The Best Werewolf Short Stories 1800-1849

by Andrew Barger

  “Indeed I do,” said Beatrix, with grave simplicity,—“the weather begins now to get cold, and these wet clothes must be both unpleasant and dangerous. I think I hear the cry of ‘cupping!’ in the street; allow me to persuade thee to lose a little blood.”

  “An ocean in a cause of thine!” replied the Knight, “but by a lance, fair Beatrix, not a lancet; I had ever a horror of losing blood otherwise than in a fair field.”

  “Then at least a draught of wine will fortify thy bowels against the cold; and here stands a flask of the true Paris brewing, to which our wines of Brittany are mere cider.” She then decanted about a modern quart into a huge silver cup, which she presented to the knight.

  “Let it receive virtue from thy lip,” said the Knight, hesitatingly, “or I shall find none.”

  “Nay, nay, fair sir,” replied Beatrix, “those days are past and gone. We have eaten, it is true, out of the same dish, and drunken out of the same cup, but what was only folly then would be sin and shame now.” The Knight raised the goblet gloomily to his mouth.

  “I trust,” said Beatrix, while she stooped, as if to look for something among the rushes on the floor,—“I trust that the worthy Dame of Keridreux is in good health?” The Knight started at the question, and was seized with a fit of coughing which spoiled his draught.

  “Confusion upon the name!” he cried, dashing the remainder of the wine upon the floor. “Would to heaven she were in the health I wish her! And it is thou, cruel as thou art, and fair as thou art cruel, who hast bound me to a stake as doleful as the cross—who hast leagued me, I verily believe, with an incarnate fiend!”

  “I have heard,” said Beatrix, demurely, but with sparkling eyes, “that the Dame of Keridreux is of somewhat a peculiar temper; but, for my part, I was, as I am, only a simple maiden, and no liege sovereign to give in marriage my vassals at my pleasure.”

  “Oh, would thou hadst been less my liege sovereign—or more! I loved thee, Beatrix, as a man and a soldier; I knew nothing, not I, of the idle affectation which plays with a true servant even as an angler tickles a trout; I received thy seeming slight as a purposed insult—and straightway went home, and married another in pure fury and despite.”

  “Alas, alas!” said Beatrix, weeping, “thou wert ever of a fierce and sudden temper! Thou knewest not of the modern fashion of noble and knightly love. Having plighted thy troth, and drunk with me of the cup of faith and unity, thou dreamedst not of aught save holy wedlock after the manner of our ancestors. It entered not into thy brain to imagine that the lays of the minstrel were to be verified in the history of private life, and that thou wert to enter into human happiness, as the soul attains to heaven, through the portals of doubt, fear, sorrow, suffering, yea, even despair. Alack-a-day! Peradventure I was myself to blame; peradventure I disguised the too great softness of my heart by too stony a hardness of the face, and looked to thee, alas! for more patience and forbearance in the conduct than there was constancy in the soul. But God’s will be done!” continued she, drying her eyes. “Time and Our Lady’s benevolence will straighten all things, even the crooked temper—if crooked it be—of the Dame of Keridreux.”

  “Serpent!” exclaimed the knight, bitterly, “thou knowest not what she is. Oh, if I could find but one leper spot on her body for twenty on her soul!”

  “Hush! hush!” interrupted the lady, hastily, thou forgettest that although the laws of man are silent, those of God still speak with a voice of thunder to the transgressor!”

  “But thou knowest her not,” repeated the knight. “Oh, I could tell thee what would turn thy young blood cold but to hear!”

  “Then tell me,” said Beatrix, “for I love to have my blood run cold.”

  “Alas, alas!” ejaculated the sorrowful husband, “she understands Latin!”

  “Latin! Holy Virgin, bow I pity thee! Out on the false heart! it could not be without a price she bought that knowledge. It was but last Easter that one of those learned dames in the neighbourhood of the convent where I board, sat upon a viper’s eggs, and produced a winged serpent with three heads, whose nourishment to this hour, as all men relate, is human blood.” The gallant knight grew pale at this anecdote; but after swallowing down another goblet-full of wine at a draught, he hemmed stoutly, and again seizing the hand of his sometime love—

  “Beatrix,” said he, suddenly, “I am weary of my life; I have come to the determination of abandoning my inheritance, and passing over into Italy. Fly with me! I will either beg or buy a dispensation from the pope, and make thee my wife in Rome.” Beatrix opened her eyes in astonishment, mingled with horror. Turning away her head in aversion, she looked towards the window. The shades of evening were beginning to fall, and at the moment the distant howl of a wolf in the neighbouring forest struck upon her ear. The maiden shuddered at the ominous sound. Spitting in sign of abhorrence, while she crossed herself devoutly—

  “Alas!” she exclaimed,—“unhappy wretch! knowest thou not that in Italy—ay, even in Spain, or England, thou wouldst still be under the jurisdiction of the laws of Heaven? Are we not assured that such transgressor shuts upon himself the gates of Paradise—and with a wife like thine, couldst thou expect them to re-open? Would the vixen Dame of Keridreux, beseeching the permission of Saint Peter, come to thee at thy cry, and exclaim through the bars, ‘I forgive thee!’” The knight groaned, and applied again to the wine-goblet.

  “Art thou not afraid,” resumed the lady, “to go home to thy lonely abode, and at so late an hour, with a mortal sin in thy thoughts? Perchance the howl of that prowling wolf was an omen sent by Our Lady herself to warn thee; and now, while I recall it—holy saints—methought the voice sounded like thine own!”

  “Saint Yves, and Saint Brieuc!” cried the knight, starting suddenly upon his legs—“thou dost not mean it! No longer ago than last night I dreamed that I was myself transformed into a loup-garou; and at Easter the misbegotten cur who dragged me to-day into the river, saw with his own eyes the Leader of Wolves coming out of the very pool where I plunged!”

  Beatrix changed colour at this intelligence, and as the room became darker and darker, began to wish her unhallowed lover away.

  “Repent,” said she—“repent while there is yet time; I will myself beseech Our Lady du Roncier in thy behalf. Good-night, good-night—and Heaven hold thee from turning a loup-garou!” The knight, true to the Breton custom, having first ascertained that there was no more wine in the jar, made his obeisance with a heavy sigh, and left the house without uttering another word.

  His conversation with Beatrix having been greatly fuller than it has been thought necessary to report, it was now late in the evening, being past eight o’clock. The streets were deserted, and the houses shut up; and most of the inhabitants, having supped two hours ago, were beginning to think of retiring to bed. On emerging from the dark and lonely street, where the rows of tall houses inclined their heads to each other in gossip fashion, the knight, with unsteady step, and head bewildered both by love and wine, took the way to the bridge. While walking cautiously over the creaking planks, a hum of distant voices rose upon his ear, and presently a small solitary light appeared dancing wildly upon the troubled waters. He stood still in awe and curiosity, till at length the light was suddenly extinguished, and the voice ceased; and muttering a prayer for the drowned, whose corpse was thus sought for, and miraculously pointed out, he resumed his journey.

  The shades of evening fell more thickly around every moment, and the sire began to regret his bootless journey, and to look sharply about at the solitary tree or tall stone which stood here and there with an unpleasant perpendicularity near the road-side. In those days, trees and stones were not the only objects of curiosity which presented themselves to the gaze of the night traveller. Men, housed in their towers, and castles, and cottages, were accustomed piously to leave the kingdom of literal darkness to those whom it more concerned; and when accident compelled some luckless wayfarer to encroach upon forbidden hours, he looked upon him
self as an intruder where he had no business, and where he was exceedingly likely to meet with the chastisement he deserved. Like most persons in a similar situation, the knight experienced a marvellous increase in piety as he went along. He repeated an Ave at every step; and on arriving at the different confluences of little village paths, where crosses were raised to serve as direction-posts to the dead who might be disposed to revisit their relations, he stood still, and prayed aloud, with perfect sincerity, for the repose of their souls.

  Further on, having reached a stream which, leaping out of a wood, crossed the road, he paused in doubt as to the depth,—for, in truth, his brain was somewhat confused with the wine he had drunk. On raising his head he was startled to see a lady standing among the trees at the water’s edge. She was dressed in white, and, as well as he could distinguish, very elegantly formed; but her face was concealed from him, as she bent over the stream busily engaged in wringing a garment which she had apparently just washed. An unpleasant sensation swept across the mind of the Sire of Keridreux; and although a man of distinguished courage, and devotedly attached to the fair sex (for all his wife belonged to it), he plunged suddenly knee-deep into the water, and made for the opposite bank.

  Attracted by the sound, the lady raised her head.

  “Sir Knight,” she exclaimed, in a voice of touching sweetness—“tarry, I pray thee, for the love of honour, and help me to wring this garment, which is all too heavy for my slender fingers!” The knight, half alarmed and half ashamed, turned back, and leaping into the wood, seized hold of the dripping garment which she presented to him. He twisted to the right; but the lady was twisting the same way.

  “We are wrong,” said she, with good-humour. The knight tried again, but with the same effect—again—and again; and as at last he perceived with whom he had to deal, his hair bristled upon his head, and cold drops of sweat trickled down his brow. But still he continued the bootless labour, twisting, straining, praying, and perspiring, till at length the garment fell into the water, and danced away like a bubble on the stream; and the false washerwoman, breaking into shrieks of wild laughter, disappeared among the trees.

  The knight made but one leap across the river, and regaining the firm road, recommenced his journey with as much speed as could well be exerted by legs which would not be said to run. His brain, unsettled before, was turned completely topsy-turvy by this adventure; the air was thick with shadows; his ears were filled with strange voices; and at length, as the substantial howl of a wolf arose from the neighbouring thicket, it was echoed by a cry as wild and dismal from his own lips. His dream of the loup-garou—the warning of Beatrix—the horrible similarity she had detected in the voices of the wolf and the man—all rushed upon his heart like a deluge.

  At the instant, a sound resembling a human cry floated upon the sluggish wind: it approached nearer and nearer, seeming one moment a shout of menace, the next a call for aid, and the next a moan of agony. Sometimes it appeared to melt away in the distance, and sometimes the heart of the traveller died within him as it crept close to his very heels. In vain he tugged with unstrung fingers at his sword—in vain he essayed to produce one pious ejaculation from his dry lips; and at length, fairly subdued by the horrors of his situation, he betook himself to open flight.

  The voice of the Crieuses de Nuit pursued him,—his brain began to wander. His rapid steps sounded to his ears like the galloping of a four-footed animal; he rubbed his sleeve upon his face, and was convinced for the moment that he wore a coat of fur, forgetting that his own beard produced the peculiarity of friction: but at length, somewhat relieved by the rattling of his sword, and the jingling of his spurs, he thanked Our Lady du Roncier that he was still no loup-garou.

  The night in the mean time was getting darker and darker; the road, where it crossed a plain, became less distinguishable from the bare and level soil at the sides; and at length the traveller, deviating by little and little, lost the track altogether. Still, however, he continued to run on,—for in mortal fear one cares not about the whither, contented with escape, even if it should be to a worse danger. And so it happened with the Sire of Keridreux; for in flying from what, after all, was but perhaps a mere sound—vox et præterea nihil—he stumbled upon a substantial misadventure.

  On diving down a sudden declivity, with even more velocity than he had calculated on, he found himself all at once in the midst of at least a dozen men, dressed from head to foot in white robes. The abrupt visiter paused in astonishment and dismay, as a shout of welcome rang in his ears,

  “Hail, Sire of Keridreux!” cried one.

  “Hail, husband of the dame who understands Latin!’’ another.

  “Hail, guilty lover of Beatrix!” a third.

  “Hail, magnanimous ducker in the fisherman’s well!” a fourth; and so on, till the whole had spoken; each speaker, when he had finished, whirling swiftly round on one foot like a vaulter at a merry-meeting. When every man had thus given his welcome, the strange group continued their revolutions in silence for some minutes, their white garments floating round them like vapour agitated by the wind. They at length stopped suddenly, and shouted with one voice, “Hail Loup-garou!” and presently there began so surprising a din of baying and howling, that a whole forest of wolves could not have produced the like.

  The knight listened at first in terror, but by degrees he began to howl himself as if in emulation. The louder he howled, however, the louder rose the voices of his companions; and he threw away his head gear, and spread back his beard to give his voice play. Thus, by degrees, he tore off his clothes, piece by piece, till at last he found himself howling in cuerpo. His comrades then caught him by the hand, and joining hands also with one another, they formed a ring, and began to dance round a great stone standing on end in the midst. Round and round danced the trees, and the rocks, and the hills, and the whole world, in the eyes of the knight; and to his stunned ears every stone had a voice, every leaf and clod its individual howl. Round flew the dancers—faster, and faster, and faster; till the Sire of Keridreux sank gasping upon the ground, and the White Men, springing into the air with a “whirr!” disappeared from his sight.

  When his recollection returned, he found himself lying upon the same spot, stark naked. It was now daylight, and he heard the sunrise horn sounding from a watch-tower in the neighbourhood. Gathering himself up, stiff, bruised, and exhausted, he looked round, and discovered with no small satisfaction that he stood upon his own ground. The castle of Keridreux was close at hand, and the scene of his adventure was the corner of a belt of wood which on one side protected the fortress. Having collected his scattered garments, he dressed as well as he could, and went straight home.

  The Dame of Keridreux was in bed when her lord arrived, and as he entered the apartment, she raised herself on her elbow, and prepared, with eyes glowing like two live coals, to discharge upon his devoted head the wrath she had been nursing for him the whole night. There was something, however, peculiar in his appearance this morning. In his jaded and haggard air she could discern few of the accusing witnesses of debauchery she had so often produced against him; and his scared look, she saw at a glance, was wholly unconnected with conjugal awe. The lady, therefore, suffered her husband to undress without a single remark, and to throw himself into bed at an hour when more sprightly spouses were sallying forth to the chase.

  Altering her usual plan of operations, she crept close to where be lay, and throwing her arm round him, heaved a deep sigh. The knight sprang with a suppressed oath from her embrace, and took refuge in a more distant part of the bed; a thing which it was not difficult to do at a period when such articles of household furniture were usually twelve feet long, and of a proportionate breadth.

  “Alas!” sighed the lady, in a tender tone, “how dreary are the hours of night that are passed in the absence of a beloved husband!” The knight groaned.

  “Where hast thou been, thou runaway?” continued she—“where hast thou been, my baron?”

  �
�I have been,” said the knight—“Oh!” and he groaned again.

  “Alack-a-day!” sighed the dame, once more—“I slept not a wink the live-long night. I feared that some mischance had befallen thee; and the wolves in the forest kept such a howling—”

  “It was I who howled!” said the knight, suddenly.

  “Thou! nay, now thou art mocking me; the merry wine still dances in thy brain—thou who howled?”

  “By the holy Virgin!” said the knight, “it was none other than my comrades and I!”

  “Thou art mad to say it; thou art deeper in the wine-cups than I thought. Where hast thou been?” continued she, sharply—“where wert thou all night?”

  “I was dancing in the wood,” said the knight, sleepily and sulkily—“and I howled,”—yawning.

  “Why didst thou howl?” inquired the lady, with fierce curiosity.

  “I howled because I was a wolf, and could not choose!”

  “O ho!” said she, as the knight dropped asleep—“O ho!” Then stirring him gently, and placing her lips to his ear—

  “What part of the wood,” she whispered, “my own baron?”

  “At the corner,” replied the half-unconscious knight, “where stands the great stone—cursed be its gener-a-ti-on!” and he slept aloud.

  The day was far advanced before the Sire of Keridreux awoke. He found, as usual, at his bedside his vassal Hugues; who indeed, besides his numerous other capacities, was a sort of body squire, or feudal valet (in the modern sense of the word), and superintended more particularly the dress and toilet of his master. Hugues on this occasion had much of the air of one of the class of quadrupeds we have mentioned, when his tail, technically speaking, is between his legs: he stood edgewise to his master, with his face in such a position as to give him the advantage of eying with equal perspicuousness the lord on the one hand and the open door on the other, while his feet were so planted upon the rushes that at a word or a look he could have vanished, in the manner vulgarly called “a bolt.”