The Best Werewolf Short Stories 1800-1849

by Andrew Barger

  As for the heiress of Montmorenci, she bore her loss with considerable philosophy. She would have married the young Count de Vardes without repugnance, but he had been too cold a lover to touch her heart or occasion regret; but poor Manon was the sacrifice for her own error. What manner of contest she had had with the wolf was never known, for she never sufficiently recovered from the state of exhaustion in which she had fallen to the earth, to be able to describe what had passed. Alone she had vanquished the savage animal, alone dragged it through the forest and the village, to the market square, where every human being able to stir, for miles round, was assembled; so that all other places were wholly deserted. The wolf had been shot, but not mortally; its death had evidently been accelerated by other wounds.

  Manon herself was much torn and lacerated; and on the spot where the creature had apparently been slain, was found her gun, a knife, and a pool of blood, in which lay several fragments of her dress: Though unable to give any connected account of her own perilous adventure, she was conscious of the happy result of her generous devotion; and before she died received the heartfelt forgiveness and earnest thanks of her uncle and cousin, the former of whom soon followed her to the grave. Despairing now of ever succeeding in his darling object, what was the world to him! He loved his daughter tenderly, but he was possessed with an idea, which it had been the aim and hope of his life to work out. She was safe and happy, and needed him no more; and the hope being dead, life seemed to ooze out with it.

  By the loss of that maiden’s hand, who can tell what we have missed! For doubtless it is the difficulty of fulfilling the last condition named by the Italian, which has been the real impediment in the way of all philosophers who have been engaged in alchemical pursuits; and we may reasonably hope, that when women shall have learned to hold their tongues, the philosopher’s stone will be discovered, and poverty and wrinkles thereafter cease to deform the earth.

  For long years after these strange events, over the portcullis of the old chateau of the De Vardes, till it fell into utter ruin, might be discerned the figure of a wolf, carved in stone, wanting one of its fore-feet; and underneath it the following inscription—‘In perpetuam rei memoriam.’

  Richard Thomsom

  (1794-1865)

  Introduction

  The Wehr-Wolf

  A Legend of the Limousin

  This excellent tale of the werewolf came to light in the February 23, 1828, Vol. I issue of The Olio, or, Museum of Entertainment. It appeared on page 97 below an illustration of knights fighting on the battlefield. The story was first published anonymously. It next appeared when Richard Thomson published his three volume collection of short stories called, Tales of an Antiquary. In Vol. I is “The Wehr-Wolf: A Legend of the Limousin,” which is found on page 232. Thomson was librarian of the London Institute and a historian. His collection melded history and fiction in the way one would expect from a person with his literary background.

  The story made such an impression that an 1828 Playbill for the Pavilion Theatre of London reveals a production titled: “The Wehr Wolf, or, The Hunter of Limousin” that same year. The playwright is listed as J. G. Reynolds.

  This is the oldest werewolf story in this collection and one of the best. It is also, perhaps, the first werewolf short story in the English language. It forms the foundation of the modern werewolf short story on which the others were built. At a minimum, it must be praised for its originality. The story provides the first concept of wearing a werewolf skin as a cloak to prevent attacks from other werewolves. It also is apparently the first to describe the concept of striking a man beset with werewolfism between the eyes with a “fire fork” to change him back into the beast. It even has some comedic moments as did the play, which contained a comic song titled “Billy Barlow.”

  The setting of the story is 1520.

  The Wehr-Wolf

  A Legend of the Limousin

  (1828)

  The Wolf! the Wolf!

  Æsop’s Fables

  ‘Twas smoothly said, in olden hours,

  That men were oft with wondrous powers,

  Endow’d their wonted forms to change,

  And Wehr-Wolves wild abroad to range!

  So Garwal roams in savage pride,

  And hunts for blood and feeds on men,

  Spreads dire destruction far and wide,

  And makes the forests broad his den.

  MARIE’S “LAI DU BISCLAVARET”

  THE ANCIENT PROVINCE of Poictou, in France, has long been celebrated in the annals of Romance, as one of the most famous haunts of those dreadful animals, whose species is between a phantom and a beast of prey; and which are called by the Germans, Wehr-Wolves, and by the French, Bisclavarets, or Loups Garoux. To the English, these midnight terrors are yet unknown, and almost without a name; but when they are spoken of in this country, they are called by way of eminence, Wild Wolves!

  The common superstition concerning them is, that they are men in compact with the Arch Enemy, who have the power of assuming the form and nature of wolves at certain periods. The hilly and woody district of the Upper Limousin, which now forms the Southern division of the Upper Vienne, was that particular part of the Province which the Wehr-Wolves were supposed to inhabit; whence, like the animals which gave them their name, they would wander out by midnight, far from their own hills and mountains, and run howling through the silent streets of the nearest towns and villages, to the great terror of all the inhabitants; whose piety, however, was somewhat increased by these supernatural visitations.

  There once stood in the suburbs of the Town of St. Yrieux, which is situate in those dangerous parts of ancient Poictou, an old, but handsome, Maison-de-Plaisance, or, in plain English, a country-house, belonging by ancient descent to the young Baroness Louise Joliedame; who, out of a dread of the terrible Wehr-Wolves, a well-bred horror at the chambres à l’antique which it contained, and a greater love for the gallant Court of Francis I., let the Chateau to strangers; though they occupied but a very small portion of it, whilst the rest was left unrepaired, and was rapidly falling to decay.

  One of the parties by whom the old mansion was tenanted, was a country Chirurgeon, named Antoine Du Pilon; who, according to his own account, was not only well acquainted with the science of Galen and Hippocrates, but was also a profound adept in those arts, for the learning of which some men toil their whole lives away, and are none the wiser; such as Alchemy, converse with spirits, Magic, and so forth.

  Dr. Du Pilon had abundant leisure to talk of his knowledge at the little Cabaret of St. Yrieux, which bore the sign of the Chevalier Bayard’s Arms, where he assembled round him many of the idler members of the town, the chief of whom were Cuirbouilli, the Currier; Malbois, the Joiner; La Jacquette, the Tailor, and Nicole Bonvarlet, his Host, together with several other equally arrant gossips, who all swore roundly, at the end of each of their parleys, that Doctor Antoine du Pilon was the best Doctor, and the wisest man in the whole world!

  To remove, however, any wonder that may arise in the reader’s mind, how a professor of such skill and knowledge should be left to waste his abilities so remote from the patronage of the great, it should be remarked, that in such cases as had already come before him, he had not been quite so successful as could have been expected, or desired; since old Genifréde Corbeau, who was frozen almost double with age and ague, he kept cold and fasting, to preserve her from fever; and he would have cut off the leg of Pierre Faucille, the reaper, when he wounded his right arm in harvest time, to prevent the flesh from mortifying downwards!

  In a retired apartment of the same deserted mansion where this mirror of Chirurgeons resided, dwelt a peasant and his daughter, who had come to St. Yrieux from a distant part of Normandy, and of whose history nothing was known, but that they seemed to be in the deepest poverty; although they neither asked relief, nor uttered a single complaint. Indeed they rather avoided all discourse with their gossiping neighbours, and even with their fellow inmates, excepting so
far as the briefest courtesy required; and as they were able, on entering their abode, to place a reasonable security for payment in the hands of old Gervais, the Baroness Joliedame’s Steward, they were permitted to live in the old Chateau with little questioning, and less sympathy.

  The father appeared in general to be a plain rude peasant, whom poverty had somewhat tinctured with misanthropy; though there were times when his bluntness towered into a haughtiness not accordant with his present station, but seemed like a relique of a higher sphere from which he had fallen. He strove, and the very endeavour increased the bitterness of his heart to mankind, to conceal his abject indigence, but that was too apparent to all, since he was rarely to be found at St. Yrieux, but led a wild life in the adjacent mountains and forests, occasionally visiting the town, to bring to his daughter Adéle a portion of the spoil, which, as a hunter, he indefatigably sought for the subsistence of both.

  Adéle, on the contrary, though she felt as deeply as her father the sad reverse of fortune to which they were exposed, had more gentleness in her sorrow, and more content in her humiliation. She would, when he returned to the cottage, worn with the fatigue of his forest labours, try, but many times in vain, to bring a smile to his face, and consolations to his heart. “My father,” she would say, “quit, I beseech you, this wearisome hunting for some safer employment, nearer home. You depart, and I watch in vain for your return; days and nights pass away, and you come not! while my disturbed imagination will ever whisper the danger of a forest midnight, fierce, howling wolves, and robbers still more cruel.”

  “Robbers! girl, sayest thou?” answered her father with a bitter laugh, “and what shall they gain from me, think ye? is there aught in this worn-out gaberdine to tempt them? Go to, Adéle! I am not now Count Gaspar de Marcanville, the friend of the royal Francis, and a Knight of the Holy Ghost; but plain Hubert, the Hunter of the Limousin; and wolves, thou trowest, will not prey upon wolves.”

  “But, dear my father,” said Adéle, embracing him, “I would that thou would’st seek a safer occupation nearer to our dwelling, for I would be by your side.”

  “What would’st have me to do, girl?” interrupted Gaspar impatiently; “would’st have me put this hand to the sickle, or the plough, which has so often grasped a sword in the battle, and a banner-lance in the tournament? or shall a companion of Le Saint-Esprit become a fellow-handworker with the low artizans of this miserable town? I tell thee Adéle, that but for thy sake I would never again quit the forest, but would remain there in a savage life, till I forgot my language and my species, and became a Wehr-wolf, or a wild-buck!”

  Such was commonly the close of their conversation; for if Adéle dared to press her entreaties farther, Gaspar, half frenzied, would not fail to call to her mind all the unhappy circumstances of his fall, and work himself almost to madness by their repetition. He had in early life been introduced by the Count De Saintefleur to the Court of Francis I., where he had risen so high in the favour of his Sovereign, that he was continually in his society; and in the many wars which so embittered the reign of that excellent Monarch, De Marcanville’s station was ever by his side.

  In these conflicts, Gaspar’s bosom had often been the shield of Francis, even in moments of the most imminent danger; and the grateful King as often showered upon his deliverer those rewards, which, to the valiant and high-minded soldier, are far dearer than riches; the glittering jewels of knighthood, and the golden coronal of the peerage. To that friend who had fixed his feet so loftily and securely in the slippery paths of a Court, Gaspar felt all the ardour of youthful gratitude; and yet he sometimes imagined, that he could perceive an abatement in the favour of De Saintefleur, as that of Francis increased.

  The truth was, that the gold and rich promises of the King’s great enemy, the Emperor Charles V., had induced De Saintefleur to swerve from his allegiance; and he now waited but for a convenient season to put the darkest designs in practice against his Sovereign. He also felt no slight degree of envy, even against that very person whom he had been the instrument of raising; and at length an opportunity occurred, when he might gratify both his ambition and his revenge, by the same blow. It was in one of those long wars in which the French Monarch was engaged, and in which De Saintefleur and De Marcanville were his most constant companions, that they were both watching near his couch whilst he slept, when the former, in a low tone of voice, thus began to sound the faith of the latter towards his royal master.

  “What say’st thou, Gaspar, were not a prince’s coronet and a king’s revenue in Naples, better than thus ever toiling in a war that seems unending? Hearest thou, brave De Marcanville? we can close it with the loss of one life only!”

  “Queen of Heaven!” ejaculated Gaspar, “what is it thou would’st say, De Saintefleur?”

  “Say! why that there have been other Kings of France before this Francis, and will be, when he shall have gone to his place. Thinkest thou that He of the double-headed black eagle would not amply reward the sword that cut this fading lily from the earth?”

  “No more, no more, De Saintefleur!” cried Gaspar; “even from you, who placed me where I might flourish beneath that lily’s shade, will I not hear this treason. Rest secure that I will not betray thee to the King; my life shall sooner be given for thine; but I will watch thee with more vigilance than the wolf hath when he watcheth the night-fold, and your first step to the heart of Francis shall be over the body of Gaspar De Marcanville.”

  “Nay, then,” said De Saintefleur aside, “he must be my first victim,” and immediately drawing his sword, he cried aloud, “What, ho! guards! Treason!”—whilst Gaspar stood immoveable with astonishment and horror. The event is soon related, for Francis was but too easily persuaded that De Marcanville was in reality guilty of the act about to have been perpetrated by De Saintefleur; and the magnanimity of Gaspar was such, that not one word which might criminate his former friend could be drawn from him, even to save his own life. The kindhearted Francis, however, was unable to forget in a moment the favour with which for years he had been accustomed to look upon De Marcanville; and it was only at the earnest solicitation of the Courtiers, many of whom were rejoiced at the thought of a powerful rival’s removal, that he could be prevailed on to pass upon him even the sentence of degradation and banishment.

  Gaspar hastened to his Chateau, but the treasures which he was allowed to bear with him into exile were little more than his Rosalie and his daughter Adéle; with whom he immured himself in the dark and almost boundless recesses of the Hanoverian Harz, where his fatigues and his sorrows soon rendered his gaunt and attenuated form altogether unknown.

  In this savage retirement, he drew up a faithful narration of De Saintefleur’s treachery; and in confirmation of it’s truth, procured a certificate from his Confessor, Father Ægidius,—one of those holy men who of old were dwellers in forests and deserts,—and directing it “To the King,” placed it in the hands of his wife, that if, in any of those hazardous excursions in which he engaged to procure their daily subsistence, he should perish, it might be delivered to Francis, and his family thus be restored to their rank and estates, when his pledge to De Saintefleur could no longer be claimed.

  Years passed away, and, in the gloomy recesses of the Hercynian woods, Gaspar acquired considerable skill as a hunter: had it been to preserve his own life only, he had laid him calmly down upon the sod, and resigned that life to famine, or to the hungry wolf; but he had still two objects which bound him to existence, and therefore in the chase the wild-buck was too slow to escape his spear, and the bear too weak to resist his attacks.

  His fate, notwithstanding, preyed heavily upon him, and often brake out in fits of vehement passion, and the most bitter lamentations; which at length so wrought upon the grief-worn frame of Rosalie de Marcanville, that about ten years after Gaspar’s exile, her death left him a widower, when his daughter Adéle was scarcely eighteen years of age.

  It was then, with a mixture of desperation and distress, that De
Marcanville determined to rush forth from his solitude into France, and, careless of the fate which might await him for returning from exile unrecalled, to advance even to the Court, and laying his papers at the foot of the throne, to demand the Ordeal of Combat with De Saintefleur; but when he had arrived at the woody Province of the Upper Limousin, his purpose failed him, as he saw in the broad day-light, which rarely entered the Harz Forest, the afflicting changes which ten years of the severest labour, and the most heartfelt sorrow, had made upon his form.

  He might, indeed, so far as it regarded all recollections of his person, have safely gone even into the Court of Francis; but Gaspar also saw, that in the retired forest surrounding St. Yrieux, he might still reside unknown in his beloved France; that under the guise of a hunter, he could still provide for the support of his gentle Adéle; and that, in the event of his death, she would be considerably nearer to her Sovereign’s abode. It was, then, in consequence of these reasons, that De Marcanville employed a part of his small remaining property, in securing a residence in the dilapidated Chateau, as it has been already mentioned.

  It was some time after their arrival, that the inhabitants of the Town of St. Yrieux were alarmed by the intelligence, that a Wehr-Wolf, or perhaps a troop of them, certainly inhabited the woods of the Limousin. The most terrific howlings were heard in the night, and the wild rush of a chase swept through the deserted streets; yet the townspeople—according to the most approved rules for acting where Wehr-Wolves are concerned,—never once thought of sallying forth in a body, and with weapons, and lighted brands, to scare the monsters from their prey; but, adding a more secure fastening to every window, which is the Wehr-Wolf’s usual entrance, they deserted such as had already fallen their victims, with one brief expression of pity for them, and many a “Dieu me benit!” for themselves. It was asserted, too, that some of the country people, whose dwellings came more immediately into contact with the Limousin forests, had lost their children, whose lacerated remains, afterwards discovered in the woods, only half devoured, plainly denoted them to have fallen the prey of some abandoned Wehr-Wolf!