The Dedalus Book of French Horror: The 19th Century

by Terry Hale

  ‘You are right,’ said Toubec, astonished at my excited manner; ‘and we had much better talk of something else. By-the-bye, Master Christian, what about our landscape, the view of Sainte-Odile?’

  The question brought me back to actualities. I showed the broker the picture I had just finished. The business was soon settled between us, and Toubec, thoroughly satisfied, went down the ladder, advising me to think no more of the student of Heidelberg.

  I would very willingly have followed the old broker’s advice, but when the devil mixes himself up with our affairs he is not easily shaken off.

  In solitude, all these events came back to my mind with frightful distinctness.

  The old woman, I said to myself, is the cause of all this; she alone has planned these crimes, she alone has carried them into execution; but by what means? Has she had recourse to cunning only, or really to the intervention of the invisible powers?

  I paced my garret, a voice within me crying, ‘It is not without purpose that Heaven has permitted you to see Flédermausse watching the agony of her victim; it was not without design that the poor young man’s soul came to wake you in the form of a night-moth! No! all this has not been without purpose. Christian, Heaven imposes on you a terrible mission; if you fail to accomplish it, fear that you yourself may fall into the toils of that old woman! Perhaps at this moment she is laying her snares for you in the darkness!’

  During several days these frightful images pursued me without cessation. I could not sleep; I found it impossible to work; the brush fell from my hand, and, shocking to confess, I detected myself at times complacently contemplating the dreadful stanchion. At last, one evening, unable any longer to bear this state of mind, I flew down the ladder four steps at a time, and went and hid myself beside Flédermausse’s door, for the purpose of discovering her fatal secret.

  From that time there was never a day that I was not on the watch, following the old woman like her shadow, never losing sight of her; but she was so cunning, she had so keen a scent, that without even turning her head she discovered that I was behind her, and knew that I was on her track. But nevertheless, she pretended not to see me – went to the market, to the butcher’s, like a simple housewife; only she quickened her pace and muttered to herself as she went.

  At the end of a month I saw that it would be impossible for me to achieve my purpose by these means, and this conviction filled me with an inexpressible sadness.

  ‘What can I do?’ I asked myself. ‘The old woman has discovered my intentions, and is thoroughly on her guard. I am helpless. The old wretch already thinks she sees me at the end of the cord!’

  At length, from repeating to myself again and again the question, ‘What can I do?’ a luminous idea presented itself to my mind.

  My chamber overlooked the house of Flédermausse, but it had no dormer window on that side. I carefully raised one of the slates of my roof, and the delight I felt on discovering that by this means I could command a view of the entire antique building can hardly be imagined.

  ‘At last I’ve got you!’ I cried to myself; ‘you cannot escape me now! From here I shall see everything – the goings and comings, the habits of the weasel in her hole! You will not suspect this invisible eye – this eye that will surprise the crime at the moment of its inception! Oh, Justice! it moves slowly, but it comes!’

  Nothing more sinister than this den could be looked on – a large yard, paved with moss-grown flagstones; a well in one corner, the stagnant water of which was frightful to behold; a wooden staircase leading up to a railed gallery, from the balustrade of which hung the tick of an old mattress; to the left, on the first floor, a drain-stone indicated the kitchen; to the right, the upper windows of the house looked into the street. All was dark, decaying, and dank-looking.

  The sun penetrated only for an hour or two during the day the depths of this dismal sty; then the shadows again spread over it – the light fell in lozenge shapes upon the crumbling walls, on the mouldy balcony, on the dull windows. Clouds of motes danced in the golden rays that not a motion of the air came to disturb.

  Oh, the whole place was worthy of its mistress!

  I had hardly made these reflections when the old woman entered the yard on her return from market. First, I heard her heavy door grate on its hinges, then Flédermausse, with her basket, appeared. She seemed fatigued – out of breath. The border of her cap hung down upon her nose, as, clutching the wooden rail with one hand, she mounted the stairs.

  The heat was suffocating. It was exactly one of those days when insects of every kind – crickets, spiders, mosquitoes – fill old buildings with their grating noises and subterranean borings.

  Flédermausse crossed the gallery slowly, like a ferret that feels itself at home. For more than a quarter of an hour she remained in the kitchen, then came out and turned her mattress-tick, swept the stones a little, on which a few straws had been scattered; at last she raised her head, and with her green eyes carefully scrutinised every portion of the roof from which I was observing her.

  By what strange intuition did she suspect anything? I know not; but I gently lowered the uplifted slate into its place, and gave over watching for the rest of that day.

  The day following Flédermausse appeared to be reassured. A jagged ray of light fell into the gallery; passing this, she caught a fly, and delicately presented it to a spider established in an angle of the roof.

  The spider was so large, that, in spite of the distance, I saw it descend round by round of its ladder, then, gliding along one thread, like a drop of venom, seize its prey from the fingers of the dreadful old woman, and remount rapidly. Flédermausse watched it attentively; then her eyes half-closed, she sneezed, and cried to herself in a jocular tone:

  ‘Bless you, beauty! – bless you!’

  For six weeks I could discover nothing as to the power of Flédermausse: sometimes I saw her peeling potatoes, sometimes spreading her linen on the balustrade. Sometimes I saw her spin; but she never sang, as old women usually do, their quivering voices going so well with the humming of the spinning-wheel. Silence reigned about her. She had no cat – the favourite company of old maids; not a sparrow ever flew down into her yard, in passing over which the pigeons seemed to hurry their flight. It seemed as if everything were afraid of her look.

  The spider alone took pleasure in her society.

  I now look back with wonder at my patience during those long hours of observation; nothing escaped my attention, nothing was indifferent to me; at the least sound I lifted my slate. Mine was a boundless curiosity stimulated by an indefinable fear.

  Toubec complained.

  ‘What the devil are you doing with your time, Master Christian?’ he would say to me. ‘Formerly, you had something ready for me every week; now, hardly once in a month. Oh, you painters! people may well say, “Idle as a painter!” As soon as they have a few kreutzer before them, they put their hands in their pockets and go to sleep!’

  I myself was beginning to lose courage. With all my watching and spying, I had discovered nothing extraordinary. I was inclining to think that the old woman might not be so dangerous after all – that I had been wrong, perhaps, to suspect her. In short, I tried to find excuses for her. But one fine evening, while, with my eye to the opening in the roof, I was giving myself up to these charitable reflections, the scene abruptly changed.

  Flédermausse passed along her gallery with the swiftness of a flash of light. She was no longer herself: she was erect, her jaws knit, her look fixed, her neck extended; she moved with long strides, her grey hair streaming behind her.

  ‘Oh, oh!’ I said to myself, ‘something is going on – attention!’

  But the shadows of night descended on the big house, the noises of the town died out, and all became silent. I was about to seek my bed, when, happening to look out of my skylight, I saw a light in the window of the green chamber of the Bœuf-gras – a traveller was occupying that terrible room!

  All my fears were instantly reviv
ed. The old woman’s excitement explained itself – she scented another victim!

  I could not sleep all that night. The rustling of the straw of my mattress, the nibbling of a mouse under the floor, sent a chill through me. I rose and looked out of my window – I listened. The light I had seen was no longer visible in the green chamber.

  During one of these moments of poignant anxiety – whether the result of illusion or of reality – I fancied I could discern the figure of the old witch, likewise watching and listening.

  The night passed, the dawn showed grey against my window-panes, and, slowly increasing, the sounds and movements of the re-awakened town arose. Harassed with fatigue and emotion, I at last fell asleep; but my repose was of short duration, and by eight o’clock I was again at my post of observation.

  It appeared that Flédermausse had passed a night no less stormy than mine had been; for, when she opened the door of the gallery, I saw that a livid pallor was upon her cheeks and skinny neck. She had nothing on but her chemise and a flannel petticoat; a few locks of rusty grey hair fell upon her shoulders. She looked up musingly towards my garret; but she saw nothing – she was thinking of something else.

  Suddenly she descended into the yard, leaving her shoes at the top of the stairs. Doubtless her object was to assure herself that the outer door was securely fastened. She then hurried up the stairs, taking three or four steps at a time. It was frightful to see! She rushed into one of the side rooms, and I heard the sound of a heavy box-lid fall. Then Flédermausse reappeared in the gallery, dragging with her a lay-figure the size of life – and this figure was dressed like the unfortunate student of Heidelberg!

  With surprising dexterity the old woman suspended this hideous object to a beam of the over-hanging roof, then went down into the yard, to contemplate it from that point of view. A peal of grating laughter broke from her lips – she hurried up the stairs, and rushed down again, like a maniac; and every time she did this she burst into fresh fits of laughter.

  A sound was heard outside the street door; the old woman sprang to the figure, snatched it from its fastening, and carried it into the house; then she reappeared and leaned over the balcony, with outstretched neck, glittering eyes, and eagerly-listening ears. The sound passed away – the muscles of her face relaxed, she drew a long breath. The passing of a vehicle had alarmed the old witch.

  She then, once more, went back into her chamber, and I heard the lid of the box close heavily.

  This strange scene utterly confounded all my ideas. What could that lay-figure mean?

  I became more watchful and attentive than ever. Flédermausse went out with her basket, and I watched her to the top of the street; she had resumed her air of tottering agedness, walking with short steps, and from time to time half-turning her head, so as to enable herself to look behind out of the corners of her eyes. For five long hours she remained abroad, while I went and came from my spying-place incessantly, meditating all the while – the sun heating the slates above my head till my brain was almost scorched.

  I saw at his window the traveller who occupied the green chamber at the Bœuf-gras; he was a peasant of Nassau, wearing a three-cornered hat, a scarlet waistcoat, and having a broad laughing countenance. He was tranquilly smoking his Ulm pipe, unsuspicious of anything wrong. I felt impelled to call out to him, ‘My good fellow, be on your guard! Don’t let yourself be fascinated by the old woman! – don’t trust yourself!’ But he could not have understood a word I said, even if he had heard me.

  About two o’clock Flédermausse came back. The sound of her door opening echoed to the end of the passage. Presently she appeared alone, quite alone, in the yard, and seated herself on the lowest step of the gallery-stairs. She placed her basket at her feet and drew from it, first several bunches of herbs, then some vegetables – then a three-cornered hat, a scarlet velvet waistcoat, a pair of plush breeches, and a pair of thick worsted stockings – the complete costume of a peasant of Nassau!

  I reeled with giddiness – flames passed before my eyes.

  I remembered those precipices that drew one towards them with irresistible power – wells that have had to be filled up because of persons throwing themselves into them – trees that have had to be cut down because of people hanging themselves upon them – the contagion of suicide and theft and murder, which at various times has taken possession of people’s minds, by means well understood; that strange inducement, for example, which makes people yawn because they see others yawn – kill themselves because others kill themselves. My hair rose upon my head with horror!

  But how could this Flédermausse – a creature so mean and wretched – have made discovery of so profound a law of nature? How had she found the means of turning it to the use of her sanguinary instincts? This I could neither understand nor imagine. Without more reflection, however, I resolved to turn the fatal law against her, and by its power to drag her into her own snare. So many innocent victims called for vengeance!

  I began at once. I hurried to all the old clothes-dealers in Nuremberg; and by the evening I arrived at the Bœuf-gras, with an enormous parcel under my arm.

  Nikel Schmidt had long known me. I had painted the portrait of his wife, a fat and comely dame.

  ‘What! – Master Christian!’ he cried, shaking me by the hand, ‘to what happy circumstance do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’

  ‘My dear Mr. Schmidt, I feel a very strong desire to pass the night in that room of yours up yonder.’

  We were on the doorstep of the inn, and I pointed up to the green chamber. The good fellow looked suspiciously at me.

  ‘Oh! don’t be afraid,’ I said, ‘I’ve no desire to hang myself.’

  ‘I’m glad of it! I’m glad of it! for, frankly, I should be sorry – an artist of your talent. When do you want the room, Master Christian?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘That’s impossible – it’s occupied.’

  ‘The gentleman can have it at once, if he likes,’ said a voice behind us; ‘I shan’t stay in it.’

  We turned in surprise. It was the peasant of Nassau; his large three-cornered hat pressed down upon the back of his neck, and his bundle at the end of his travelling-stick. He had learned the story of the three travellers who had hung themselves.

  ‘Such chambers!’ he cried, stammering with terror; ‘it’s – it’s murdering people to put them into such! – you – you deserve to be sent to the galleys!’

  ‘Come, come, calm yourself,’ said the landlord; ‘you slept there comfortably enough last night.’

  ‘Thank Heaven! I said my prayers before going to rest, or where should I be now? – where should I be now?’

  And he hurried away, raising his hands to heaven.

  ‘Well,’ said Master Schmidt, stupefied, ‘the chamber is empty, but don’t go into it to do me an ill turn.’

  ‘I should be doing myself a much worse one,’ I replied.

  Giving my parcel to the servant-girl, I went and seated myself provisionally among the guests who were drinking and smoking.

  For a long time I had not felt more calm, more happy to be in the world. After so much anxiety, I was approaching my end – the horizon seemed to grow lighter. I know not by what formidable power I was being led on. I lit my pipe, and with my elbow on the table and a jug of wine before me, listened to the hunting-chorus from Der Freischutz, played by a band of Zigeuners from Schwartz-Wald.2 The trumpet, the hunting-horn, the hautbois, by turns, plunged me into vague reverie; and sometimes rousing myself to look at the woman’s house, I seriously asked myself whether all that had happened to me was more than a dream. But when the watchman came, to request us to vacate the room, graver thoughts took possession of my mind, and I followed, in meditative mood, the little servant-girl who preceded me with a candle in her hand.

  We mounted the winding flight of stairs to the third storey; arriving there, she placed the candle in my hand, and pointed to a door.

  ‘That’s it,’ she said, and hurried back down the
stairs as fast as she could go.

  I opened the door. The green chamber was like all other inn bedchambers; the ceiling was low, the bed was high. After casting a glance round the room, I stepped across to the window.

  Nothing was yet noticeable in Flédermausse’s house, with the exception of a light, which shone at the back of a deep obscure bedchamber – a nightlight, doubtless.

  ‘So much the better,’ I said to myself, as I reclosed the window-curtains; ‘I shall have plenty of time.’

  I opened my parcel, and from its contents put on a woman’s cap with a broad frilled border; then, with a piece of pointed charcoal, in front of the glass, I marked my forehead with a number of wrinkles. This took me a full hour to do; but after I had put on a gown and a large shawl, I was afraid of myself: Flédermausse herself was looking at me from the depths of the glass!

  At that moment the watchman announced the hour of eleven. I rapidly dressed the lay-figure I had brought with me like the one prepared by the old witch. I then drew apart the window-curtains.

  Certainly, after all I had seen of the old woman – her infernal cunning, her prudence, and her address – nothing ought to have surprised even me; yet I was positively terrified.

  The light, which I had observed at the back of her room, now cast its yellow rays on her lay-figure, dressed like the peasant of Nassau, which sat huddled up on the side of the bed, its head dropped upon its chest, the large three-cornered hat drawn down over its features, its arms pendent by its sides, and its whole attitude that of a person plunged in despair.

  Managed with diabolical art, the shadow permitted only a general view of the figure, the red waistcoat and its six rounded buttons alone caught the light; but the silence of night, the complete immobility of the figure, and its air of terrible dejection, all served to impress the beholder with irresistible force; even I myself, though not in the least taken by surprise, felt chilled to the marrow of my bones. How, then, would a poor countryman taken completely off his guard have felt? He would have been utterly overthrown; he would have lost all control of will, and the spirit of imitation would have done the rest.