“Listen, Mathias, and you shall know. It was the priest’s fault that she did not die in a state of grace. In time, it came his turn to appear before the throne of God, and God said, ‘For the sin that you committed, as long as there are two stones remaining of the chapel at Saint-Melar, you shall provide communion on Christmas Eve to all lost souls.’” The wind soughed sadly through the beeches, like a choir of spectres seeking the words of some long-forgotten hymn, and still the owl spoke to me in his low, quavering murmur. “Here is Christmas Eve, Mathias. Soon the mid¬night bells will ring. That priest is at his post, the company of the damned assembled, the sacred vials soon to be filled, but the great missal, the book, Mathias, is missing. The priest will not be able to perform the service and who knows? Perhaps he will have to begin his hundred years of penance all over again. But you, who stole the missal, you, Mathias Kervenno, are in far greater danger. That which belongs to the dead becomes an instrument of hellfire in the hands of the living.”
With trembling fingers, I took the book from my pocket. “Here it is,” I muttered. “I return it to you.”
“I am only an owl and cannot carry so heavy a burden. You must take it back to where you found it.”
I hope it is to my everlasting credit that I did not hesitate even for a moment. I immediately got out of the cart, retrieved the reins, clambered back in and invited my horse to retrace our steps.
No longer were the trees terrifying spectres, for now I knew them again—the friendly assortment of elms and beeches, chestnuts and oaks whose majesty protected and nurtured me all my life. Once more, the night had the divine calm of the holy time to come, and in my heart, too, there was gentle peace abiding.
When we reached the neighborhood of our camp, I tethered my horse to a gatepost and entered the ruins. As I did, I heard a great fluttering behind me and, turning, saw that there was a huge flock of owls perched on the surrounding branches, staring down at me with eyes so filled with misery that I felt no fear, but only an immeasurable pity.
I returned the missal to its old home, made the sign of the cross as I passed in front of the altar and returned to my cart. I got back in and took the reins, ready to begin my journey anew, but just then I heard voices arising from the depths of the destroyed chapel, wan voices singing praises to the Son of God. I looked back, but no longer saw the owls. Kneeling in the ruins of the sanctuary was a crowd of people intoning a Nativity hymn while a priest with white hair extended his arms and an acolyte brought him a great, gilt-edged open missal.
I flicked the reins and my horse took off in a gallop in the direction of Belle-Isle. The bells of the Gurunhuël district, of Plongonver, of Loguenel and twenty more parishes pealed forth in the milky brightness of the night beneath the sparlking stars.
I arrived at Belle-Isle just in time to enter the church that was lit with as many lights as a cathedral, and there I attended mass.
Translated by Faith Lancereau
Pardon du saint—In Brittany, religious ceremonies called “pardons” occur frequently. People wearing picturesque costumes travel long distances to parade and worship at shrines dedicated to certain saints.—F.L.
RALPH ADAMS CRAM was one of America’s outstanding architects and art historians. He labored to revive interest in gothic architecture and served as art critic for the Boston Transcript. In 1895, a Chicago publisher released a rare volume, Black Spirits and White, a half-dozen terror tales by Cram, the only ones he is believed to have written. One of them. “The Dead Valley,” was lavishly praised by no less an authority than H. P. Lovecraft in his study, Supernatural Horror in Literature, and the following haunted house tale is also highly regarded. “No. 252 Rue M. Le Prince” is one of those evil places where you’d better not spend the night.
No. 252 Rue M. Le Prince
By Ralph Adams Cram
When in May, 1886, I found myself at last in Paris, I naturally determined to throw myself on the charity of an old chum of mine, Eugène Marie d’Ardéche, who had forsaken Boston a year or more ago on receiving word of the death of an aunt who had left him such property as she possessed. I fancy this windfall surprised him not a little, for the relations between the aunt and nephew had never been cordial, judging from Eugène’s remarks touching the lady, who was, it seems, a more or less wicked and witch-like old person, with a penchant for black magic, at least such was the common report.
Why she should leave all her property to d’Ardéche, no one could tell, unless it was that she felt his rather hobbledehoy tendencies toward Buddhism and occultism might some day lead him to her own unhallowed height of questionable illumination. To be sure, d’Ardéche reviled her as a bad old woman, being himself in that state of enthusiastic exaltation which sometimes accompanies a boyish fancy for occultism; but in spite of his distant and repellent attitude, Mlle. Blaye de Tartas made him her sole heir, to the violent wrath of a questionable old party known to infamy as the Sar Torrevieja, the “King of the Sorcerers.” This malevolent old portent, whose gray and crafty face was often seen in the Rue M. le Prince during the life of Mlle. de Tartas had, it seems, fully expected to enjoy her small wealth after her death; and when it appeared that she had left him only the contents of the gloomy old house in the Quartier Latin, giving the house itself and all else of which she died possessed to her nephew in America, the Sar proceeded to remove everything from the place, and then to curse it elaborately and comprehensively, together with all those who should ever dwell therein.
Whereupon he disappeared.
This final episode was the last word I received from Eugène, but I knew the number of the house, 252 Rue M. le Prince. So, after a day or two given to a first cursory survey of Paris, I started across the Seine to find Eugène and compel him to do the honors of the city.
Every one who knows the Latin Quarter knows the Rue M. le Prince, running up the hill towards the Garden of the Luxembourg. It is full of queer houses and odd corners—or was in ’86—and certainly No. 252 was, when I found it, quite as queer as any. It was nothing but a doorway, a black arch of old stone between and under two new houses painted yellow. The effect of this bit of seventeenth century masonry, with its dirty old doors, and rusty broken lantern sticking gaunt and grim out over the narrow sidewalk, was, in its frame of fresh plaster, sinister in the extreme.
I wondered if I had made a mistake in the number; it was quite evident that no one lived behind those cobwebs. I went into the doorway of one of the new hotels and interviewed the concierge.
No, M. d’Ardéche did not live there, though to be sure he owned the mansion; he himself resided in Meudon, in the country house of the late Mlle. de Tartas. Would Monsieur like the number and the street?
Monsieur would like them extremely, so I took the card that the concierge wrote for me, and forthwith started for the river, in order that I might take a steamboat for Meudon. By one of those coincidences which happen so often, being quite inexplicable, I had not gone twenty paces down the street before I ran directly into the arms of Eugène d’Ardéche. In three minutes we were sitting in the queer little garden of the Chien Bleu, drinking vermouth and absinthe, and talking it all over.
“You do not live in your aunt’s house?” I said at last, interrogatively.
“No, but if this sort of thing keeps on I shall have to. I like Meudon much better, and the house is perfect, all furnished, and nothing in it newer than the last century. You must come out with me tonight and see it. I have got a jolly room fixed up for my Buddha. But there is something wrong with this house opposite. I can’t keep a tenant in it—not four days. I have had three, all within six months, but the stories have gone around and a man would as soon think of hiring the Cour des Comptes to live in as No. 252. It is notorious. The fact is, it is haunted the worst way.”
I laughed and ordered more vermouth.
“That is all right. It is haunted all the same, or enough to keep it empty, and the funny part is that no one knows how it is haunted. Nothing is ever seen, nothing heard.
As far as I can find out, people just have the horrors there, and have them so bad they have to go to the hospital afterwards. I have one ex-tenant in the Bicêtre now. So the house stands empty, and as it covers considerable ground and is taxed for a lot, I don’t know what to do about it. I think I’ll either give it to that child of sin, Torrevieja, or else go and live in it myself. I shouldn’t mind the ghosts I am sure.”
“Did you ever stay there?”
“No, but I have always intended to, and in fact I came up here today to see a couple of rake-hell fellows I know, Fargeau and Duchesne, doctors in the Clinical Hospital beyond here, up by the Parc Mont Souris. They promised that they would spend the night with me some time in my aunt’s house—which is called around here, you must know, ‘la Bouche d’Enfer’—and I thought perrhaps they would make it this week, if they can get off duty. Come up with me while I see them, and then we can go across the river to Véfour’s and have some luncheon, and you can get your things at the Chatham, and we will go out to Meudon, where of course you will spend the night with me.”
The plan suited me perfectly, so we went up to the hospital, found Fargeau, who declared that he and Duchesne were ready for anything the nearer the real “bouche d’Enfer” the better; that the following Thursday they would both be off duty for the night, and that on that day they would join in an attempt to outwit the devil and clear up the mystery of No. 252.
“Does M. l’Américain go with us?” asked Fargeau.
“Why, of course,” I replied, “I intend to go, and you must not refuse me, d’Ardéche; I decline to be put off. Here is a chance for you to do the honors of your city in a manner which is faultless. Show me a real live ghost, and I will forgive Paris for having lost the Jardin Mabille.”
So it was settled.
Later we went down to Meudon and ate dinner in the terrace room of the villa, which was all that d’Ardéche had said, and more, so utterly was its atmosphere that of the seventeenth century. At dinner Eugène told me more about his late aunt, and the queer goings on in the old house.
Mlle. Blaye lived, it seems, all alone, except for one female servant of her own age; a severe, taciturn creature, with massive Breton features and a Breton tongue, whenever she vouchsafed to use it. No one was ever seen to enter the door of No. 252 except Jeanne the servant and the Sar Torrevieja, the latter coming constantly from none knew whither, and always entering, never leaving. Indeed, the neighbors, who for eleven years had watched the old sorcerer sidle crab-wise up to the bell almost every day, declared vociferously that never had he been seen to leave the house. Once, when they decided to keep absolute guard, the watcher none other than Maître Garceau of the Chien Bieu, after keeping his eyes fixed on the door from ten o’clock one morning when the Sar arrived until four in the afternoon, during which time the door was unopened (he knew this, for had he not gummed a ten-centime stamp over the joint and was not the stamp unbroken?) nearly fell down when the sinister figure of Torrevieja slid wickedly by him with a dry “Pardon, Monsieur!” and disappeared again through the black doorway.
This was curious, for No. 252 was entirely surrounded by houses, its only windows opening on a courtyard into which no eye could look from the hôtels of the Rue M. le Prince and the Rue de l’Ecole, and the mystery was one of the choice possessions of the Latin Quarter.
Once a year the austerity of the place was broken, and the denizens of the whole quarter stood open-mouthed watching many carriages drive up to No. 252, many of them private, not a few with crests on the door panels, from all of them descending veiled female figures and men with coat collars turned up. Then followed curious sounds of music from within, and those whose houses joined the blank walls of No. 252 became for the moment popular, for by placing the ear against the wall strange music cguld distinctly be heard, and the sound of monotonous chanting voices now and then. By dawn the last guest would have departed, and for another year the hôtel of Mlle. de Tartas was ominously silent.
Eugène declared that he believed it was a celebration of “Walpurgisnacht,” and certainly appearances favored such a fancy.
“A queer thing about the whole affair is,” he said, “the fact that every one in the street swears that about a month ago, while I was out in Concarneau for a visit, the music and voices were heard again, just as when my revered aunt was in the flesh. The house was perfectly empty, as I tell you, so it is quite possible that the good people were enjoying an hallucination.”
I must acknowledge that these stories did not reassure me; in fact, as Thursday came near, I began to regret a little my determination to spend the night in the house. I was too vain to back down, however, and the perfect coolness of the two doctors, who ran down Tuesday to Meudon to make a few arrangements, caused me to swear that I would die of fright before I would flinch. I suppose I believed more or less in ghosts, I am sure now that I am older I believe in them, there are in fact few things I can not believe. Two or three inexplicable things had happened to me, and, although this was before my adventure with Rendel in Paestum, I had a strong predisposition to believe some things that I could not explain, wherein I was out of sympathy with the age.
Well, to come to the memorable night of the twelfth of June, we had made our preparations, and after depositing a big bag inside the doors of No. 252, went across to the Chien Bleu, where Fargeau and Duchesne turned up promptly, and we sat down to the best dinner Pere Garceau could create.
I remember I hardly, felt that the conversation was in good taste. It began with various stories of Indian fakirs and Oriental jugglery, matters in which Eugène was curiously well read, swerved to the horrors of the great Sepoy mutiny, and thus to reminiscences of the dissecting-room. By this we had drunk more or less, and Duchesne launched into a photographic and Zolaesque account of the only time (as he said) when he was possessed of the panic of fear: namely, one night many years ago, when he was locked by accident into the dissecting-room of the Loucine, together with several cadavers of a rather unpleasant nature. I ventured to protest mildly against the choice of subjects, the result being a perfect carnival of horrors, so that when we finally drank our last crème de cacao and started for “la Bouche d’Enfer,” my nerves were in a somewhat rocky condition.
It was just ten o’clock when we came into the street. A hot dead wind drifted in great puffs through the city, and ragged masses of vapor swept the purple sky; an unsavory night altogether, one of those nights of hopeless lassitude when one feels, if one is at home, like doing nothing but drink mint juleps and smoke cigarettes.
Eugène opened the creaking door, and tried to light one of the lanterns; but the gusty wind blew out every match, and we finally had to close the outer doors before we could get a light. At last we had all the lanterns going, and I began to look around curiously. We were in a long, vaulted passage, partly carriageway, partly footpath, perfectly bare but for the street refuse which had drifted in with eddying winds. Beyond lay the courtyard, a curious place rendered more curious still by the fitful moonlight and the flashing of four dark lanterns. The place had evidently been once a most noble palace. Opposite rose the oldest portion, a three-story wall of the time of Francis I, with a great wisteria vine covering half. The wings on either side were more modern, seventeenth century, and ugly, while towards the street was nothing but a flat unbroken wall.
The great bare court, littered with bits of paper blown in by the wind, fragments of packing cases, and straw, mysterious with flashing lights and flaunting shadows, while low masses of torn vapor drifted overhead, hiding, then revealing the stars, and all in absolute silence, not even the sounds of the streets entering this prison-like place, was weird and uncanny in the extreme. I must confess that already I began to feel a slight disposition towards the horrors, but with that curious inconsequence which so often happens in the case of those who are deliberately growing scared, I could think of nothing more reassuring than those delicious verses of Lewis Carroll’s:
Just the place for a Snark! I have said it
twice.
That alone should encourage the crew.
Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice.
What I tell you three times is true,—
which kept repeating themselves over and over in my brain with feverish insistence.
Even the medical students had stopped their chaffing, and were studying the surroundings gravely.
“There is one thing certain,” said Fargeau, “anything might have happened here without the slightest chance of discovery. Did ever you see such a perfect place for lawlessness?”
“And anything might happen here now, with the same certainty of impunity,” continued Duchesne, lighting his pipe, the snap of the match making us all start. “D’Ardéche, your lamented relative was certainly well fixed; she had full scope here for her traditional experiments in demonology.”
“Curse me if I don’t believe that those same traditions were more or less founded on fact,” said Eugène. “I never saw this court under these conditions before, but I could believe anything now. What’s that!”
“Nothing but a door slamming,” said Duchesne loudly.
“Well, I wish doors wouldn’t slam in houses that have been empty eleven months.”
“It is irritating,” and Duchesne slipped his arm through mine; “but we must take things as they come. Remember we have to deal not only with the spectral lumber left here by your scarlet aunt, but as well with the supererogatory curse of that hell-cat Torrevieja. Come on! Let’s get inside before the hour arrives for the sheeted dead to squeak and gibber in these lonely halls. Light your pipes, your tobacco is a sure protection against ‘your whoreson dead bodies’; light up and move on.”
We opened the hall door and entered a vaulted stone vestibule, full of dust, and cobwebby.
“There is nothing on this floor,” said Eugène, “except servants’ rooms and offices, and I don’t believe there is anything wrong with them. I never heard that there was, anyway. Let’s go upstairs.”
Masterpieces of Terror and the Supernatural Page 73