Beast

by S. R. Schwalb

  ***

  Count Morangiès led a series of hunts throughout October 1764, comprised of local nobles and paysans (peasants). In a letter to Lafont dated October 26, he comments on their lack of firearms: “Unfortunately there are very few guns in the parish of Saint-Alban or, at least, if there are, those who have them do not wish them to be seen.” The hunter-peasants without guns felt so exposed, the count continued, that when they saw the Beast, one could not know if their descriptions of it “are true or crazy.” Morangiès reluctantly advised that if the Beast killed again, the victim’s corpse must be left where it was, as the creature returned to its kills. He suggested that troops were needed, “two hundred men,” and that they would require a month to destroy it. He concluded: “If this animal was born in Africa, as has been presumed, … it will suffer … during the dead of winter.” He stated that the harsh conditions might kill it, but they “could make it more wild.”

  After another disappointing wolf-stalk on Sunday, October 28, 1764, the count wrote, “Today’s hunt, … has not had, Monsieur Lafont, all the effect I would have wished.” A follow-up hunt for Wednesday, October 31—the day Captain Duhamel arrived—was canceled “because of the great quantities of snow.”

  Some of these first offensives included professional shepherds who accompanied vast herds of sheep during the traditional spring and fall movement of livestock between the Mediterranean and the mountains; they were accompanied by powerful chiens de parc (dogs of the sheepfold), mastiffs in studded collars, which protected the canines’ necks from wolves’ jaws.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Ferocious with Design”

  November 1764

  A total of nearly fifty official hunts would ensue from November 15, 1764. The first of these were made up of Duhamel, the dragoon unit, Morangiès, nobles, the peasantry, and fortune-hunting outsiders.

  France’s controller general Laverdy recommended that peasants assist on Sundays and holidays. Traditionally days set aside for worship, rest, and celebration, Sundays and holiday feast days were now commandeered for hunting, for two reasons: One, more people would be available; two, as they were not workdays, the local economy would be less disrupted.

  Meanwhile, winter was setting in.

  And the media was beginning to take notice.

  ***

  It’s true.

  The time of the Beast was also the time of a growing commerce in news, information, human interest stories, and advertising. Understandably, the calamities caused by the creature in the Gévaudan began to attract the attention of fledgling print media in the region, in Paris, in Europe, and even across the Atlantic.

  At that time, media consumption was, well, social. A single copy of a newspaper, newssheet, or a popular-press broadsheet or broadside—one-page publications featuring news stories, ballads, prayers, or advertising—was often circulated to many people. This was done in numerous ways: by subscription, via rental from news vendors, by being read aloud in cafés and other gathering spots, or through individual perusal in reading rooms.

  Primary news outlets at the time included the Courier d’Avignon of Avignon, France, the closest major newspaper to the Gévaudan region (and perhaps one of the most inaccurate, according to sources). Its normal circulation might be as much as one thousand; at the time of the Beast, print runs were increased to three thousand. On November 23, the newspaper said it “did not have words sufficiently terrible to comment on this beast. She is ferocious with design …”

  The Gazette de France, published in Paris, was the official newspaper of France. A subscription-based publication entitled Correspondance Littéraire, read by royal retinues on the Continent, was another influential outlet. These were supplemented by sensational broadsheets and newssheets produced by local printers for distribution by roving peddlers, shopkeepers, and festival hawkers.

  ***

  Reward monies totaling four thousand livres, or pounds, for the Beast’s demise were now being offered by various districts, the combined estates of the province, and the bishop.

  As it would seem that several dozen dragoons should be able to make short work of a nuisance animal, their lack of success must have been embarrassing. To make matters worse, with winter arriving in the Gévaudan, many feared that the Beast—perhaps some kind of strange and terrible wolf—would be in its element in the extreme conditions of the Margeride and Massif Central.

  The creature reappeared in mid-November, attacking four adults between the eighteenth and the end of the month.

  On the twenty-fifth, it brought death to sixty-year-old widow Catherine Vally in Buffeyrettes, with another decapitation. Perhaps even more disturbing, Duhamel—as Morangiès had suggested—used her remains as bait, believing, as had been insisted, the Beast would come back for more. It didn’t.

  Accounts such as this only fueled public fear and speculation. The Courier d’Avignon, in its early days of coverage of the story, claimed, tabloid-like, that the Beast had so far taken thirty lives, more than twice the numbers of victims recorded in official reports. Exaggerated or not, word was quickly spreading that a monster roamed the French countryside.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Inconsolable”

  December 1764

  Duhamel, frustrated by a lack of results as well as the oncoming winter season, yet faithful to his call of duty, kept his hunters on the trail through snow- and fog-obscured conditions. In mid-December, the Beast commenced a concentrated series of attacks, beginning with the decapitation of forty-five-year-old herder Catherine Chastang in Vedrines Saint-Loup. It then set upon a sixteen-year-old boy and a forty-year-old woman before decapitating a twelve-year-old girl. Her body, like Catherine Vally’s in November, was used as a lure. A twenty-one-year-old woman, a young child, and a teenage boy perished next, the last another decapitation.

  The Beast ended its first year of terror by attacking yet another small child, followed by a young male. It then killed a fifteen-year-old in Rieutort-de-Randon, attacked a twelve-year-old girl, and finally assailed an adult male.

  Alas, it seemed that if Duhamel did not have bad luck, he had no luck at all. Around December 20, the captain actually set eyes on his target at its haunt of Château de la Baume. But his dragoons spooked the creature before he or they could take aim.

  Duhamel, desperate for victory, and his men, seeking a payout, were furious that their weeks of hunting had come to naught. Those feelings of frustration were shared by those in power, awaiting results, and of course by locals who’d been plagued by both the Beast’s predations and the dragoons’ disruptions of their lives.

  In a letter written later in the month, Duhamel admitted that he was “inconsolable” over the episode. But the end of 1764 would bring not only a continued reign of terror, but a major guilt trip. The Gévaudanais would learn that the arrival of the Beast and its ravages was all their fault.

  ***

  The Last Week of December 1764

  “Be seated, Étienne.” The Most Reverend Bishop of Mende waved Lafont toward an ornate upholstered backless chair as he thrust his own slippered feet into a foot muff, an elegant wooden case lined with fur positioned beneath his desk. The December winds, forcing their way through the window casings, caused the flames of the cleric’s candles to flicker.

  “This Beast in my district. It seems impossible to destroy, does it not?”

  Lafont coughed. “It is elusive, Your Excellency.”

  The cleric smiled, holding out a sheaf of papers. Lafont rose to retrieve the documents.

  “I want you to read this,” said the bishop. “I am issuing this letter on New Year’s Eve. It would be profitable for you to know its contents beforehand.”

  Lafont paused. “Of course, Your Excellency.”He settled in his chair and read.

  It was a pastoral letter, but the message was not that of a kindly father.

  Entitled “Mandement by Gabriel-Florent de Choiseul-Beaupré, Bishop of Mende: The Bishop’s Charge to His Congregation/to Order Pub
lic Prayers Regarding the Animal (the Man-eater Who Devastates the Gévaudan),” the bishop mentioned the misfortunes of war, irregularity of the weather, and other woes, and then “this extraordinary scourge … a ferocious beast.”

  Referring to St. Augustine (upon whom the Jansenists, a controversial conservative Catholic group the bishop favored, based their beliefs), the bishop informed his flock, “you can easily conclude that your misfortunes can come only from your sins.”

  As the monster’s reign continued, and word of its atrocities spread throughout the country, the leaders of the Gévaudan found themselves running out of options. A forty-hour prayer vigil was ordered, to be held for three weeks in succession, starting on January 6, 1765, Epiphany.

  CHAPTER 8

  Wolf Month

  January 1765

  The Anglo-Saxons called January “Wolf Month,” the time of year when the predators were most ravenous. The Beast wasted no time in living up to the reputation of its northern brothers, with the January 2 decapitation of a sixteen-year-old youth; when the crime was discovered, the animal absconded with one of the boy’s arms.

  There would be more than two dozen attacks and ten deaths in the first month of 1765.

  January 6, Epiphany, also known as Three Kings Day, or Twelfth Night, is a Christmas-related Church feast. This day commemorates the visit of the Magi—the Three Kings—to see the infant Jesus in Bethlehem.

  It was also the day the first forty-hour prayer vigil was to begin, a day upon which the creature slaughtered two females, in Fournel and in Maurines.

  Less than a week later, however, the tables were turned when, in Le Villeret, France, the Beast attempted to besiege twelve-year-old Jacques-Andre Portefaix and six of his friends.

  ***

  It was January 12, 1765. Seven children from the parish of Chanaleilles, in Le Villeret, the Gévaudan, France, were watching their families’ cattle on a local mountainside.

  “Keep your cow away from the bog, Panafleu!” shouted Jacques Portefaix, as he dueled with Jacques Couston and Jean Pic. Portefaix, Couston, and Pic were the same age—twelve. Each wielded a long stick topped with a triangular iron point covered by a sheath.

  “Watch it!” said eight-year-old Jean Veyrier, collecting firewood. “You almost hit me.”

  “It’s very cold today,” complained Joseph Panafleu, also eight. At Portefaix’s bidding, Panafleu guided his cow away from the marshy area nearby. He snuggled up to its thick winter coat and closed his eyes, shivering. The cow flapped its ears.

  “Ha!” exclaimed Madeleine Chausse, age nine. Said her friend Jeanne Gueffier, “It’s only January, Panafleu. Winter has barely begun.”

  The cattle, hardy Salers stock, grazed outside year-round. Today they nibbled on snow-dusted grass.

  Panafleu stroked the cow’s side. He felt the sun come and go on his face as it flashed beneath speeding clouds in the hard blue sky.

  The cow snorted. Panafleu opened his eyes.

  The big boys were still dueling. Veyrier was stacking his wood. The girls were singing.

  And through the leafless trees, Panafleu saw a monster loping up the mountain trail toward them.

  Panafleu’s jaw dropped. He slid down, onto the snow, clinging to the cow’s leg.

  The other children laughed.

  “What are you doing, Panafleu?”

  “Sitting in fresh manure? That will warm you up.”

  “Or are you after warm milk? That’s not where her teats are.”

  Panafleu did not answer.

  Jacques Portefaix ceased dueling. He eyed the little boy and followed his gaze.

  A four-footed demon was nearly upon them.

  La Bête, Portefaix breathed, staring through his own frosty breath. “La Bête!” he bellowed. He dashed to Joseph and hauled the youngster to his feet. “Everyone! Here! Now!” He pulled the sheath from the end of his pike and made the sign of the cross. “Madeleine! Jeanne! Veyrier, Panafleu, behind! Couston! Pic! With me!”

  But La Bête had already arrived. She prowled about the little troop, leering.

  The Beast of the Gévaudan was the size of a one-year-old calf. Her fur was reddish. She had a black stripe along her back, and a long tail. And fangs.

  “She’s ugly,” Jeanne whispered.

  “She smells,” added Madeleine.

  The Beast salivated.

  “Circle!” shouted Portefaix. “Turn with her!” He shoved his companions. “Keep her in front of us.”

  The cattle stamped their feet and lowed.

  “The cows will protect us,” Joseph cried. “Hide among them!” He bolted for the herd.

  La Bête leapt. In one fluid motion she caught little Panafleu by the throat. Portefaix marveled: How easy it is for her.

  The children gaped.

  “Come on!” Portefaix yelled. As if awakened from some trance, the youngsters moved, thrusting primitive spears. “Harder!” said Portefaix. They stabbed, shrieking. The Beast, disoriented, released Panafleu. But not before she tore away his right cheek.

  She devoured it in an instant.

  Madeleine dragged Panafleu away and held him.

  The Beast’s eyes snapped. It rushed again.

  The girls screamed.

  “Stay together!” shouted Portefaix. “Circle!” The beast lunged into eight-year-old Jean Veyrier, who fell. It drew back, then lunged again, biting him on the lips. The older children advanced. Still La Bête struck, dragging Jean away by his arm.

  Couston wailed, “We must get help!”

  “No!” roared Portefaix. “We rescue Jean. Or perish with him. Pic, go left! I’ll go right! Drive it into the bog. Everyone!” They all followed Portefaix. Even the cattle moved toward the creature, tossing their horns. Distracted, La Bête stumbled into the swamp with Veyrier and struggled in the freezing water.

  The children caught up.

  “Charge!” commanded Portefaix.

  “Monster!” shouted Couston.

  “Demon!” said Madeleine.

  Yelling for all they were worth, the boys and girls of the parish of Chanaleilles surrounded the famous Beast of the Gévaudan.

  “Attack her head, her eyes, her jaws!” advised Portefaix.

  They jabbed at the creature over and over again. It seemed like forever, when in fact the entire encounter lasted mere minutes. La Bête was unable to kill or even bite little Jean; she was too busy snapping at the primitive pikes and dodging blows.

  Once she seized Portefaix’s iron tip and bent it.

  Portefaix and company battle the Beast on January 12, 1765. Bibliothèque nationale de France.

  Finally La Bête dropped Veyrier and drew back. Portefaix scrambled down to help the boy.

  La Bête freed herself from the bog, shaking the wet from her fur like a dog. She turned to study her attackers from atop a mound.

  “We have her now!” said Portefaix. The seven clenched spears.

  But La Bête had had enough of the youngsters of Le Villeret. She darted into the forest.

  “She’s gone,” said Madeleine.

  “Children!”

  The children wheeled.

  An adult had arrived, at last.

  ***

  The courage of seven children rallied king, court, and people, and provided the young hero Portefaix with an all-expenses-paid education and a career in the military. But the triumph was a temporary one.

  The Beast immediately resumed its month-long January rampage, even assailing pike-armed men and mauling a twenty-year-old woman, Catherine Boyer, of Lastic, who survived to became la Balafrée (the Scarred, or Scarface).

  ***

  Publications in London, Amsterdam, Brussels, Cologne, Boston, and other cities gave coverage to the story of La Bête. Images of the Beast were reproduced on tin plates and ceramic ware. Taxidermy specimen hyenas “of the Gévaudan” were sold in subsequent years as yard accents. The Abbé Pourcher says, “Even the peddlers sang about [the Beast] in public places, with the exaggeration that fol
lowed the fashion and served their own interests.”

  In fact, along with news-making Serbian vampire Arnold Paole and German werewolf Stubbe Peter (more on these to come), the Beast may be considered one of the first media sensations.

  The predations of such a mysterious beast, the tragedies it effected, and the difficulties encountered by its hunters captivated audiences far from the “theater of drama,” as historian Moriceau terms it. Says scholar Judith Devlin, “Its immense renown was due partly to the work of printers and hawkers of broadsheets, and it quickly became legendary, not only because of the fear inspired by its great size and ferocity, but also because it fitted easily into a well-established imaginative tradition and could be seen as a realization of ill-defined and complex as well as conscious fears.” Moriceau has commented on how such coverage, designed to “shock the public,” contributed to negative impressions of wolves.

  ***

  On January 27, a startling announcement was made: His Majesty, King Louis XV, would pay six thousand livres’ reward for the Beast’s hide! This was on top of the four thousand offered earlier. A notice with the particulars of the announcement was to be displayed in the towns and cities of the region. Hunters were instructed to register with Lafont prior to their chasses (hunts). In England, the London media repeated the announcement in English:

  By the King and Intendant of the province of Languedoc. Notice is given to all persons, that His Majesty, being justly affected by the situation of his subjects, now exposed to the ravages of the wild beast which for four months past has infested Vivarais and Gévaudan. And being desirous to stop the progress of such a calamity, has determined to promise a reward of six thousand livres to any person or persons who shall kill this animal. Such as are willing to undertake the pursuit of him may previously apply to the Sieur de la Font, sub-deputy to the Intendant of Mendes, who will give them the necessary instructions agreeably to what has been presented by the ministry on the part of his Majesty.