Werewolf of Paris

by Guy Endore

  M. Henri Chevreau, who had lately replaced the famous and infamous Haussmann, beautifier of Paris, as Prefect of the Seine, gathered together a committee of municipal counselors and functionaries and moved to gather into the city a sufficient supply of foodstuffs, meats, hay and grain for horses, salt, wine, etc. Although the legislative body was repeatedly assured that everything had been done to safeguard Paris from famine during a long siege, and although over six weeks elapsed before the city was completely invested, nevertheless a shortage of food and consequent rise in prices declared itself almost at once. Government rationing could not help. The poor took the matter philosophically and intelligently as they always do. They noticed that every time after an announcement of peace negotiations, false though the announcement might be, food at once reappeared in quantities on the stalls and prices sank. Everyone who was in a position to do so was hoarding food, hoping for greater profits, but partly scared into releasing their hoards upon the prospect of the siege ending suddenly. There were indeed great quantities of food in Paris, but private profit was manipulating the market.

  The name of Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire also caught Aymar’s attention. “Saint-Hilaire?” he said to himself. “Especially that combination: Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire. I wonder now. Could that be the same fellow I used to know?” If so, his task was easier. Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire could not have forgotten him and would extend him every courtesy. It must be the same. The Geoffroy Saint-Hilaires were always connected with zoölogy.

  That very afternoon Aymar betook himself to the office of the director of the Jardin d’Acelimatation.

  The director was too busy, it seemed.

  “Tell him,” said Aymar, “that I used to know him when he was never too busy.”

  The clerk returned to the director’s office. A moment later, Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire—grandson of the famous Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire, the news of whose discoveries had seemed to Goethe more important than the fate of kingdoms—appeared and said hurriedly: “Monsieur…” as though he wished to expedite matters and return to his work as quickly as possible. Then he hesitated: “Tiens, c’est toi, Aymar!”

  They embraced.

  “Et alors?”

  After a few phrases concerning their respective fates, Aymar wished to come to his point:

  “I hear from the newspapers,” he said, “that a wolf was brought here.”

  The director laughed nervously. “A wolf? Oh, yes. Ha, ha! The newspapers, of course.” Then he became quite serious: “Are you interested in that wolf?”

  “Yes, deeply,” Aymar exclaimed. Then struck at his own emotion, he sought to explain: “That’s precisely why I came. You see, I’ll explain.”

  “No need,” said the directeur quietly and seriously, “my friend, I’m afraid I see all too well.” He hesitated, while Aymar shivered. “Let me see now,” he continued. “Hm, I’m very busy now, but your visit is most opportune. I’m invited to dinner along with Maubert. Did you know him? Maubert, the big Maubert? No? Well, anyway, he can’t come, so you must go with me. Meet me here in two hours. We’ll be going to dinner together. Yes, you must meet me here,” he concluded hastily. A bit nervously, Aymar thought.

  “But the wolf?”

  “Yes, precisely. The wolf,” he said mysteriously, and slipped back into his office.

  Aymar, amazed, thrilled, vainly turning over a hundred speculations in his mind, returned home to dress and then back to meet his old friend, sharp two hours later. “He knows all,” was his thought, but when the directeur appeared he certainly gave no sign of it.

  Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire took Aymar amicably under the arm and led him to the gate where a coach was waiting. They drove off at a good clip.

  “Where to?” Aymar asked.

  “To Dr Anatole de Grandmont.”

  “The wolf?” Aymar asked.

  “Sh!” his friend replied.

  The trajectory was short. In a few moments they had alighted and entered a fine old house. The dining-room, visible beyond the drawing-room, was splendidly illuminated, the table set for ten sparkled with fine china and glassware, with silver and gold-plate, all set on a snowy cloth.

  Aymar was introduced. “Poor Maubert couldn’t come. I’ve taken the liberty to bring an old friend, M Aymar Galliez, an old Republican. M le docteur Anatole de Grandmont, our host, M de Quatrefages, and M Richard du Cantal, vice-presidents of our society.* M Demarets, the famous—”

  “We know each other,” said Aymar. They shook hands.

  “M Decroix, our celebrated propagandist for the use of horse-meat.”

  “Richer, stronger and better for the health,” said M Decroix severely.

  “M Graux, whose father made sheep grow silk.”

  “M Degient.”

  “M Giraudeau.” *

  It struck Aymar that there was something about this gathering. It was natural, of course, that they should all be interested in animal husbandry, but there was something else. A constant whispering and chuckling and in general an import to this meeting which he could not fathom. Once he heard: “You’ll go through with it, of course.“—”I’m afraid I’m weakening rapidly,” replied the person thus addressed.

  Finding himself near his friend, Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire, and therefore safe, Aymar spoke up:

  “About that wolf.”

  “You’ll learn in time,” the directeur cut him short hastily.

  Could it be, Aymar wondered, that the whole mystery had been uncovered and that it was this that elicited this buzzing of suppressed excitement?

  At this moment the host called the company to order.

  “Gentlemen! Your attention please! I see that the purpose of our dinner this evening has not remained as secret as we wished it to be. It little matters. You all know that this is a moment of great danger to our beloved patrie and to our dear city of Paris, the jewel of Europe. Here we are, near two million of us, and of food there is a sad lack. Our enemies know it and are depending on this factor to cause our undoing. But God willing, we shall manage to hold out until the provinces gather their forces and come racing to our rescue, under the leadership of our staunch Gambetta.

  “We too have our little work to do. We too can help. We too gentlemen, have a little plan. It is not an invention that shall blow up armies, it is not a scheme for a sortie en masse, it is none of the plans of our dear Trochu or any other of our brave generals. It is, my dear friends, a contribution of zoölogical science to mankind. Not only to our stricken city, no. To all the world, at present limited in its choice of foods to a very small number of animals.

  “This is an historic occasion. We shall all have reason to remember it. The world will honor us for this brave step. This bursting of bonds that only silly prejudice has forged and tradition tempered.

  “Gentlemen, let this be a merry occasion. We, Columbuses all, about to explore a new world, discover a new taste in dishes and a new nourishment in foods. Let this, as I say, be a merry occasion. Have you heard the joke that is taking Paris by storm? It heralds a new era. Let us fling away our old hide-bound notions and plunge in with a smile.

  “The joke? Yes, here it is: Our good bourgeois of Paris, hard pressed for a bite to put between his teeth, has sacrificed his dog on the altar of the great god appetite. He and his wife sit in silence and consume their beloved fox terrier. The wife looks up after a while and notices her husband carefully placing the bones beside his dish, even as he had always done.

  “‘Why, what are you doing?’

  “‘Ah,’ he catches himself up, and sighs. ‘Too bad,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Fido certainly would have enjoyed these bones.’”

  Though the joke was not new for some of the guests, there was a complimentary burst of laughter and the company filed into the neighboring dining-room and took seats. Aymar was beginning to understand. Only beginning.

  The soup was excellent. The guests kept saying as much again and again, especially M Decroix, the advocate of horse-meat for human food. And the reason was at o
nce plain. No sooner was the course cleared than the host announced that the soup was:

  “Consommé of horse, with millet.”

  In came the relevés (the appetizers). More exclamations of delight. The cook was called in to receive congratulations. Aymar, a little muddled, tasted the dishes, found them pleasant and wondered. After some lively discussion between the guests, the host, reading from a slip of paper, announced:

  “We have had: Skewer roast of dog’s liver, à la maître d’hôtel; and Minced back of cat, with mayonnaise sauce.”

  Aymar controlled his stomach. But of course it was only a joke. He turned to his friend for assistance, but Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire was busy making notes on the back of a letter. Came the entrées. Which, subsequently, were revealed as:

  Braised shoulder and undercut of dog with tomato sauce;

  Jugged cat with mushrooms;

  Dog cutlet with green peas;

  Venison ragout of rats, sauce Robert.

  The roast followed, borne in great platters, while Aymar was ready to sink under the table. If his scientific companions had not been so objective in their demeanor, tasting, criticizing, discussing, comparing, he would have given way long ago and collapsed. The roast was:

  Leg of dog and raccoon, pepper sauce;

  Salad: Begonias with dressing and cold boiled mice;

  Side-dish: Plum-pudding with rum and horse-marrow.

  And still they came, dish after dish.

  Finally the repast was over. The wise ones had only tasted each food, lest they be gorged. When the company sat back, with sated appetites, Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire was invited to read his report:

  “The soup was excellent. Some found the millet a little hard, but none had anything but praise for the savor;

  “Our repugnance for dog’s liver, roasted on skewers, was quickly forgotten when we had tasted this truly delicious preparation. Lamb kidney was held to be its nearest equivalent, but below dog’s liver in tenderness;

  “Second helpings were frequent for the minced back of cat. This is white meat, vaguely recalling cold veal, but more pleasant. Recommended for invalids;

  “Braised shoulder and undercut of dog were highly appreciated and judged to be not unlike the flesh of chamois;

  “The jugged cat, though a little tough, was so flavorsome that had not the number of dishes been so large, many would have gladly called for more;

  “Too much vinegar (I believe the other guests will bear me out in this) was used on the dog cutlets. This meat is rather stringy, but not bad;

  “Not a single one of us had a word other than praise for the exquisite ragout of rats. It is only to be compared to the flesh of swallows;

  “The leg of dog is extremely edible, though a bit coarse in texture. The best parts were those least well done, left bloody; few cared for the raccoon, which was without flavor;

  “The begonia salad was reminiscent of sorrel. I believe we have here an excellent corrective for a too exclusive salted meat diet. This should be investigated; cold mice are deceptively like prawn-meat; some accused the cook of practicing a trick on us;

  “The great success of the evening remains the ragout of rats. I cannot understand how the world has so long refused this delicious food. I, for one, am converted. Hereafter, famine or no famine, my menu shall be frequently adorned with rat-meat, and my guests will learn to love it as I. Yes, I foresee a great new industry, for once the savage rats are exterminated by our epicures, rats will have to be bred in farms and breeding will improve them, if indeed one can think of any improvement.

  “From this room let the word go forth to the public. The rat is good food! Do not imagine that one must have many rats to make a meal. A rat, skinned andboned, leaves nearly eight ounces of meat, of which one ounce is liver, very fat and succulent. Two rats will take care of a modest family. And one trial will convince and convert.

  “A single criticism and a single warning before I conclude:

  “The criticism: Our cook did bravely, but he erred in his attempt to conceal a different flavor of meat with heavy sauces. These meats will soon become appreciated for their own peculiar flavor.

  “The warning, which I shall have posted on the walls in our city: ‘Rat-meat must be boiled before preparation to prevent trichinosis, which has occasionally been observed.’”*

  The dinner had consumed such a length of time that the guests soon separated. Aymar steeled himself, managed toexpress effusive thanks for a delightful meal and a rare experience.

  Geoffroy Sainte-Hilaire sat down amidst a salvo of handclapping. Porto was served now, in the English style, and Aymar seized his glass and drank eagerly to quiet his rebelling stomach.

  “Of course,” said Geoffroy as soon as they were outside, “this is only a beginning. We have not touched the insect world.” He expanded his chest with pride and satisfaction. “Come, let us walk a bit. The night air is refreshing.” Aymar found it so too.

  “Yes, insects. Have you ever tasted a bedbug? Sweet, you know! Bad odor, though. But locusts! Like nothing you ever tried. We’ll need new terms when we come to that. Yes, man is omnivorous. Zoölogists have always classed him and the bear together in this respect. Why, then, has he been hitherto so timid when he has but to reach forth his hand? Columbuses! Old Grandmont struck the right note there.”

  Aymar hesitated to interrupt this almost elegiac flow from the scientist who for the moment seemed to be speaking with the gift of prophecy. Shyly, he ventured: “And the wolf…”

  Then Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire did a curious thing. He turned toward his companion, and, grasping his hand, declared with emotion: “I know, my friend, I understand. Let us say no more.”

  What did he understand? Aymar wondered. Really, did he truly understand? Since the supper, Aymar had come to doubt it. “They have all become wolves,” he thought. “Bertrand has infected them, but of my wolf they know nothing. Still when a man says he ‘understands,’ you bow your head in gratitude.” Aymar bowed his head. They walked along in silence.

  “If I had known, my dear Galliez, you can believe me… Do you think it was cruel of me? But, ah, ah, come to think of it: it was just like the joke Grandmont told us.”

  “What was?”

  “The joke about the dog.”

  “The joke about the dog?”

  “You see, I knew at once, when you came about the wolf, that you knew it was no wolf. And when you said how deeply you were interested in the matter, I realized at once.”

  “You realized what?” Aymar asked, still not following.

  “That he was your dog. Of course, anybody could see it was no wolf except that newspaper man. He wanted a story. And we wanted a dog for our cook. And then I thought: If I say nothing, wouldn’t that be cruel? And the happy thought struck me: I might take you along, and at least you would be in on his funeral. Better than nothing, wasn’t it? Too bad, of course, but—”

  The “happy thought” pierced Aymar like a blade of cold steel. The wolf or dog had been served at that infernal supper! Bertrand! They had eaten Bertrand! His flesh was delicate in savor, although a trifle stringy! God Almighty!

  Horror tingling in every nerve of his body, he ran off without a word.

  “But, Galliez…forgive me!” he heard the directeur’s voice shouting after him. But Aymar fled as if a pack of wolves were snapping at his heels, his stomach revolting. In a dark recess he stopped and retched till he was weak and clean.

  But it was only when the morning papers came out with another horrible and gory crime that Aymar felt better. They hadn’t killed Bertrand. Bertrand was still alive. Witness this:

  “In the rue de Budapest, lived La Belle Normande, so-called, or rather so self-dubbed, in order to attract customers from that province, an honest prostitute, highly respected in her own quarter, if nowhere else. Last night a young man of prepossessing exterior, in the uniform of the Garde Nationale, so the concierge states, came home with La Belle Normande. The two retired and were not heard of again until his
handiwork came to light. This morning La Belle Normande requires a successor to the affection of her numerous countrymen in Paris. She, herself, is dead. Slashed by a rough, coarse instrument. Literally ripped apart. So she was found, lying in a pool of blood, on the floor of her room. Nothing seems to have been stolen. Has the London Jack the Ripper crossed the Channel? The police are combing the battalions of the Garde.”

  The nature of the deed betrayed the real culprit. So Bertrand was in the National Guard. Why, of course. Every young man was there.

  * The Société impériale zoölogique d’acelimatation.

  * It was this M Giraudeau who achieved a species of notoriety during the famine, when cheese was absolutely unprocurable for love or money, by mounting a small slice of fromage de Brie on a gold scarfpin.

  * Here as everywhere one must note the trail of business. As the Société of the Jardin d’Acclimatation found it more and more difficult to secure food for the beasts in its care, they were sold to enterprising butchers and fine restaurants who could, as a result, offer, though of course at enormous prices, such rare meats and fowl as cassowary, ostrich, dingo, tapir, kangaroo, etc. Of interest is the sale of the two elephants, Castor and Pollux, who went to the wealthy butcher Deboos for 27,000 francs. These ponderous beasts, for twenty-five years adored by the children of Paris who had ridden on their backs at 50 centimes a ride, went to grace the platters of the Jockey Club and other eating places for the rich. The two elephants, facing their doom, were nonplussed. Having been subjected to nothing but kindness all their lives, they could not suspect anything but kindness in the motives and actions of those who now led them into the slaughterhouse. There was some discussion as to how the killing could best be done. Finally, a powerful fellow swung an enormous mallet with all the might of his bulky muscles. The heavy wood crashed into the forehead of one of the elephants. The beast swayed, while blood spurted from a great dent in his brow. He looked puzzled for a moment, but only for a moment, and then he regained his lifelong assurance that only caresses and food emanated from the two-legged animal. Eventually a sharpshooter was employed to kill the brutes with well-placed bullets. The meat sold for upwards of 142 francs a pound.