Werewolf of Paris (4 page)

The fowl was a large one. A goose, no doubt. It would not go into the opening. He tore it into pieces, dismembered it and put the separate pieces down. He heard them fall far below. The great bulk of the fowl, however, stuck in the pipe. He had to push it down. He pushed it down as far as he could and there it remained stuck fast.

There, that was that. Good God! What had he done? He had cast away his only food. He was about to cry out in despair. No, he must not make any sound. That would be shameful. They were waiting somewhere for him to cry out, that they might laugh at him and taunt him. No, never a sound must come from his lips. He stilled the cries in his throat, pushed his hands into his mouth to deaden any sound that might strive to issue from his agonized body.

He found himself licking his hands, greedily licking his fingers, smacking his lips, searching with his tongue between his fingers to find yet another bit of grease remaining from the fowl he had thrown away. Perhaps he could still reach that big piece that he had had so much difficulty pushing down into the drain. He put his arm down. He could just feel the fowl below the fingernail of his longest finger. In vain he attempted to hook his fingernail under some projection and thus draw it up. The meat was too far down.

A stick! But he had no stick. The dipper! But it was fastened by a short chain to the grating. Perhaps with his leg. That would reach down farther. But alas his clumsy toes contrived only to push down the roast still farther. He wept, he gnashed his teeth. He would have liked to howl out loud. But no sound would he allow to come from his mouth. He rolled around in agony on the cold floor, too short to permit him to lie at full length, another torture that had been only too well calculated.

He tried in vain to kill himself by breathing water up his nose. He could not do it. The will in him to breathe air was too great. If he could have wound the dipper-chain around his neck; but no, nothing would succeed.

It was days, weeks, months, years before there were sounds again above him. But no voice cried out tauntingly to him this time. He heard as if in a daze, for he was weak from lack of food, a heavy body fall into his cell. Then the footsteps mounted upwards and a door was closed. Not a ray of light came into the cell during this procedure.

As soon as the door had closed, he threw himself like a wild man on that which had fallen into his chamber. It was a large piece of raw meat fat with suet. He buried his teeth in it, and lay sick and belching afterward.

He had striven hard to keep track of time. He dozed so often and was so famished waiting for food that he figured he was being fed once a week, instead of three times a week as he actually was. He had counted a year when scarcely four months had passed. He had counted four years when one was hardly over. And then he began to lose track. He ceased to hope each day that there would be a great clashing above of iron on iron and that Poton's rough voice would cry out: “Jehan, dear brother, are you there?” That would never happen. Insensibly, by stages too gradual to portray, he reached a state where he thought of nothing.

In his underground cell there was never a change of temperature. Outside the winter storms might howl, or summer thundershowers beat upon a parched earth. Within it was forever cool, forever moist, forever dark.

Nothing mattered to him now but food. He had grown to be hungry at the same hour three times a week, and then if the meat was late in being cast in, he would bark and bay like a dog.

Years passed. Now and then a Pitamont fell afoul the Pitavals. Now and then it was the turn of the Pitamonts to execute a bloody revenge. “For brother Jehan,” they would say, thinking him dead this many a year.

And thus time passed and was gathered into seasons and years, and years were grouped into decades. Fully fifty years had passed since that night that Jehan Pitamont had come as a monk to beg admittance to the castle of the Pitavals, and still out in the courtyard, three times a week, the old master of the castle, his great bulk bent with age, went with his keys and his steward, and opened the door of the superstructure leading to the ventilating chamber above the oubliette.

“Let us wait a moment or two,” Pitaval would say to his steward and smile.

“It is precisely noon, by the shadow,” said the steward.

“If we delay but a minute or two, he will begin to howl,” said Pitaval, and nodded his head in pleasant anticipation.

One day, at his office in Avignon, old Datini, the banker, took a sheaf of papers from his files and said that it was time to settle this Pitaval and Pitamont business. “I have not seen a groat of the money due me in two years, from either of those two snarling kennels. It is time we brought this matter to a conclusion.”

The journey to the mountains was long, but Datini did not mind. He beguiled himself with a copy of Petrarch's sonnets to Laura. Moreover, he promised himself the pleasure of stopping off at Vaucluse on his way back and visiting the fountain there, immortalized in one of Petrarch's verses.

Thus one day the Pitavals were privileged to entertain a visitor who turned them out of their house. Indeed there was not much to be turned out. It was years since a horse had neighed in the stables; of the family there was left only the shriveled giant of former years. Of servants there was only the steward, too old and weak himself to seek fortune elsewhere. They received Datini and his bailiffs with courtesy.

“It is lucky you have come,” said old Pitaval. “We slaughtered our last pig yesterday. If you have brought food along, we are prepared to welcome you.”

Datini had brought food with him. They ate and discussed business.

“I have relatives in Orange,” said Pitaval. “I think I shall go there.”

A lugubrious howling, seeming to come out of the bowels of the earth, filled the hall.

“Do not be frightened, Master Datini,” said Pitaval with a smile. “It is only a wolf that we keep in a pit in the courtyard. Here,” he said, turning to his servant, “take him this piece of meat.” Then he added: “Have we any ratbane? Then smear some on the meat and we shall be rid of a useless pet.”

“A wolf,” said Datini sententiously, “prefers death to captivity, anyhow.”

“Aye,” Pitaval agreed. “A wolf. But this one has little spirit and thinks only of his meat. Well, I am ready to leave, your factors may take charge at once.” He rose heavily. The howling had ceased abruptly.

“There is no such hurry required of you,” Datini returned. “I have still business to do with the Pitamonts across the way.”

“So? Are my friends over there to share my fate? Then I shall have pleasant companionship on my departure.”

“Shame on you to speak thus of two old ladies,” said Datini. “I think I shall let them stay there the rest of their days. They are both over seventy.”

A few hours later, as Pitaval and his steward were ready to leave, their packs on their backs like the lowest of peasants, an old woman came hurrying up to them.

“Sir, she cried, throwing herself on her knees and clasping her arms about the legs of old Pitaval, “you will not be so cruel as to leave this land and not tell me where my poor Jehan lies buried?”

“How could I be so cruel?” Pitaval protested, secretly giving his steward a nudge in the ribs. “Here,” he said, “is the key to the vault in which he lies buried. No king ever had a more fitting tomb. Nor monk either,” he added. “In the rear courtyard you will find a door to which this fits.”

Come to think of it, it is strange that there should still exist and function in Genoa an asylum for poor children founded by this Datini, and that snot-nosed bambinos of that town should there enjoy the money that Datini made on the Pitavals and the Pitamonts. For it was the severe Genoan businessmen whom Datini put in charge on the former estates of the warring families who decided that lumbering would pay best and make quickest returns. The results were that Datini was repaid and that the region was permanently impoverished by erosion of the topsoil.

Records of any Pitavals in the following centuries are scarce. In fact, I find only one, Gayot de Pitaval, in the eighteenth century, who wandered up from Lyon to Paris and led a wretched existence as a law clerk, writing some miserable gossipy works on the side. It was not, in fact, until he had the brilliant inspiration to gather into a volume the gory tales of crime and detection that he picked up around the courts of law that his fortune changed and he became known all over Europe.

Think of it: he had the only volume of detective stories on the Continent. He had imitators enough in a short while, but managed to publish some twelve volumes to follow up his success. The German translation of his compilation carried an introduction by Schiller. Although practically unknown
*
today, the army of detective-story writers that have enriched themselves since his discovery should tax themselves to erect him a statue in gold.

As to the Pitamonts, we shall keep them company through the rest of this book and recognize them despite their disguises.

*
In Celtic
pit
means point or peak. Pitaval and Pitamont might be rendered as Peak Downstream and Peak Upstream, or Peak in the vale and Peak on the mount.

*
As recently as 1903, there appeared in Germany a series called
Pitaval der Gegenwart
. (
The Present-day Pitaval)
. Lately the book stalls have carried a volume called
Der Prager Pitaval (Criminal Stories of Prague)
.

Chapter Two

W
hoever has looked into Favre's excellent history of the morality police of Europe has not failed, I am certain, to notice and store in his mind that particularly striking case which Favre with grim (some will think it cheap) sense of humor entitled: “Suffer little children to come unto me…”

The case that Lieutenant Galliez considers briefly on page three of his defense is evidently the same, although no names are mentioned except that of Pitamont. Favre's description is very complete and precise as to names and dates. I follow his account in the main.

In the early 1850s, in Paris, there dwelt a widow by the name of Mme Didier. Her husband and she had come from the provinces and he had established himself in the jewelry business. He was successful in a fair way and left his wife well situated when he died. They had just moved to one of the fine new apartment houses on the Boulevard Beaumarchais not far from the Boulevard des Filles-du-Calvaire.

There is a particular reason for mentioning that, for in this adjoining street there lived and officiated a priest by the name of Pitamont who was Mme Didier's favorite father confessor.

Mme Didier dwelt pretty much alone, except for the frequent visits of a nephew, a young man who had been badly wounded in the street fighting in February, '48, and since had devoted himself to pamphleteering in support of Napoleon. The latter's rapid veering toward conservatism and imperialism had been a little bit too much for Mme Didier's nephew, who still retained his hatred of the Church and the aristocracy. For the moment he was undecided whether to follow his leader or continue along his own course.

At this time, Mme Didier took into her house a young girl of about thirteen or fourteen, an orphan from her own home village. Josephine had been recommended to her by the mayor of the village as a good and dutiful girl who would be useful to her in the household.

The nephew was sitting by the window and looking out on the street. It was a warm day, unseasonably so for the middle of March. The sky had suddenly become overcast. “I say, is it going to rain?” he exclaimed.

“Do you think so?” Mme Didier asked.

Just then there came the rumble of thunder and in the distance the play of lightning was visible. “Do you hear that?” the nephew replied.

“Bon Dieu,” Mme Didier ejaculated. “And I have not a drop of holy water in the house.”

“Holy water?” her nephew laughed. “Good heavens, you don't still practice that nonsense, do you?”

“You save your sarcasm for your pamphlets, my friend,” his aunt returned calmly. “I've always sprinkled holy water about when a thunderstorm threatened. Do you wish us all to be struck by lightning?”

She laid aside her knitting needles. “My mother did the same. And she lived to be eighty. But whom can I send?” she wondered suddenly. “Françoise is out.” Françoise was the cook and the only other person of the household.

“Send Josephine,” the nephew suggested. “Unless you want to wait until I hobble there and back.”

“But Josephine has been here only three days,” she objected. “She doesn't know her way about yet.”

“Good Lord, you don't have to know all Paris in order to go around the corner.”

So Josephine, the little girl from the provinces, was called and given explicit directions how to get to the little chapel around the corner and find Father Pitamont.

“And hurry, please,” said Mme Didier, as another burst of thunder resounded through the room. Josephine ran out, and directly into the thick of a violent thunder shower. Breathless she raced around the corner, repeating to herself over and over again the directions Mme Didier had given her. And thus she reached the chapel and almost flung herself headlong into the dark interior.

She was wet to the skin. Her garments clung to her, revealing her slender feminine form. Her breasts had but begun to grow. They caused her light dress to swell up. The nipples were hard with chill and chafing. Of late they pained her. Françoise had said to her sagely: “You have growing pains, everyone has them.”

Lit by the golden light of the flickering candles, she made an enticing picture, thought Father Pitamont. He stood for a second and watched her, particularly her heaving, tumultuous breast. Before he could catch himself, he was overtaken by a wave of desire that shut off the voice of his conscience.

“What is it, my little girl?” he said, and came out from the pillar behind which he had been standing.