The Macabre Megapack: 25 Lost Tales from the Golden Age

by John Galt

  They gained a tolerable living; for Cyprien, during the long months of winter, when the cattle could no longer be driven to the mountains, used to employ himself in various ways. Amongst other things, he was famous for making the musical instrument to which the peasants of Auverge dance their bourees. This instrument is called la tsabretta, because it is made of goat-skin, and those fabricated by the hand of Cyprien were much sought after.

  The young husband and his companion reached the door of the cottage quite late, drenched with wet, and chilled with cold. They, however, found a warm fire; and La Bonne Femme was welcomed with great cordiality by the aunt of Ursule, who attended on her.

  That night a son was born to Cyprien, who hailed with delight a fine healthy child, so large as to be quite remarkable; his strength was astonishing, and his whole appearance denoted a robust constitution. After a few days, La Bonne Femme departed, leaving Ursule nursing her child, and quite well and happy. No sooner, however, had she left the cottage, than the infant began to cry so violently that everyone was alarmed: he clamored and struggled so that he could hardly be held, and stretched out his arms towards the door, as if he asked for the old woman. Cyprien, finding there was no peace to be obtained, ran after her as fast as he could, and at length overtaking her, entreated her to return and pacify the child.

  “What!” cried she, with a sinister smile, “does it work already?”

  She followed the father, and on her entering the cottage, the child ceased crying, and was seized with trembling.

  She took it, whispered something in its ear, and giving it back to Ursule, it became perfectly quiet, and fell asleep. She then departed, and took her way home. Nine days after this, about the same hour as before—just at dusk—the infant began to cry in the same manner, and stretch its arms towards the door, trying apparently to get out. The father, mother, and nurse knew not what to do to restrain it, for it was so strong that they had great difficulty in keeping it in bed. All of a sudden, there seemed to come a blast of air into the chamber, the cottage door banged violently, and the child fell into a profound sleep, from which no efforts could wake it for nine days longer, when it roused itself at the same hour, and the same scene took place.

  The parents now became very uneasy and harassed with continual watching and care. The child grew in a surprising manner, notwithstanding its lethargic existence, broken only in this strange way; but there was something about it unnaturally large, strong and cunning-looking. At the end of six months, it could walk and run, and at this period its long slumbers ceased, and a singularity of another kind appeared respecting it. It now never slept at all, but its whole delight was in playing the tsabretta, and making so great a noise that no one in the adjoining cottages had any peace.

  Night and day the din continued, until everyone was worn out; and at length it became generally considered that the child had been bewitched, and some measures ought to be taken to remove it from such a visitation.

  Cyprien, therefore, set forth one morning to the neighboring village of Saint Sauves, in order to consult with the cure of that parish—a man both learned and pious, and who had, on more occasions than one, relieved families laboring under afflictions sent by the fairies and witches. No one doubted that La Bonne Femme had cast a spell over Ursule and her child; and it was well remembered by some of the old people, that when Ursule herself was born the same old woman had attended her mother, who had an aversion to her, and had inadvertently remarked to her husband—“Why did you bring me this old witch?” This La Bonne Femme had overheard, and had revenged herself at the time, for the mother of Ursule never afterwards rose from her bed; her vengeance was not, however, it appeared, complete, for she had wreaked it on her grandchild.

  The cure of St. Sauves was much shocked at the communication of Cyprien, and taking with him his crucifix and a vial of holy water, they set out together to the cottage of Le Bonne Femme. The moon had risen brightly over La Malroche, as they approached its vicinity, and just as they turned an angle of a rock, a peculiar sound made them start; they paused a moment to listen, and were soon aware of the howling of wolves. Presently, to their dismay, they saw a troop of those animals scouring along the plain below, and apparently mounting the elevated part where they stood. They crept into a fissure, and held their breath as the grisly party came nearer; and what was their horror to observe, as they approached, that each of the wolves had human faces, and the two foremost wore those of La Bonne Femme and Cyprien’s little son!

  The cure, though at first startled, recovered his presence of mind, and rushing forward, cast the holy water over the child thus transformed, when a loud howl burst forth from all the band, a thick cloud suddenly enveloped them, and when it cleared away they saw at their feet what seemed the lifeless form of the infant, in its natural shape.

  They raised it up, bound the crucifix to its breast, and carried it with care to the cure’s dwelling. There, by his desire, Cyprien left it, and returned home to his wife. He found all the family in tribulation at the loss of the child; for it appears that soon after the father left the cottage on his mission, La Bonne Femme had looked in at the window, at sight of which the infant, who was, as usual, playing on the tsabretta, cast it down, and rushed out of the door, when both fled away with fearful speed across the Dry Lake, and were seen no more.

  The cure devoted himself with prayer and fasting to the preservation of the child, and it at length recovered, but was now a changed being. Precocious as before, it appeared endowed with extraordinary intelligence, and showed such evident signs of an early advocate to the church that it was agreed to place it in the convent of St. Sauves, there to be educated and watched over, in order that the evil one might never resume his dominion over it.

  Cyprien made a vow never more to make tsabrettas, as they led to ill, inasmuch as they encouraged profane pastime, and were usually the accompaniment to the dance of the country, called la goignade—looked upon as so improper by the Bishop of Aleth, that he had excommunicated those in his diocese who ventured to perform the dance.

  A procession was made to La Malroche by the monks of the convent, and many ceremonies of exorcism took place. La Bonnne Femme was found dead in her cottage soon after, burnt almost to a cinder, lying beside a pile of flame-stained stones, of which it was generally believed that she made her fire, for no wood was ever seen in her domicile. She was buried on the summit of La Malroche, and her restless spirit is said still to be seen at times scouring over the plateau in the form of a wolf, when it howls fearfully at the moon. Whenever this is heard the inhabitants of the villages round cross themselves devoutly, and utter a prayer to their patron saint to preserve their children from her evil influence.

  THE THREE VISITS, by Auguste Vitu

  (1850)

  In the month of August, 1845, a column of French soldiers, composed of Chasseurs d’ Afrique, of Spahis, and several battalions of the line, were crossing the beautiful valley of orange-trees and aloes, at the base of Djebel-Ammer, one of the principal spurs of Atlas.

  It was nine o’clock at night, and the atmosphere was calm and clear. A few light and fleecy clouds yet treasured up the melancholy reflection of the sun’s last beams, which, in copper bands, were radiated across the horizon.

  The march was rapid, for it was necessary to catch up with the advance guard, which had been pushed forward to make a razzia, the object of which was to bring into subjection one or two mutinous tribes.

  The Marechal de Camp who commanded this advanced party had halted with a field-officer, to observe this party defile into its place with the rear guard.

  The day had been very warm, and luminous masses of vapor from time to time rose from the surface of the ground, like white apparitions in the midst of sombre space.

  “Look, Corporal Gobin, look there,” said a soldier; “I saw something like a white sheet. Think you it can be a Bedouin?”

  “Fool,” said the corporal, “it is a cactus-leaf, lit up by the moon.”

  “Ba
h! that I can see distinctly, but I had reference to something else, of an elongated form. It is now out of sight. Look! there is another.”

  “They are nothing but heat-balls, my child,” said the corporal.

  “That may be, Corporal, but in this country I do not feel safe.”

  Just at that moment the soldier who was speaking to the corporal passed by the General.

  “What,” said Gobin, “annoys you?”

  “Nothing of any great importance; but out of all these alleys things dance the air. Those immense plants, the edges of the leaves of which cut like those of sabres. There are other green machines which look like stitching-needles. They do not seem natural to me. The night, too, is haunted by evil spirits.”

  “Will you hold your tongue, Conscript?” said the corporal, with vivacity. “You are not going to give us a ghost story?”

  “Why should I not? I am not afraid of ghosts, though you and the rest are. The ghost of an Arab must be a funny affair.”

  Gobin said, very sententiously, “A man, my lad, must come precisely from your village to be so utterly without tact—I may almost say, without sentiment. Do you not know one should never talk of such matters before the General?”

  “Bah! you do not mean to say General Vergamier is afraid?”

  “Vergamier afraid! He who won every step on the battle-field—who is a Commander of the Legion of Honor, and has every seam of his coat covered with other orders! I tell you what, Gabet, you will never become Minister of War.”

  “Then, if the General is so brave, why should not one speak of ghosts before him?”

  “That is a whim of his. He says such stories always do harm, especially after night. It is a weakness, Conscript, I know, unworthy of such a brave man, and therefore is it that he so carefully conceals it.”

  “Then how, Corporal, do you know anything about it?”

  “I have an old friend named Rabugeot, a sapper of the 22nd, who was a servant of the General, and who, one night when he was drunk, under the pledge of secrecy, told me the whole affair.”

  “Well, you take fine care of the secret. Did I ask you if the General—”

  “Silence! Gabet: I think the General suspects we are talking of him.”

  The fact was, the General had heard every word the two soldiers had said, and their conversation had produced a truly painful impression on him. So much so that his friend the Surgeon-Major, Edouard Banis, asked him, with surprise, what was the matter.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” asked the General.

  The major blushed.

  “Why not?”

  “Then, when the body dies, the soul survives?”

  “Thus expressed, the subject-matter disappears.”

  “Give me your opinion on the matter.”

  “What do I know of the matter, General? If life be the manifestation, or rather the emanation, of a general and eternal principle, under a finite form, as the disciples of Swedenborg and other mystics think, spiritual apparitions are not only possible but natural.”

  “Your own opinion, Doctor?”

  “Frankly, I do not know what to say. I have never seen a ghost, and consequently have a right to doubt their existence. Such phenomena do not seem to me contrary to the general laws of nature, and are rather to be admitted on scientific principles—since, if they exist, from their very nature they escape the material control of the senses; and if the soul be in contact with another soul, it alone can establish the presence of the apparition. The body feels, sees, and hears nothing. At Weinsburg, in Germany, I saw Doctor Justinius Korner and Albertus Trintzius, his disciple. These men told me terrible things. I have, however, the faith of Saint Thomas, and wish to see and touch.”

  “But, Edouard,” said the General, “I have myself seen.”

  The gallant officer who made this strange confession to M. Banis was a man still young, for he was scarcely thirty-eight. His fine and noble figure, rather full than otherwise, received a kind of melancholy grace from the sad melancholy of his mild blue eyes, which softened the rudeness of his hale complexion, and the full white moustache which covered his whole upper lip. His hair was short and silky, his ear was small, and his teeth regular. His broad brow, expressive of thought, announced him a dreamer. General Etienne Vergamier, with his tall stature, his broad shoulders, his physical power, his mild expression, and his sweet and charming smile, might have served as a model for one of those northern heroes, sons of Ossian and Fingal, who as they fought sang heroic rhymes.

  The Doctor was a cold methodical man. He was however intelligent and deeply learned, and heard the confession of the General with the greatest astonishment and curiosity. Let one, however, be ever so great a physician and naturalist, the passion for the supernatural yet exerts its painful influence.

  Vergamier pushed his horse to a trot, and was silent for some time. The Doctor respected his reverie, but finally gave vent to his curiosity, fully as his intimacy with the General permitted.

  “We have a long route before us. The road is becoming bad, and we must perforce slacken our pace. Tell me, General, the event to which you referred just now. This is a proper time to talk of ghosts.”

  “Why should I, Doctor? You would not believe me.”

  “I believe in sensations, of all kinds. You will however permit me to discuss the principles of yours?”

  “Ah! You wish to insert your physiological scalpel into the secret of secrets of my heart. I beseech you, however, not to laugh. I tell you an absolute fact.”

  The time was well-chosen for such a story. As the column approached Djebel-Ammer, the soil, which had hitherto been grassy and fertile, became barren and desolate. The orange-trees gave place to mastich-wood and the most horrible cactus. The arbuti lifted directly to heaven their blood-red trunks and regular branches, on which the leaves were so glittering that rays of the moon made them splendid as the scanthi of candelabra. On the right side and on the left arose layers of black and blue rocks, like vast Japanese vases, from which arose great cactus, with leaves dentelated as the claws of a gigantic crab. Fine and dry briars rattled as they quivered in the breeze, and the pale light of the rising stars made gigantic silhouettes of the shadows of the horses and men. The wolves howled in the distance, and large birds hovered in the air, uttering the most melancholy cries while they were on the wing. The tramp of the horses on the dry ground sounded most sadly. Every now and then the sharp clang of a carbine was heard, as some soldier fired at any bush which waved or any stone which fell down the overhanging rocks. In Africa, behind every waving bush, above every rolling stone, there is an enemy.

  “When I was twenty years old,” said the General, “I left Saint-Cyr, with my best friend Charles de Mancel, a fine young fellow, blond, pale, delicate-looking—dreamy as a poet, yet strong as a Kabyle and brave as a lion. We had from our very childhood been intimate, and in the various quarrels of our school-boy life, time and again we had fought for each other. We were devoted to each other, and were distressed at the idea of our separation, consequent we thought on our entry into service.

  “More lucky than we had expected to be, we met at the capture of Fort de l’Empereur, as second lieutenants.

  “A few days after, Algiers was stormed, and George was among the first who entered the city. I saw him fall from a gun-shot wound in the left side.

  “I bore him on my shoulders to a house which had been deserted by the inhabitants at the commencement of the cannonade. I placed him in the calm, voluptuous, perfumed room of a woman. The bed was out of order, and in it I placed George, and as well as I could, stanched the blood. He was so debilitated that he could scarcely look steadily. He clasped, however, one of my hands in his, and pressed it convulsively whenever the pain became insupportable.

  “He was however calm for a short time.

  “‘Etienne,’ said he, ‘I die young, and regret the loss of life. We are about to separate, but who knows if it will be for an eternity? No one knows what passes beyond the tomb: perhap
s there are other sufferings, perhaps pleasure, or it may be annihilation. If, however, my soul be immortal; if in unknown regions it preserves its affections and memories, thank God! If it be true that we may see those we have fondly loved, be sure, dear Etienne, that I will return some calm spring evening. I feel that I can die more easily, yet I suffer. When my mother died, she told me she would return, and kept her word. Last night she smiled on me. I see her now, Etienne, weeping.’

  “He died.”

  The General was silent for a few moments, and with a suppressed voice continued, “I will not describe to you my horrible sufferings. George was buried amid the beating of drums and shouts of victory. I shed bitter tears, for I knew my youth was buried with my friend. The adieu of George made a deep impression on me, and I suffered on that night with awful dreams. For six months I was nervous as a woman. I tell you, doctor, I was afraid to be alone in the dark. One or two years, however, passed by, and the recollection of my friend, though profoundly engraved in my heart, yielded to the exigencies of my profession and to care for the future. My puerile fear, which was a disease, became cured. Yes, the more I think of it, the more satisfied I am, that I was entirely cured, and that my mind was sane and healthy. Just then, however, a circumstance I am about to relate struck me with amazement.