Visions of Fear - Foundations of Fear III (1992)

by David G. Hartwell (Ed. )

“Do you know that area of France?” Edward asked.

  “I have never been to France at all,” I confessed.

  “Well, it’s a desolate area. The house is in a wild and

  remote district right in the Gorge itself. It’s a rugged

  country, with huge cliffs and deep gloomy gorges, waterfalls and rushing torrents, not unlike the Gustave Dore drawings for Dante’s Inferno, you know.” Edward

  paused to sip his drink thoughtfully and then occupied

  himself with lighting a cigar. When it was drawing to his

  satisfaction, he went on. “In the house, apart from the

  family retainers of which there seemed to be only three

  (a small number for such a large establishment), was the

  uncle and his nephew, who, I take it, was your visitor of

  the other night. The uncle was—well, not to put too fine

  a point on it— a most unpleasant old man. He must have

  been about eighty-five, I suppose, with a really evil,

  leering face, and an oily manner that he obviously

  thought was charm. The boy was about fourteen, I

  suppose, with huge dark eyes in a pale face. He seemed

  an intelligent lad, old for his age, but the thing that

  worried me was that he seemed to be suffering from

  intense fear, a fear, it seemed to me, of his uncle. The

  first night I arrived, after we had had dinner which was,

  to my mind, meager and badly cooked fare for France, I

  went to bed early, for I was fatigued after my journey.

  The old man and the boy stayed up. As luck would have

  it, the dining room was directly below my bedroom, and

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  so although I could not hear clearly all that passed

  between them, I could hear enough to discern that the

  old man was doing his best to persuade his nephew into

  some course of action that the boy found repugnant, for

  he was vehement in his refusal. The argument went on

  for some time, the uncle’s voice getting louder and

  louder and more angry. Suddenly, I heard the scrape of a

  chair as the boy stood and shouted— positively shouted,

  my dear Peter— in French at his uncle, ‘No, no, I will not

  be devoured so that you may live . . . I hate you.’ I heard

  it quite clearly and I thought it an astonishing statement

  for a young boy to make. Then I heard the door of the

  dining salon open and bang shut, and I heard the boy’s

  footsteps running up the stairs and, eventually, the

  banging of what I assumed was his bedroom door. After

  a short while I heard the uncle get up from the table and

  come upstairs. There was no mistaking his footfall, for

  one of his feet was twisted and misshapen, and so he

  walked slowly with a pronounced limp, dragging his left

  foot. He came slowly up the stairs, and I do assure you,

  my dear Peter, there was positive evil in this slow,

  shuffling approach that really made my hair stand on

  end. I heard him go to the boy’s bedroom door, open it

  and enter. He called the boy’s name two or three times,

  softly and cajolingly, but with indescribable menace.

  Then he said one sentence that I could not catch. After

  this he closed the boy’s door and for some moments I

  could hear him dragging and shuffling down the long

  corridor to his own quarters. I opened my door and from

  the boy’s room I could hear muffled weeping, as though

  the poor child had his head under the bedclothes. It went

  on for a long time, and I was very worried. I wanted to go

  and comfort the lad, but I felt it might embarrass him,

  and in any case it was really none of my business. But I

  did not like the situation at all. The whole atmosphere,

  my dear Peter, was charged with something unpleasant. I

  am not a superstitious man, as you well know, but I lay

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  awake for a long time and wondered if I could stay in the

  atmosphere of that house for the two or three weeks it

  would take me to finish the job I had agreed to do.

  Fortunately, fate gave me the chance I needed: the very

  next day I received a telegram saying that my sister had

  fallen gravely ill and so, quite legitimately, I could ask de

  Teildras Villeray to release me from my contract. He

  was, of course, most reluctant to do so, but he eventually

  agreed with ill grace. While I was waiting for the dogcart

  to arrive to take me to the station, I had a quick look

  round some of his library which, since it was really

  extensive, spread all over the house. But the bulk of it

  was housed in what he referred to as the Long Gallery, a

  very handsome long room that would not have disgraced

  one of our aristocratic country houses. It was all hung

  with giant mirrors between the bookcases. In fact, the

  whole house was full of mirrors. I can never remember

  being in a house with so many before. Well, he certainly

  had a rare and valuable collection, particularly on one of

  your pet subjects, Peter: the occult. I noticed, in my

  hurried browse, among other things some most interesting Hebrew manuscripts on witchcraft, as well as an original copy of Mathew Hopkin’s Discovery o f Witches

  and a truly beautiful copy of Dee’s De Mirabilius

  Naturae. But then the dogcart arrived and, making my

  farewells, I left. I can tell you, my dear boy, I was never

  so glad in my life to be quit of a house. I truly believe the

  old man to have been evil and would not be surprised to

  learn that he practiced witchcraft and was trying to

  involve that nice young lad in his foul affairs. However, I

  have no proof of this, you understand, so that is why I

  would not wish you to repeat it. I should imagine that the

  uncle is now dead, or if not, he must be in his nineties. As

  to the boy, I later heard from friends in Paris that there

  were rumors that his private life was not all it should be,

  some talk of his attachment to certain women, you

  know, but this was all circumstantial, and in any case, as

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  you know, dear boy, foreigners have a totally different

  set of morals to an Englishman. It is one of the many

  things that sets us apart from the rest of the world, thank

  God.”

  I had listened with great interest to Edward’s account,

  and I resolved to ask Gideon about his uncle if I got the

  chance.

  So I prepared myself for my trip to France with, I must

  admit, pleasurable anticipation, and on April the fourteenth I embarked on the train to Dover, thence uneventfully (even to mal de mer) to Calais. I spent the night in Paris, sampling the delights of French food and wine,

  and the following day I embarked once more on the

  train. Eventually, I arrived at the bustling station at

  Tours, and Gideon was there to meet me, as he had

  promised he would. He seemed in great spirits and

  greeted me as if 1 were an old and valued friend, which, I

  confess, flattered me. I thanked him for coming to meet

  me, but he waved my thanks away.

  “ It’s nothing, my dear Peter,” he said. “I have nothing

  to do ex
cept eat, drink and grow fat. A visit from

  someone like you is a rare pleasure.”

  Outside the station we entered a handsome brougham

  drawn by two beautiful bay horses, and we set off at a

  spanking pace through the most delicious countryside,

  all green and gold and shimmering in the sunlight. We

  drove for an hour along roads that got progressively

  narrower and narrower, until we were travelling along

  between high banks emblazoned with flowers of every

  sort, while overhead, the branches of the trees on each

  side of the road entwined branches covered with the

  delicate green leaves of spring. Occasionally, there would

  be a gap in the trees and high banks, and I could see the

  silver gleam of the Loire between the trees and realized

  that we were driving parallel to the great river. Once, we

  passed the massive stone gateposts and huge wrought

  iron gates that guarded the wide paths up to an immense

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  and very beautiful chateau in gleaming pinky-yellow

  stone. Gideon saw me looking at it, perhaps with an

  expression of wonder, for it did look like something out

  of a fairy tale, and he smiled.

  “I hope, my dear Peter, that you do not expect to find

  me living in a monster like that? If so, you will be

  doomed to disappointment. I am afraid that my chateau

  is a miniature one, but big enough for my needs.”

  I protested that I did not care if he lived in a cow shed:

  for me the experience of being in France for the first time

  and seeing all these new sights, and with the prospect of a

  fascinating job at the end of it, was more than sufficient.

  It was not until evening, when the mauve tree shadows

  were stretched long across the green meadows that we

  came to Gideon’s establishment, the Chateau St. Claire.

  The gateposts were surmounted by two large, delicately

  carved owls in a pale honey-colored stone, and I saw that

  the same motif had been carried out most skillfully in

  the wrought iron gates that hung from the pillars. As

  soon as we entered the grounds, I was struck by the

  contrast to the countryside we had been passing through,

  which had been exuberant and unkempt, alive with wild

  flowers and meadows, shaggy with long rich grass. Here

  the drive was lined with giant oak and chestnut trees,

  each the circumference of a small room, gnarled and

  ancient, with bark as thick as an elephant’s hide. How

  many hundred years these trees had guarded the entrance to the Chateau St. Claire, I could not imagine, but many of them must have been well-grown trees when

  Shakespeare was a young man. The greensward under

  them was as smooth as baize on a billiard table, and

  responsible for this were several herds of spotted fallow

  deer, grazing peacefully in the setting sun’s rays. The

  bucks, with their fine twisted antlers, threw up their

  heads and gazed at us without fear as we clopped past

  them and down the avenue. Beyond the greensward I

  could see a line of gigantic poplars and, gleaming be­

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  tween them, the Loire. Then the drive turned away from

  the river and the chateau came into sight. It was, as

  Gideon had said, small but perfect, as a miniature is

  perfect. In the evening sun its pale straw-colored walls

  glowed and the light gave a soft and delicate patina to the

  bluish slate of the roofs of the main house and its two

  turrets. It was surrounded by a wide verandah of great

  flagstone, hemmed in by a wide balustrade on which

  were perched above thirty peacocks, their magnificent

  tails trailing down towards the well-kept lawn. Around

  the balustrade, the flower beds, beautifully kept, were

  ablaze with flowers in a hundred different colors that

  seemed to merge with the peacocks’ tails which trailed

  amongst them. It was a magnificent and breathtaking

  sight. The carriage pulled up by the wide steps, the butler

  threw open the door of the brougham, and Gideon

  dismounted, took off his hat and swept me a low bow,

  grinning mischievously.

  “Welcome to the Chateau St. Claire,” he said.

  Thus for me began an enchanted three weeks, for it

  was more of a holiday than work. The miniature but

  impeccably kept and furnished chateau was a joy to live

  in. The tiny park that meandered along the riverbank

  was also beautifully kept, for every tree looked as if it

  were freshly groomed; the emerald lawns looked as if

  they were combed each morning; and the peacocks,

  trailing their glittering tails amongst the massive trees,

  looked as if they had just left the careful hands of

  Faberge. Combined with a fine cellar and a kitchen ruled

  over by a red balloon of a chef whose deft hands could

  conjour up the most delicate and aromatic of meals, you

  had a close approach to an earthly paradise. The mornings would be spent sorting and cataloguing the books (and a most interesting collection it was), and then in the

  afternoon Gideon would insist that we go swimming or

  for a ride round the park, for he possessed a small stable

  of very nice horses. In the evenings, after dinner, we

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  would sit out on the still sun-warmed terrace and talk,

  our conversation made warm and friendly with the wine

  we had consumed and the excellent meal we had eaten.

  Gideon was an excellent host, a brilliant raconteur and

  this, together with his extraordinary gift for mimicry,

  made him a most entertaining companion. I shall never

  know now, of course, whether he deliberately exerted all

  his charm in order to ensnare my liking and friendship. I

  like to think not; I like to think that he quite genuinely

  liked me and my company. Not that I suppose it matters

  now. But certainly, as day followed day, I grew fonder

  and fonder of Gideon. I am a solitary creature by nature,

  and I have only a very small circle of friends— close

  friends— whom I see perhaps once or twice a year,

  preferring, for my part, my own company. However, my

  time spent at the chateau with Gideon had an extraordinary effect upon me. It began to dawn upon me that I had perhaps made myself into too much of a recluse. It was

  also borne upon me most forceably that all my friends

  were of a different age group; they were all much older

  than I was. Gideon, if I could count him as a friend (and

  by this time, I certainly did), was the only friend I had

  who was, roughly speaking, my own age. Under his

  influence I began to expand. As he said to me one night, a

  slim cigar crushed between his strong white teeth,

  squinting a t me past the blue smoke, “The trouble with

  you, Peter, is that you are in danger of becoming a young

  fogey.” I had laughed, of course, but on reflection I knew

  he was right. I also knew that when the time came for me

  to leave the chateau, I would miss his volatile company a

  great deal, probably more than I cared to admit, even to


  myself.

  In all our talks Gideon discussed his extensive family

  with me with a sort of ironic affection, telling me

  anecdotes to illustrate their stupidity or their eccentricity, never maliciously but rather with a sort of detached good humor. However, the curious thing was that he

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  never once mentioned his uncle, the Marquis, until one

  evening. We were sitting out on the terrace, watching the

  white owls that lived in the hollow oaks along the drive

  doing their first hunting swoops across the greensward in

  front of us. I had been telling him of a book which I knew

  was to be put up for sale in the autumn and which I

  thought could be purchased for some two thousand

  pounds, a large price, but it was an important work and I

  felt he should have it in his library, as it complemented

  the other works he had on the subject. Did he want me to

  bid for him? He had flipped his cigar butt over the

  balustrade into the flower bed, where it lay gleaming like

  a monstrous red glowworm, and he chuckled softly.

  “Two thousand pounds?” he said. “My dear Peter, I

  am not rich enough to indulge my hobby to that extent

  unfortunately. If my uncle were to die now it would be a

  different story.”

  “Your uncle?” I queried cautiously. “I did not know

  you had any uncles.”

  “Only one, thank God,” said Gideon, “but unfortunately he holds the purse strings of the family fortunes and the old swine appears to be indestructible. He is

  ninety-one and when I last saw him, a year or two back,

  he did not look a day over fifty. However, in spite of all

  his efforts I do not believe him to be immortal, and so

  one day the devil will gather him to his bosom, and on

  that happy day I will inherit a very large sum of money

  and a library that will make even you, my dear Peter,

  envious. But until that day comes I cannot go around

  spending two thousand pounds on a book. But waiting

  for dead men’s shoes is a tedious occupation, and my

  uncle is an unsavory topic of conversation, so let’s have

  some more wine and talk of something pleasant.”

  “If he is unsavory, then he is in contrast to the rest of

  your relatives you have told me about,” I said lightly,

  hoping he would give me further information about his

  infamous uncle.