The 7th Golden Age of Weird Fiction MEGAPACK®: Manly Banister

by Banister, Manly

  It was obvious that the men were afraid. They kept darting quick, fearful glances about, and when Hubert swung his thin, cloaked figure down from the carriage step, they drew back sullenly. It was necessary to speak harshly to them to be led to the body.

  Maman Vasinois, her name was. A harmless old lady of the village. She had been visiting the hut of the forester’s wife, and they had the word of that good woman that Maman had left at moonrise to return to her home in the town. One of the watching peasants was her son, and this one explained that he had worried over the continued absence of his mother and had gone in search for her, only to stumble upon this frightful cadaver.

  Not even the strong stomach of Hubert de Montreuil could restrain itself when his eye fell upon the remains of Maman Vasinois. Blood was a black pool everywhere, foaming in the rain, soaking into the needled turf. There were gouts of flesh ripped from the carcass and flung contemptuously about, and there were the marks of strong, long teeth.

  “The rain,” spoke up the Commissaire, “has vanished the tracks, Monsieur. But I, myself, saw them before. Wolf-tracks—large as the palm of my own hand!”

  “Vraiment!” snarled the governor. “But could it not have been an ordinary wolf, perhaps…or a large, wild dog? I am ashamed that you, Pierre de Cardinois, have permitted this story of a were-wolf to circulate! See that it is stopped immediately!” Hubert turned to the huddled peasants. “You, too, have heard. And now you will see to it that this body is returned to the town and prepared for a decent burial. Or is it that you fear the return of the were-wolf?” He essayed a taunting laugh.

  The dead woman’s son shook himself stolidly, answered in a low voice.

  “Non, monsieur. The loup-garou will not return tonight. The rain, you see, is running water, and the wolf is now again in the shape of a man, for the running water changes them. But—” and he fixed the governor with a dull eye, “there will be other nights of full moon, and other victims. Who can say whence comes this bête du diable, or whether it might not be one of us, among our very selves?”

  Hubert de Montreuil struck the man on the flat of his face with his leather gloves.

  “Saligaud! Did I not say there would be no more talk of were-wolves? Be about your task now, as I ordered you!”

  Saying this, the governor swung himself angrily into the carriage, followed by the puffing corpulence of Commissaire Pierre de Cardinois. Light from the lanterns without fell through a chink in the carriage curtains athwart the governor’s lean face, which was grim under its sick greenness. The Commissaire shrugged and called to the driver.

  “On fait retour au Palais!”

  The driver backed his team, swung the carriage, and made back along the way to the Governor’s Palace.

  “Maman Vasinois was very popular in the village,” the Commissaire said after a while, shouting to make himself heard above the sloshing of hooves, the grind of the wheels, and the tom-tom beat of rain on the carriage roof.

  The governor was silent. He knew in his heart that no ordinary beast was responsible for the devastating havoc he had seen. The old woman had been killed with the most wanton kind of savagery, the kind of savagery popular belief attributed to the loup-garou—the ghost wolf—the creature who is man and not man, and becomes a howling, ravenous wolf with the full of the moon. Yet, Hubert could not contribute to the fears of the people. He could only deny them, harshly laugh them down. Meanwhile, he needed to think. He was very good at thinking, that one!

  But his thinking was interrupted by a shuddering lurch of the carriage as it came to a sudden, creaking halt. The horses were rearing and backing, while the driver cursed and swung his whip ineffectually. The governor thrust his head out into the rain.

  “Holà que va donc?”

  “There is some one in the road, monsieur,” the driver called back. “I cannot see very plainly, but some one is lying there, and the horses almost trod upon him!”

  The governor swung his lean frame quickly down from the carriage and darted through the rain. Sure enough, there was a body lying there, in the middle of the road. He drew back hastily from touching it as the revolting recollection of Maman Vasinois’ remains entered his mind. He back-stepped to the carriage, took down one of its lanterns, and advanced upon the still form.

  It was a woman, utterly naked, and as beautiful as they tell you about in stories. Her flanks were scratched and muddied, and the rain and the mud were in her flaming red hair. On her face was the pallor of death, but none of this destroyed her appeal, only served to make her more savagely beautiful, so that at once, at sight of her, Hubert de Montreuil lost his mind completely and was madly in love.

  He gasped only once, then set down the lantern and knelt by the unconscious woman. It took but a moment to determine that she lived, then he had her up in his arms, and he strode hastily toward the carriage, shouting at the same time to the driver to retrieve the lantern and to drive like a mad one to the village and the apothecary’s establishment.

  The apothecary, who was also the village doctor, was old, and he came grumbling to answer the thunderous knocking at his door, for he had already retired and was dressed only in night-shirt and cap.

  He fell silent at sight of his visitor, however, and fell nimbly to work when the governor had comfortably disposed the maid upon a couch.

  Wrapped finally in warm blankets, plied with stimulants, the young woman responded slightly. Her face commenced to show a faint pinkness in the elfin light of candles, and she seemed to sleep naturally.

  “Hélàs, la pauvre!” murmured the apothecary. “It is evident she has had a bad time of it. But she will get along well, now. I should say she will awaken quite normally in the morning.”

  The governor ceased his nervous pacing and glared down upon the apothecary.

  “What is her trouble? How did she come to be lying there in the wood-road? She was not there when we drove out but a few moments before!”

  The apothecary shrugged. “Qui sait, monsieur…who knows? Cette enfant, she has suffered some terrible emotional strain. That much is apparent. Fear? Perhaps. As you can surmise, she ran swiftly through the forest—cut herself on flying branches. She exhausted herself. Why? I am only an apothecary, monsieur. I do not also read minds.”

  The governor hunched his shoulders threateningly and glared even more fiercely upon the fellow.

  “No? But perhaps you can read mine now?”

  The apothecary fell back a step, trembling. “Mais certainement, monsieur! You may trust my discretion. I swear I will whisper nothing.”

  “See that you do not, then,” retorted the governor.

  He took the sleeping girl, blankets and all, up in his arms, and carried her at once back to the carriage.

  “On to the Palace!” he ordered curtly.

  * * * *

  Hubert De Montreuil was like a fiend, that night. Upon reaching his palace, he shouted for servants, hailed his own personal physician out of bed, got every last lackey in the place to running and stumbling, rubbing the sleep from their eyes with one hand, the while that they did his bidding with the other. In this fashion, the east apartment of the Palace, overlooking the garden, was made ready for the fair lady’s sojourn.

  There Hubert placed her in a comfortable bed, still unconscious, voluptuous breasts stirring rhythmically with her breathing. That done, Hubert ordered everyone to bed, almost forcibly ejected his old friend, the Commissaire de Police, and settled down to wait the night through at the bedside of his red-haired love.

  What had come over him? Even Hubert was at a loss to put his fierce feeling into words. Fierce, indeed, it was, for in what other fashion could a man whose very life was the epitome of violence and disruption express the tenderest sentiment…love?

  Hubert was literally engulfed in the throes of mad, nameless passion. As is often the wont, hi
s passion was accompanied by fear—fear that this gorgeous woman whom fortune had cast into his path might not survive, and he should lose her before he had a chance to win her.

  So he sat the night through, brow darkly knitted, gnawing upon his mustaches, not daring even so much as to touch the pale, white hand that lay without the coverlet. Meantime, he fruitlessly burned and yearned to cover with kisses the soft, waxen cheeks, the scarlet lips, the tender curve of her throat, where it gleamed ivory in the lamplight.

  At dawn, the woman awakened. She awakened quite naturally, as had been foretold, stirred a little, and sat up, permitting the coverlet to fall to her navel. She looked at Hubert blankly, without rancor or embarrassment.

  Hubert was at her side in an instant, heavy-eyed though he was…

  “Mademoiselle!” cried he. “You must not endeavor—no, you must not think of getting up! Lie back, Mademoiselle. You have been ill.”

  Mademoiselle lay back, with Hubert’s arm around her sleek-skinned back and stared up at him with eyes of cloudy blue.

  Despite Hubert’s iron self-control, he could not prevent his glance wandering whither it willed, and the maid lay unclad to the waist. Instantly, his eye was taken by a small tattoo, blue upon the clear white of her skin, just below the small, round breast on her right side. It was a name—Clarisse.

  “Clarisse!” whispered Hubert, and bent forward as if to touch the spot with his lips, but Mademoiselle quickly drew up the coverlet.

  “To whom am I indebted, monsieur?” she asked quietly.

  Overcome with confusion, Herbert got to his feet and clumsily introduced himself; though the bow he managed was rather stiff, owing to the night he had passed in the chair.

  “Consider yourself welcome, Mademoiselle,” he concluded. “Meanwhile, depend upon me to seek out your friends and relatives. So tell me your name and theirs, too, and soon you will be with friends again.”

  A shadow came upon Mademoiselle’s face. She swept scarlet tresses back from her cheeks and sighed.

  “Hélàs, so far as I know, I have none. I know no more about myself than you know. Since I awakened just now, I have tried to f remember, and all is blank.”

  Hubert de Montreuil tried not to let the elation show upon his face. He twirled his mustaches.

  “Quel dommage! A pity, Mademoiselle, that shock has absconded with your memory! However, your name is a clue. I shall do all in my power.”

  With that, Hubert discreetly withdrew. It was not well, he thought, to press too greatly his advantage at the start. There was time enough still.

  But where the matter began, there it rested. Mademoiselle Clarisse drifted about the Governor’s Palace in the very fine raiment Hubert provided for her. She was polite and coolly reserved. However Hubert sought to press his suit, he found himself charging up a blind alley, his quarry eluding him.

  Moreover, he ascertained early in her stay that Clarisse locked the door of her apartment upon retiring, and he never saw her, once the sun was set.

  Almost every night, therefore, Hubert walked in the garden beneath Mademoiselle’s window. Always, her window was dark. Listen as he might, he heard nothing except the splashing of water in the fountain.

  For all he knew, she might be sitting above there in her window, looking down upon his nocturnal stroll, laughing at him. The thought chagrined him.

  So time went on. One morning, very early, Commissaire de Police Pierre de Cardinois came driving up to the Palace, bundled himself awkwardly across the landing of the porte-cochère, shouting loudly for the governor to come at once.

  Hubert was asleep, but a servant aroused him. He came down scowling, annoyed to be awakened so early in the morning.

  “Monsieur le gouverneur!” cried Pierre at sight of him. “Something has to be done! I have begged for militia, and begged again. Now, I demand-it! I…”

  Hubert looked surly.

  “What is nibbling now on your conscience, Pierre?”

  Pierre’s jowls quivered. His skin was like dried dough.

  “The were-wolf struck again last night. There is no doubt. This time, it was a young woman, carrying her baby to a neighbor’s for a pint of warm milk. It is not decided which pieces are of the mother and which are of the child.” Pierre swallowed, wet his sickly, fat lips. “And after her, a young farm-hand; slashed down as he returned late from courting the girl he planned to marry!”

  Hubert de Montreuil stiffened. He was enraged. The concept of a were-wolf was not only horrid to him, it was unbelievable. He forced back the bitter words on his tongue. There was something—hein! Last night had been the full moon. He recalled the remains of Maman Vasinois. He shuddered and passed his hand across his eyes.

  “Very well, Pierre,” he said quietly, “It is in your hands. Take whatever measures you see fit.” He stood up very straight. “But mark you, mon vieux, you had better produce a were-wolf!”

  * * * *

  The countryside seethed. But for all its turbulence, nothing was produced. Pierre’s militia…peasants impressed into service and armed with clubs, pitchforks, and blunderbusses, swarmed in thickets and copses. Every passing stranger was set upon, and lucky only to be hailed before a magistrate. There were beatings, and several near-lynchings.

  As the following full-moon approached, a grimness settled down,, and neighbor regarded neighbor with hostile fear and foreboding.

  As for Hubert de Montreuil, his governorship languished. He was annoyed when the signing of papers and the bare necessities of his function interfered with his pursuit of Mademoiselle Clarisse. He was to be found with her always, walking upon the terrace, strolling in the garden about the tumbling fountain. He talked vehemently. He spoke passionately. He declared his love and vowed his everlasting devotion.

  Mademoiselle had become more somber and introspective as time passed. Although she physically accompanied Hubert, she appeared detached, disinterested in the violence of his protestations of ardor. Hubert demanded an answer of her, she smiled in the pale, quiet way she had had, brushed the flame-red hair back from her waxen cheeks, and Hubert was silenced.

  After Mademoiselle had retired, Hubert was wont to consort with a wine-bottle. He would drink, stare in ugly humor at the wall, and curse most violently. He would look up at the ceiling overhead, in which direction lay the apartment of Mademoiselle Clarisse, and clench his fist. And so, he could stand it no longer.

  Heavy in his cups, Hubert ascended the broad, curved stairs and began to beat upon Mademoiselle’s door.

  He cried out to her to open to him, but she offered no sound from within. Whereupon, Hubert staggered to the stairwell and shouted until servants came running, and these he ordered to burst open the door. And this they did.

  Mademoiselle Clarisse made no sound in the room. It was very dark, except where a bar of golden moonlight glanced through the window and puddled upon the foot of her bed. Hubert, feeling already a little sobered, dismissed his servants and stood fidgeting at the door, undetermined whether or not to enter.

  Finally, he got up his courage and took a step into the room. He whispered her name.

  “Clarisse!”

  There was no response.

  “Answer, Clarisse, please. I would talk to you.”

  The wind rattled dryly among the ivy at the open window. It was dreadfully quiet. Hubert’s glance pierced beyond the pool of moonlight, into the shadows that clustered thickly in the room. He crossed over quickly, felt the smooth, undisturbed bed. No Mademoiselle.

  Fumbling; he lit the lamp on a night stand. By its dull, yellow glow he searched the room. Clarisse was neither under the bed, in the corners, nor in the closets. She was not in the room.

  Hubert went, to the window and peered down into the shadowed garden. The full moon cast its golden wash over the swaying shrubs, the tinkling fountain. Suspici
on, doubt…horrid things!…assailed him. Clarisse was young. She was beautiful. What, more natural than that, unbeknownst to him, a younger one than he had succeeded where he had failed, and even now…

  Hubert became very grim. His mind was black with the thought that filled it. He extinguished the lamp, drew a chair to the window, and settled himself in it, to wait.

  He dozed at last, overcome by wine, weariness, and the gnawing savagery of his emotion. Slowly the moon arched through the sky; the stars wheeled toward oblivion; and a paleness crept into the east. Hubert awakened suddenly, stiff and cold. He moved sluggishly, and the Chair creaked under him.

  He cast a bloodshot glance into the garden. There had been a sound. Something had moved down there. He strained to see in the gloom. Surely, that shadow had moved! His lips tightened. He felt the bristling of his mustaches. And then he saw what he saw for sure.

  A shadow detached itself from the shadow of the wall…a lean, gray shadow that slunk carefully among the shrubs, silently, on all fours and belly-flat. Hubert tingled at the back of his scalp.

  Cautiously, the slinking, gray shape made its way toward the fountain, pausing to look this way and that, lifting its lean muzzle to scent the flat, pre-dawn wind.

  Hubert remained rigid at the window, while the wolf crawled to the fountain, placed its forepaws upon the marble rim, and without a splash, slipped over and into the running water.

  For an instant swirling water glimmered in paling starshine, then parted; and a figure rose up, wrung the water from her dripping hair. The eastern sky was quite light. A deathly paleness reigned upon the garden. Quite plainly, Hubert saw Mademoiselle Clarisse step naked from the fountain, fling glittering droplets from her haunches, then trot quickly toward the window from which he watched. She was scrambling nimbly up the vine-covered wall as Hubert drew back and departed quickly.

  Should he go at once to her, with the day, and tell her what he had seen, what he knew? He recoiled from the thought. Should he denounce her to the Commissaire de Police as the were-wolf he hunted?