Werewolf of Paris

by Guy Endore

  He submitted dully to the rhubarb pill for want of courage to argue against her.

  Early the next morning he was already itching to be off, but neither Françoise nor Mme Didier seemed to have any thought of going to Mère Kardec’s. Their calmness irritated him. How could they go about their work so stodgily? Truly women had no hearts. Josephine’s scream still rang in his ears as indeed it had done all night. All night he had rehearsed the sounds of his nocturnal experience. He heard the clanking of vessels filled with water. He heard the doctor’s pleasantly rough voice cutting into Mère Kardec’s bass. He saw the woman rushing out with that horrible pail of pink water in which he thought he could recall the sight of swirling streaks of deep red. He shivered. He was allowing his imagination to get the better of him.

  Finally, he heard Mme Didier call out: “Françoise! Françoise! How could we have forgotten?” He breathed with relief. He meant to propose to go with them just as soon as they broached the subject of going to see Josephine. But he heard his aunt continue: “There’s all that linen in the chest. That’s where those missing sheets must be.”

  With deep disgust he heard the two women scurrying away toward the chest which they opened with exclamations of surprise. They laughed and chatted about their amusing oversight, saying ever and again until Aymar thought he would die of rage: “How could we have forgotten…I never thought…I don’t know what’s coming over me…”

  At noon the reason for the women’s lack of interest was revealed. “Well, that’s a stone off my heart,” said Mme Didier to Françoise as she served the potage.

  “Oui, madame,” said Françoise.

  “What’s a stone off your heart?” Aymar asked.

  “The fact that we haven’t heard from Mère Kardec.”

  “Did you expect to hear from her?” Aymar managed to say, suddenly divining the whole situation.

  “Why, yes, she told Françoise yesterday that she would send a messenger this morning if anything happened during the night. Well, my worst fears are over. It won’t be a Christmas baby.”

  Aymar sputtered. “The soup’s awfully hot,” he said testily. “I thought I had asked you often enough to cool off my soup, Françoise.”

  “Oui, monsieur,” she said, visibly annoyed, and could not help adding as she ran out, her whole body quivering with anger: “The last time was three years ago.”

  “How can you be so rude?” said Mme Didier, and she too was angry.

  “Oof,” he ejaculated, too exasperated to think of anything better. And he knew himself in the wrong, which was the worst of it. “Now everybody is going off to sulk in a corner,” he complained.

  “Well, you have yourself to blame, and the sooner you make it right with her the better.”

  And so there was nothing for him to do but go back to the kitchen and wheedle Françoise back into good humor. This involved a flood of tears, and many reminiscences on her part as to how she had been with the family for thirty years and had held Monsieur in her arms when he was just a baby and had used to wash his soiled linen often, because Mme Galliez was a weak woman and could not always afford a servant to help her, and other such details, ad nauseam.

  Aymar forced himself to say: “I know, you and my aunt have been more than mothers to me.” He forced himself to say that, not because it was not true, not because he did not appreciate what these two women had done for him, but because there are types of gratitude which will always be annoying to a man.

  When they came to the point of walking over to Mère Kardec’s, Aymar declared that he would go along. He had wild visions of himself tearing in ahead of the women on one excuse or another, and warning Mère Kardec not to say a word of his visit on the previous night, for it was plain that the only reason she had not sent the messenger was because she figured that he would bring the news to the ladies.

  But no opportunity of “tearing in ahead” of the women afforded itself, and as for a plausible excuse, his mind, no matter how he tortured it, would not yield a single idea of value. So he walked along through the mildly wintry day and tried his best to appear nonchalant while he journeyed to his doom. For his visit last night was bound to come out and with it all his secret relationship, that relationship he was burning to resume, and which yet he could not acknowledge to himself without revulsion.

  Mère Kardec greeted the ladies in her usual stern manner, unbending only sufficiently to say: “You will see Madame nursing her baby for the first time.”

  In unison, Françoise and Mme Didier exclaimed: “What?! Her baby?! When did she have her baby? Why did you not send a messenger as you promised?”

  Aymar looked on calmly, as if the matter did not interest him, though he would have welcomed the proverbial yawning of the earth beneath his feet, to swallow him whole.

  Mère Kardec uttered no more than a “But I thought Monsieur…” Even before she had finished the word Monsieur she had checked herself and instead of explaining herself, she excused herself. Years of experience had taught her that one apology is worth a dozen explanations.

  The ladies, however, did not wait for much apology but hastened upstairs, followed by the perspiring but happy Aymar. He had been saved on the brink of the precipice. Nevertheless, he was to go home that afternoon a much disappointed man. Two rude experiences awaited him.

  He did not mind that Josephine should not give him a second glance. He accounted readily for that as being due to the presence of Mme Didier and Françoise. But he had not been prepared for that baby. Brought up with the belief that new-born babies were such as one sees borne by Madonnas in Italian paintings, or such as are depicted in the canvases of Greuze, he was shocked by the scrawny, spidery, fuzzy and wizened little monster that Josephine was gently hugging to her breast. As for the ladies, they went into ecstasies.

  When the three had said good-bye and had gone down one flight of stairs, Aymar suddenly bethought himself of a handkerchief he claimed to have forgotten—though it still reposed in his pocket. And before Françoise could say that she would fetch it for him, he had dashed up the stairs and reëntered the room. The little baby had been placed back in its basket and Josephine was certainly free to give him one rapid passionate embrace, which was what he expected. Or at the very least, seeing that she might still claim to be an invalid, a look of tenderness and promise.

  All he received was a quiet question as to the reason for his return. And her eyes, which formerly had blazed with ardor, were now quiet pools of maternal affection, entirely meaningless to him. He could not leave her thus. He stopped and said: “Well…”

  “Quoi, monsieur?” she said. She had not meant the monsieur. It had returned to her naturally, along with her changed attitude. But to him it was suddenly revelatory of the fact that she was no longer his mistress, but his servant. Thoughtfully he closed the door and followed his aunt down the stairs.

  At home Aymar had the courage to twit his aunt about the terrible fate of children born on Christmas eve. Actually, he was himself half willing to believe that there was something magical in all he had been through. No doubt about it, he had been bewitched. How else could he have let himself in for such a relationship, right on the doorsteps of his aunt, so to speak, no, actually in her house? And Josephine, she had been under a spell also. And now that spell was broken. He, too, felt that he was no longer enchanted. He could stay home now, and work on his book again. He could take renewed interest in the opposition party to which he belonged. Filled with his private thoughts, he only half listened to his aunt who was saying:

  “I wish I could dismiss my fears. But I confess that I am still worried.”

  “The child does look a frightful mess,” Aymar laughed.

  “New-born babies are hardly ever very beautiful. What is strange about this one is that it should be able to lift its head on the very first day of its life. I never saw or heard of such a thing. But Françoise says she has seen that before.”

  “That’s pretty small reason for believing the little fellow is
born to be hanged.”

  “I haven’t really any reason at all to think anything, if you want me to put it that way. But I have intuitions. And, frankly, I am uneasy.”

  “Well, we’ll see,” said Aymar, and dismissed the matter.

  “Maybe we shall and maybe we shan’t. Perhaps we shall never see him again.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, he is to be sent to Brittany to Mère Kardec’s sister-in-law, and we shall take Josephine back here if she will continue to be good, or else she may go back to her village. That will settle this affair.”

  Aymar found the whole matter of supreme indifference. A fact which surprised him. What? Could he have changed so fast?

  Mme Didier was busy for the next few days. She bought a good layette for the baby and saw that a proper birth certificate was made out, one which involved neither the Church nor herself. Previous to the making of the birth certificate she paid a visit to the church where Pitamont had been priest. She spoke to the sacristan as if her sole mission in coming there was to arrange for the christening of the child. As a matter of fact she had another reason. She had never known or else had forgotten what Pitamont’s first name was. Still his child ought properly to bear his name.

  Casually she said: “I hear that Father Ernest Pitamont is now officiating in Nîmes.” Her part in his dismissal was unknown.

  “You mean Father Bertrand Pitamont?” the sacristan said.

  “Of course,” she answered.

  A few days later the child was dutifully christened. Aymar had to stand godfather and give it the names Bertrand Aymar. Its last name was Caillet, which stood for the mythical husband of Josephine, who was off on a long sea voyage.

  Back from church, Mme Didier began at once: “Now, Josephine, I shall let you have your choice. You may go back to your village or you may stay here.”

  “I suppose,” said Josephine, “that if I went home, people would laugh at me for having a baby, wouldn’t they?”

  “They needn’t know that you have had a baby, because we shall send the child to be taken care of in Brittany.”

  “Then I would rather stay here,” she said, “because I want to be with my baby.”

  “But you can’t keep your baby here, either,” Mme Didier explained. “We can’t have it here in the house.”

  “Then I shall go back home with the baby.”

  “But, child, think of what you will be exposed to! And how will you earn a living? What will you say to people when they ask you how you happened to have a baby?”

  “Why, madame, I shall tell them the truth,” she said naïvely.

  This gave Mme Didier pause. The truth was what she didn’t want told. What would they think of her at home when they learnt that her servant had had an illegitimate son as a result of being sent out on an errand to a church? And what would they think of the fact that she had done so little to secure Father Pitamont to his responsibility? Whatever happened, she didn’t want this matter thrashed out among the gossips of her home village. She sat back and cogitated for a moment. If she sent the girl packing, God only knew how this business would come flying back to her doorstep again. Wherever she was, this much was certain, Josephine would link her, Mme Didier, with her condition. This was terrible, but then again, the link was there after all, and not to be denied. Only it was ridiculous, this being responsible for someone else’s misdeed. Again, if she put Josephine in an institution of whatever nature, there would be no evading of official papers to be made out, and of such papers Mme Didier had had her hands full these last few days, and she wanted no more of that. She took a sudden decision which, seeing that it was forced upon her, was not far-fetched.

  “Well, for the moment you may stay here,” she resigned herself. After all, the gossips of the whole arrondissement knew of the case, in even greater detail than she herself. Moreover, it was only Christian charity that she should continue to take care of an accident in which she could not consider herself quite without guilt. Yes, it was only Christian charity. She clung to that phrase. She repeated it to herself when she happened to meet someone of the neighborhood, before whom she would have quailed otherwise, and with the mental repetition of that saving phrase she found the strength to hold up her head and speak out without fear.

  In truth she was more than resigned to her duty as a Christian. She could not very well live in the same house with a baby and fail to fall under that strange influence which all babies soon exert upon those who see them frequently. This influence, which naturally seizes first upon the mother, climbs out and attaches itself to all those within its range. Like ivy it has tentacles that hold fast whatever they come into contact with.

  Little Bertrand was truly a model baby. He never cried. At night he slept curled up in a most delightful manner. When awake, between his long naps during the day, he responded cheerfully to those who bent over his cradle and talked to him. His whole face would break into a puckered smile. His soft brown eyes would glisten with amusement. He would open his mouth and a low gurgle of sheer joy would come out of his throat.

  His health was equal to his spirits. He filled his belly full at his mother’s breasts, and when he was weaned he ate whatever was given him and thrived upon it. He grew at a fine rate, and teethed without any trouble. No one surely could have wished for a better child. But we are proceeding too fast.

  When Aymar, who took least interest of all the occupants of the house in the baby’s progress, would see his aunt gurgling back at the baby in that silly manner that is incomprehensible to those who do not share it, then he would tease her for her previous fears.

  One day she said to him abruptly: “I’ll talk to you later.”

  That evening when the house had become quiet, when Françoise and Josephine had retired to the room they shared with the baby, behind the kitchen, then she spoke to her nephew and relieved herself of her accumulated observations.

  “I am far from having thrown overboard all my misgivings,” she began. “Indeed, I am more than ever certain that Bertrand is an unusual child.”

  “You mean in the fact that he never cries? He might be dumb,” suggested Aymar. “Children are often born dumb, I am told.”

  “Yes,” she admitted, “he may be dumb. We shan’t know until a few months from now, as to that, when the time comes for him to begin to talk. Personally, I think he will turn out normal in that respect.”

  “Then what are you still afraid of?”

  “Have you ever noticed his eyes?”

  “Yes, of course; they are very fine eyes, I should say.”

  “Well, I don’t mean his eyes so much as his eyebrows.”

  “What about them?”

  “They are very full and join together across the nose.”

  “And what do you deduce from that?”

  “In our part of the country that was a sign of a low nature.”

  “Another superstition,” Aymar said. “It might be simply inheritance.”

  “Now that you remind me of it,” said Mme Didier, “Father Pitamont did have the same eyebrows.”

  “Just as I said. Like father, like son.”

  “That’s precisely it. I’m afraid he might turn out to be just such an uncontrollable character.”

  “Well, that’s still far from now.” Aymar laughed at the picture that came suddenly to his mind of little Bertrand attempting rape. “And what else do you see?”

  “A much more fearful matter, this. So rare that I myself have never seen it yet, though I have heard old people speak of it as a sign that is the most sure and most terrible of all signs that mark the soul that belongs to the devil.”

  Her voice had sunk so low that Aymar had to lean forward to hear her, especially inasmuch as a cold March storm was rattling at the double windows. Despite himself he was moved, and either her words or a cold draft finding a crack in the window and blowing down his back made his spine shiver.

  “Well?” he urged.

  “I remember that when I was a little girl my
grandmother used to tell me stories of the forests and the monsters that live there. The headless horseman who strikes those who see him with insanity; the tree where the Swedish hirelings hung five men. Their souls are now in that tree and that is why it will never die, until Judgment Day. The white deer who comes one night every year to look for a mate, who must be a pure young girl.”

  “Children shouldn’t be told such stories,” was Aymar’s comment.

  “Sometimes, so my grandmother used to say, men come to the village fair who have never been seen before and never will be seen again. They are men from the sea and are looking for prey to drag down into their underwater dwellings. They can be recognized by the fact that the hems of their clothes are always slightly moist and their hands are often webbed. Their teeth are sharp and pointed. Sometimes they are wolves from the mountains. Then they can be recognized by the hair that grows on the palms of their hands.”

  In the silence that followed her reminiscences, she added: “Bertrand has hair on the palms of his hands.”

  The cold spring with its constant rains and chill had proven too much for Mme Didier, whose health had been undermined by the vexations of the last few years. The death of her husband, the terrible days of ’48 when she discovered Aymar wounded in a hospital, and this last event, the treachery of Father Pitamont and the misfortune of Josephine, which she had had to add to her burdens.

  One day she had been out tending to various purchases. The morning had been so beautiful. There was a touch of spring in the air and the sky was delightfully blue, with that fresh clear blue that comes only after a long, hard winter, when all nature seems to have been purged of its vileness. But in a brief hour while she was in a shop looking over materials, the weather took a sudden turn for the worse. The sky became overcast, a cold wind arose and soon sheets of rain were sweeping diagonally across the streets. The flawless morning had turned into a dismal afternoon.

  Upon coming out of the store, Mme Didier first noticed how bad the weather really was. She ordered a cab, but none could be found empty. She waited inside, hoping every moment that the rain would abate, but it seemed only to grow fiercer. The stuffy air of the shop, traversed by cold drafts at every opening of the door, soon affected her. She felt hot and cold by turns. Her throat had a soft painful lump in it. She wanted to get home quickly and have Françoise prepare her a hot tisane while she went to bed. That always fixed her up.