Werewolf of Paris (11 page)

“A spar was seen protruding from the water. Before the eyes of the astonished mariners on a passing bark, the spar rose higher, revealed itself to be the top of a mast. A cross-spar, hanging awry, now made its appearance with shreds of rigging clinging to it. Another followed with a bit of sail hanging in wet tatters. A lesser mast had risen and now the deck itself came up, first the high bow of an old-fashioned design ornamented with an angel, with the water cataracting from it as it cleft the surface of the sea. And the whole ship rose and floated for a while on the waves, water pouring from every crevice. The ship itself was readily identified as an old Spanish galleon, such as has not been seen on the seven seas for near a century. And slowly the ship that had risen, plunging and rearing from the waters like the webfooted steeds of Old Neptune, settled into the waves again, and a moment later it was gone. And was as if it never had been.

“Many of the sailors on the bark doubted their very eyes, and one, stricken with a nameless fear, groveled on the teakwood deck. The wise ones debated the phenomenon with scientific plausibilities, while the more religious contented themselves with the sign of the cross and a prayer or two muttered under the breath along with a well-chosen oath. But the general verdict reached was that grain or other material, caught in a water-tight hold, had given rise to gas which had accumulated under great pressure and then breaking its confines with sudden force had propelled the ship to the surface, where it had floated until the gas had escaped and water had once more filled the hold of the ship and drawn it under.

“There are such ships, there are such logs in the swamps of our minds, and they rise to the surface of our thoughts for a moment, only to sink again. There are such ships sunk in the wastes of our lives. The years have washed over them. They are forgotten. And yet they rise, ghosts of a past that is ended. They float before us for a while to our own great astonishment, then they settle down again and are as if they never existed.”

Thus writes Aymar Galliez in his minority defense of Sergeant Bertrand. And he continues:

“In the realm of nature, too, there are phenomena that have long ceased to be, and of which, yet, one example may survive. In the interior of Africa, some great monster of the past may still roam the forests. A mammoth may be wandering now over the frozen wastes of our Arctic regions: last lonesome representative of his great race. A dinosaur in South America, a glyptodon in some unexplored area of the earth. That that enormous bowl of water that covers nearly all our globe may conceal animals undreamed of, who would have the temerity to deny at least the possibility?

“In this terrible age of disbelief and gullibility, people will swallow any tale of monsters of the past, but unless we find the bones of a centaur, no one will credit that myth. What have the scientists done but replace dragons, mermen and sphinxes with a new line of beasts? The people found the transposition easy. Where once they thought of dragons, they will have mammoths and other extinct beasts to occupy the same mental pews: these never change.”

What shall one say to such language? One may be as skeptic as Thomas who had to see the stigmata, but there is so much in the Galliez script that can be verified by consulting old newspapers, etc., that one is tempted to believe at least the outward facts, reserving decision on the actual existence of a supernatural creature. While the following chapter relies almost exclusively on Galliez' affirmations, there are other episodes which can be reconstructed in entirety from documents and records.

If you go to the little village of Mont d'Arcy on the Yonne, you may perhaps still hear tales of great wolf hunts. The old inhabitants will outdo each other in the hair-raising details with which they decorate their reports. Some of these details will conflict. That is inevitable. And must not be taken to mean that the whole story is an invention of country gullibles who found the winters too long, and started the wolf-hunt merely to amuse their leisure hours and give their imaginations fall play. There is a good central core of the tale which must be accepted.

Bramond, the garde champêtre, was the first to come upon traces of the wolf. He had found two recently dropped lambs dead, lying by the side of the forest trail. The animals' throats were severed and the blood had evidently been lapped up, for the ground showed few stains. Or else the killing had been done elsewhere and the bodies dragged to this remote and lonely spot overhung with bushes.

One of the bodies had been dismembered, the other was otherwise untouched. The dry ground around showed a few indistinguishable traces of having been trampled.

The last wolf sighted in this region had been slain over twenty years ago, so that the appearance of a wolf in this quarter of the département was considered unusual to say the least. Bramond, stuffing his pipe, frowning and grunting with the effort of ratiocination, came to the plausible conclusion that the perpetrator of these misdeeds was a shepherd dog who had taken a taste for mutton. And at once he concluded that the felon was none other than César, the big shepherd dog owned by Vaubois, for Vaubois not only underfed his help, he actually starved himself.

Serves him right, he thought. But a slight grain of sand remained in that ointment: it might be a wolf, after all. Now if only he were as clever as those Indian trackers of whom his son read to him every night, then he would not be in doubt for a moment. He would pick up a hair and identify it at once. He would find a trace of claws and say that this or that animal was responsible. He would, in fact, reconstruct the whole scene. He would know from the state of the dead animals how long they had been thus, at what precise hour they had met their death and whether here or elsewhere. And he would conclude: “Now, friends, I invite you to a proof of the correctness of my observations and deductions. If I am right, the animal will appear on the third night from today, two hours after moonrise, at this very spot.”

Old Bramond enjoyed his triumph the while he could, and then prepared to enjoy the distribution of a real piece of news, in a land always hungry for a good story. And the first person he came across was Vaubois' shepherd, Crotez.

They exchanged greetings and sat down on a rock to smoke together for a while. Then Bramond said: “Missing any lambs?”

“No,” said Crotez, “why do you ask?”

“Just wondered. Where's your dog?”

“Must be around somewhere.” He whistled. “Here, César!” César came trotting out of a dip in the meadow and raced gleefully up to the shepherd. César was an ill-kempt specimen of that rather mongrel breed known as the chien de berger. They stand fairly high, have ears pointed forward, a bushy tail and a good coat of curly brown hair.

César's red tongue lolled out of his jaws and gathered coolness. He nuzzled his head under his master's arm, for that was his favorite position, with his human friend's arm slung over his neck.

Bramond scratched his head.

“What's this you said about lost lambs?” the shepherd inquired.

“There are two dead lambs up on the hill there. I was wondering whose they were.” Even as he said it, Bramond realized that he should have kept quiet. Events were to prove that he had indeed made an error.

“Two dead lambs?”

“Half eaten.”

“Half eaten?”

“Wolf.”

“Wolf?”

“Fact.”

“Jésus!” exclaimed Vaubois' shepherd, at last finding a word of his own.

From Vaubois' shepherd, Bramond proceeded down the gentle slope until he came to the Didier-Galliez place.

M Galliez, himself, was at the end of the alley of locust trees which concealed his house from the road, and was busied with his rose bushes.

After a few comments on the weather, Bramond shook his head: “Bad news, monsieur.”

“What's the trouble, Bramond?” Aymar asked, scarcely looking up from his work.

“Wolves in this section. Found two dead lambs up there, half eaten. Couldn't be anything but wolves, though there hasn't been a wolf around here for years.”

“You must be mistaken,” said Aymar. “Wolves are extinct in this portion of the country. They say foxes will take new-born lambs.”

“Have you missed any lambs?”

“You'll have to ask young Guillemin,” said Aymar, “he takes care of the sheep. Go right in,” he invited Bramond.

Bramond walked down the alley and went around to the back of the house. Josephine and Françoise were spreading linen out to bleach on the grass. Young Bertrand, now about nine years old, was wrestling with his big St Bernard dog. None of the Guillemins were around.

Bramond made his inquiries but could secure no information. Neither of the women had heard of any lost lambs.

“M Galliez thinks it might be a fox. He says they sometimes will steal newly dropped lambs.”

“A fox it might very well be,” said Françoise. “We've missed a lot of chickens and ducks this last month. Young Guillemin has set traps but can't get the thief.”

“I must get my boy to fix you up a trap. He makes good ones—” Bramond turned to Bertrand: “And you. How about some hunting again?” He chuckled. “Did he tell you how our last hunting trip turned out? He shot a squirrel and nearly fainted. You've got to learn to shoulder a gun if you want to be a man.”

Françoise laughed. But Josephine said: “He's too delicate. And he won't eat.”

“He looks robust enough to me. What's the matter with him?”

“He's always been in good health,” said Josephine, “and I never had any trouble with him until this summer. I don't know what to make of it.”

“A touch of the heat,” suggested Bramond. “He's a bit upset. But they grow out of it.”

Bertrand, meanwhile, the object of this conversation, appeared oblivious to everything but the dog whom he was teasing. Bramond excused himself and hastened on with his news. So far he had not met with the appreciation he had expected.

The next person whom he met was the mayor of the village, an important wine grower and dealer of the section.

“Monsieur le maire, I have a piece of bad news. I think that…”

“Yes,” said the mayor, “you're precisely the man I'm looking for. Vaubois' shepherd just reported to me that he had found two lambs half eaten and to judge by the remains, evidently attacked by a large pack of wolves. Monsieur Bramond, you don't seem to be on the job.”

“Wolves…” Bramond stuttered.

“Yes, wolves. Where are you loafing these days that a pack of wolves can come into our village and steal lambs right from under our noses?”

“Why—”

“And when our citizens cry for help, no one can find Bramond.”

“But—”

“Vaubois has been looking for you everywhere!”

“But, monsieur le maire, it is I who—”

“Not another word. We shall overlook it this time. Now get on the job and have those wolves dead within twenty-four hours and delivered at the mairie.”

“Oui, monsieur, only I was about to say that—”

“No, not a minute more than twenty-four hours.” And with that the mayor betook his majestic personage away, leaving Bramond thunderstruck and furious in the roadway.

“I knew I shouldn't have said anything to that dolt of a shepherd. The thief—how could he play a scurvy trick like that?”

And even as he was standing there cursing the shepherd, up comes Le Vallon, shouting: “Bramond, mon vieux, where have you been? Have you heard the news? Everybody is looking for you. There are packs of wolves terrorizing the neighborhood. It's worth as much as your life to take the forest road.”

“Shut up!” thundered Bramond.

Well, that at least is Bramond's version of how the wolf was discovered. Vaubois' shepherd, Crotez, of course, had another tale to tell, and since the whole village, with the exception of the people on the Galliez estate, had heard the exciting story from the shepherd, no one could be found to believe Bramond, no matter how often he explained.

“Why, Crotez brought the bodies here, to the mairie, I saw…”

“That only shows that he didn't have any sense. The proper thing to do was not to disturb them but wait for the wolves to return.”

“But I told him myself—” he said to another.

“Ha, ha. My dear Bramond, we believe you, of course. What village in France can boast of a garde champêtre to equal ours?”

“I can point out to you the exact place where I found them.”

“So can everybody in the neighborhood by this time.”

Bramond paused and considered how an Indian tracker would deal with such a situation. No doubt he would have Vaubois' shepherd unmasked in a moment. But as for himself he could see nothing to do to recover his prestige but to get those wolves. So he shouldered his gun and was off.

In the succeeding days nothing further was seen of the wolf or pack of wolves, though if the devil shows his tail when he is spoken of then the wolves ought certainly to have shown theirs, for nothing but wolves figured in the village conversations for the next week.

Then one day another lamb was found, its throat ripped open in just the same way, and its belly disemboweled. And the ducks and chickens continued to disappear from various homesteads, but particularly from the Galliez farmyard.

Various people, at various times, claimed to have seen the wolf. They were believed by some, but by most discredited. Toward autumn an incident occurred that brought the wolf mystery nearer home.

Little Pernette, coming home toward twilight from her uncle, who was sick, saw, as she came to the hedge of Vaubois' buckwheat field, a huge dog, near as big as a calf. It came leaping at her. She screamed and ran. The heavy body of the animal cast itself at her and threw her down. Then she lost consciousness. When she awoke, it was quite dark, the full moon, dull red, stood above the horizon. Whimpering and trembling, she raced home and told her tale.