the pharmacy, when I had the impression of being followed by a shadow, which, however, made no noise on the pavement, but which I could see dancing along behind me in the halo of my lantern. Ah! I should have had the sense to blow out my lantern and run at full speed to my lodgings, but so sure was I of my strength and courage that I turned and rushed at the shadow, turning both light and dagger on it. O Lord! O Holy Christ! My blood nearly froze in my veins, for there before me stood the Mangane girl, whose eyes were throwing sparks, her mouth vomiting more hatred than all hell ever contained. She seized my hand—a contact that paralysed me—and hissed, “Where are your claws, Maître Goat? Where are your black eyes? Where is your tail? Ah, traitor! Ah, you wicked dog! You have vilely abused me! I should have realized the minute you did me that I couldn’t feel your claws or your bites or the fire in my belly! Miserable Christian, don’t you realize that the Great Léonard fucks his witches seven tim
es before releasing them, panting, clawed, bitten, and their wombs devoured by his flame! His seed is the flame of hell! And yours is inert!”
“Mangane!” I replied in a voice a great deal less self-assured that I wanted, so hellish was the voice that hissed its hatred at me. “There was no deception, no trick. You were mistaken about me, that’s all.”
“You should have told me, Christian dog!”
“I couldn’t. I had to get rid of you—I had a job to do.”
“A villain’s work!” she screamed, if you can call a scream the terrible hissing sound she made, as if she were a serpent. “I saw everything through Cabassus’s window and tomorrow I’ll tell all!”
“Hah! Silly witch! If you say a word you’ll burn at the stake!”
“I aspire with every fibre of my being to burn at the stake, since your sacrilegious embrace has forever robbed me of the arms of my beloved! After I die, a succubus will rise from my ashes and I’ll live at his adored feet, submitting to his every desire. But know that for the harm you’ve committed, I will wreak such revenge on you in this life, tying your member in knots and leaving you forever impotent in the arms of a wench.”
“Knot up my member?” I said, sweat running down my cheeks at this terrifying threat. “There’s no way, since I’ll never marry.”
“I can twist the member of anyone I want and at any time I want, in marriage or out of marriage. All I need is a thread in which I make a knot and then throw on the ground, along with a coin. If the coin disappears, then Satan took it and the victim will be forever impotent.”
“Mangane!” I cried, weak with terror and my knees trembling beneath me. “I’ll give you all my gold if you promise not to!”
“Your gold!” she screamed derisively.
Mad with rage and fear, I gave her a terrible thrust of my dagger, but there was nothing there. She’d disappeared, as if absorbed by the shadows, and I was wondering if I’d even seen her when I heard the sound of a coin on the pavement.
“She’s knotted me up!” I cried in a pathetic voice, my throat constricted with fear, and began casting my lantern about trying to see the thread, which I found knotted in a figure of eight, but I did not find the coin, though I was a long time on my knees looking for it. So the infernal powers had granted her wish and consummated her curse. My youth’s bloom had faded and I would never recover my ardour for life, or love.
* “I am a doctor.”
† I Deny.
‡ “And if he was on earth today, Heraclitus would laugh too.”
11
I REALIZE THAT in our current century there are many sceptics who, believing neither in God nor the Devil, will find my terror merely amusing, attaching no credence to witchcraft, which, however, is considered by both the Church and many learned men to be excessively maleficent. Certainly, at Mespech we made great fun of the affectations of la Maligou, but la Maligou was not a witch, or considered to be one in Marcuays or the other villages. Otherwise, no one would have laughed at her; they would have trembled with fear at her powers. For sorcerers and witches have the terrifying power to make our herds sick, dry up our wells, make our orchards wither in one night, bewitch people by sticking pins in a doll, compose love philtres or death potions, or knot up the member of a bridegroom.
Nor were we wrong to tremble: these evil doings were not, and are not, rare in the Périgord region nor throughout Provence, where the fear of witches is so widespread that a mere ten out of one hundred bridegrooms will celebrate his marriage publicly in the parish church.
It’s a well-known fact, indeed, that at the moment the priest says: “What God hath joined together let not man put asunder,” it’s enough for a witch to murmur: “But let the Devil do it,” and throw over her shoulder a coin and a piece of string tied in a figure of eight, for the man to become permanently impotent and be unable to consummate his marriage. That’s why you so often see a young couple sneak off to a church in a neighbouring village to say their vows, hiding the hour, day and place of their wedding from everyone, even their own families (among whom there might be some jealous person) in order to avoid this secret curse, which could weigh on them not just during their lifetimes, but even till Judgement Day, if one of Satan’s assistants, inspired by the powers below, decided to wreak his infernal evil on them.
The rest of the night, which was very short, I spent eyes wide open, so terrified about my joyless future that at times, despite the cool night breezes, I found myself sweating from my every pore. But I had to get up in the morning, dog-tired and aching all over, to go hear Saporta’s and Bazin’s private lectures, and sadly could only listen distractedly with half my attention, the other half busy ruminating on the terrible thoughts you can easily imagine. Not that I feared that the Mangane girl would denounce our secret dissection: who would believe such a wench who, during the trial that condemned her entire family to the flames, passed for a crazy deaf mute? But the knotting of my member and her horrible power over me were not thoughts one could easily dismiss, especially if one derived such pride and such sweet delights from one’s virility.
That day dragged on—and was, in fact the longest of the year—but after so many hours of torture by my apprehensions, the lectures were finally done, and I ran straight to see Thomassine and sought refuge in her bosom, which I covered with kisses and caresses; and, in the end, I was so inflamed that I began to believe I’d triumphed over the Mangane girl’s curse. But this fire went out all of a sudden, and it was as if a wall had suddenly been erected between her body and mine. I weakened and fell against her bosom, inert and dishonoured. But, however surprised she may have been, in her usual maternal, caring way, Thomassine cradled me gently against her and whispered all the sweet names she’d given me in our love-making. I was so overcome by her tenderness that I broke into sobs and told her about the curse I’d been given that morning (leaving out, of course, any mention of our grave-robbing). Thomassine did not take my story lightly, and with a sombre face told me about the more than ten occasions when, in the Cévennes mountains, some unfortunate who’d been cursed with the knotted string at his wedding, lived the rest of his life without being able to touch his bride—though with other wenches he was entirely potent.
“Oh, Thomassine,” I sighed, “I pray to Heaven that this curse will be so selective that it will only target my wife—that I don’t have!”
“Since you’re not married,” replied Thomassine, “then the curse is meant to keep you from enjoying any women at all, and is so much the worse for you, my poor Pierre.”
I found no comfort in these words, nor in any of the tales she told me, and I had to interrupt her, since each one drove me further into despair.
“But, Thomassine,” I ventured, “is there no remedy? Cannot God undo what the Devil has done? If not, then the Devil is more powerful than God!”
Thomassine had no answer to this since her faith was of the simplest kind. She went to Mass every Sunday at Saint-Firmin, accompanied by Azaïs, who carried her missal, which Thomassine held gravely up to her eyes during the entire Mass without turning a page, for though she could count, she could not read.
“I’ve never heard tell,” she said after a few moments of reflection, during which she raised herself on her elbow and put a cushion under my head, “I’ve never heard tell of a curse being undone, except in the case of a labourer in my village who confessed the next day to his curate.”
“But, Thomassine! You forget that I’m a Huguenot and that I object to confession! What’s more, if it were enough to confess to be cured, why would there be so many men undone by the witch’s knot?”
“That’s true,” she sighed. “It’s also true that the curate of the labourer I mentioned was something of a sorcerer himself—but a sorcerer for good, not for evil, and was therefore more powerful than the others.”
“And is this good sorcerer still in the Cévennes mountains? By the belly of St Anthony, tell me his name and where he lives and I’ll saddle Accla and set out imme
diately to confess to him!”
“He’s dead,” replied Thomassine.
And along with her words, all hopes died of finding a cure. I left her, infinitely more sombre than before our discussion, and believed I was condemned to the most mournful future, living out in bitterness the torments of chastity—a virtue recommended by our churches, but one I held in absolute horror, feeling that it was against nature, and made a man less than a man, and a woman less than a woman; that it was a detrimental and dangerous diminution of their being, and certainly not an elevation to an ineffably higher state, as it was sometimes claimed to be.
The reader may well ask why my first step after the curse was not to go and consult a reformist minister, despite the absence of confession. Well, of course I thought of it! And if I didn’t do it, it’s because they are so austere, so unaccommodating and so quick to assume that the victim of such a curse was in some way not entirely innocent. In this, they were not so wrong. Moreover, I have too much respect for my pastors to lie to them or to truncate my story, as I would have done with some papist priest so eager for his money. No, I would have had to tell all, or say nothing. Terrified by this “all”—which would include the profanation of a grave and fornication with a witch—I chose “nothing” and decided to suffer alone and without succour the misfortune that had befallen me.
And so I left the needle shop crestfallen and discomfited, persuaded that, after my terrible impotence with Thomassine, I would fail as well with Madame de Joyeuse. I looked forward with such bitter apprehension to our Wednesday assignation that I couldn’t sleep for three nights. I arrived at her door pale, with rings under my eyes and a downcast look, and asked for a private conversation with her. Alarmed by my appearance and my tone of voice, she sent her ladies away, invited me into her boudoir and lay down on her bed, while I sat, silent and ashamed, on a stool beside her, trying to decide how much to reveal in my confession. I was sure that Madame was too clever to accept the abridged version I’d given to Thomassine. She’d immediately want to know the what and wherefore of this great wrath I’d excited in the Mangane girl, and if I told her, wouldn’t I then have to tell her the rest of the story?