The Beast of le Gévaudan

Anton Dacian is from a long line of displaced Rom. His now-scattered clan settled in southern France,
specifically near the Archdioceses of Toulouse, Montpellier, and Clermont. The flames of prejudice
against his people were fanned by the plagues which swept the region well-before his time, but are
still remembered by the elders and lawmakers. The Archbishop of Albi, Dominique, a survivor of the
great epidemic of 1720-1721, regularly calls for the expulsion of the Rom within his seat of Toulouse.
Only his hatred of the Huguenot Camisards is greater. Anton’s family was doubly-cursed: some of
their best patrons were Huguenots, declared criminals after King Louis XIV's revocation of the
ancient Edict of Nantes, prompting the family to head further east when Anton was but a child, as part
of a travelling troupe (now disbanded). He is now only somewhat itinerant, travelling from mountain
town to mountain town in the Margeride Ranges doing odd menial jobs and occasionally entertaining
locals at seasonal fairs.
Of late there have been an unusually high number of wolf attacks in the mountain forests, which
prompted the Bishop of Mende at the end of last year to circulate his encyclical to all the parishes of
his diocese: The justice of God (...) cannot allow innocence to be unhappy, the punishment it inflicts
always supposes the fault which attracted it. From this principle it is easy for you to conclude that
your misfortunes can only come from your sins. This is the fatal source which produces it (...) Fathers
and mothers who have the pain of seeing your children slaughtered by this monster that God has
armed against their lives, do you not have reason to fear having deserved, by your disorders, that
God strike them with such a plague? terrible? Suffer that we ask you here account of the way in which
you raise them; what neglect to instruct them or have them instructed in the principles of religion and
the duties of Christianity? (...) Anton can't help but wonder how long before the blame will be
levelled against him and his People...

He is currently living in the town of Le

Malzieu on the Truyère River in the western
foothills of the thickly forested Margeride
Mountains in the Gévaudan region. He works
intermittently as a labourer and porter, owing
to his impressive strength. Conditions in the
region are harsh: an ingrate soil, icy winters,
summers of ashes, and much-too heavy
winters. Yet he endures. Despite his affable
nature he still gets a few askance looks from
certain quarters in town, notably those of the
more devout and religious moiety. The recent
spate of uncharacteristic wolf attacks in the
region (all attributed to the same beast or a
mated pair) has drawn the eye of suspicion
upon Anton and others like him. The rhetoric
of the hateful Bishop of Mende hasn't helped
matters for Anton's people. A growing hysteria
has seen a rise in suspicion and paranoia as a
result of the appearance of La Bête du
Gévaudan after scores of attacks and dozens of
fatalities in the last six months. Local Romany
communities along the river have been
unjustifiably blamed.
Captain Duhamel of the Claremont Prince,
Count Louis, and his dragoons have recently
arrived from Clermont-Ferrand to capture the beast or beasts, and soon draw the ire of the locals
whose town they take over and whom they treat with disdain and contempt. Locals are press-ganged
into hunting parties, and it isn't long before Anton finds himself in a similar position.
At Le Malzieu Anton meets, under dubious circumstances, the gendarme from Saugues, sous-
lieutenant Rene-Antoine d’Arnac-Pompadour, who offers him his liberté in return for service, and the
other sous-lieutenant, Gaston Lévêque (a hussar in the Armée Royale Française on secondment, and
not a Clermont Prince Dragoon). Given the rivalry between the hussars and the dragoons, and the
general mistrust with which both are viewed, these two keep to themselves with Anton acting as their
go-between. Rene has knowledge of previous attacks near Langougne, as well as a first-hand account
by the Beast’s first victim, the so-called virgin of Gévaudan, Marie Jean Valet. The investigations of a
mere provincial gendarme are of no interest to Dragoon Captain Duhamel, and his testimony is soon
dismissed. Anton compiles more recent third hand accounts to add to Rene’s report.
Gaston, Rene and Anton accompany one of the hunting parties venturing west of the Truyère River;
the hussar takes command and directs it towards d’Apcher so that he can fulfil his own, secret task: to
reward the youth Jacques Portfaix for his bravery, and arrange an escort for him to Montpellier to be
educated at the Brothers of the Doctrine, and the State’s expense. Portfaix, aged 12, along with seven
friends, was attacked by the Beast in January 1765 near La Villaret d’Apcher; the brave youths
managed to drive it away by staying grouped together. King Louis XV was so moved he ordered the
boy and his friends be rewarded for the fine example they set.
The lad corroborates Marie-Jean’s testimony that the “beast is
like a wolf, yet not a wolf, nor a bear.” The task takes longer
than expected and, inexplicably, the party finds itself lost,
wandering in circles before the darkness closes in, and is forced
to make a meagre camp by the icy banks of the Truyère. Their
odd reflections in the stagnant pools by the riverbank betrays
the other-worldliness of this place...
Meanwhile...
The trio of Gaston, Rene, and Anton make their way past the
town gates of Ximes, the second city of the province, Ximes,
founded by the Romans as Simaesis, with its great cathedral,
built some 500 years ago, which houses the shrine and
mausoleum of the patron saint of the city, in life it’s bishop, Ste.
Azéderac. Legend holds that the mausoleum is actually empty,
since the saint scended to heaven after defeating the Devil. This
doesn’t prevent thousands of pilgrims from attending Ste.
Azéderac’s shrine every year. Within the walls of Ximes a
Benedictine convent can be found. Ximes is also a market town
for the fine red wine made in the surrounding villages.
Rene attends to the matter of his inheritance, and takes
possession of a tenement townhouse on the city square opposite
the great cathedral. The next week or so is spent getting things
in order: attending to legal documents, repairs, and furnishing
the apartments.
Gaston has made himself comfortable in Rene's townhouse in
Ximes. His manservant arrives with the rest of his baggage.
Gaston’s sharp eyes discovered the hidden compartment which
held the purported memoir of Luc de Chaudronnier, but his naivety about such shocking letters means
the significance of it is lost on him.

box be set in a secret chamber of my house at Ximes, so that no

Memoir of Luc de Chaudronnier
Year of Our Lord 1392
Old age, like a moth in some fading arras, will gnaw my
memories oversoon, as it gnaws the memories of all men.
Therefore, I write this record of the true origin and slaying of
that creature known as the Beast of A. And when I have ended
the writing, the record shall be sealed in a brazen box, and that
man shall learn the dreadful verity of this matter till many years
and decades have gone by.
Indeed, it were not well for such evil prodigies to be divulged
while any who took part in the happening are still on the
earthward side of Purgatory. And at present the truth is known
only to me and to certain others who are sworn to maintain
secrecy.
The ravages of the Beast, however, are common knowledge, and
have become a tale with which to frighten children. Men say
that it slew fifty people, night by night, in the summer of 1369,
devouring in each case the spinal marrow. It ranged mostly
about the abbey of Perigon and to Ximes and Ste. Zenobie and
La Frenaie.
Its nativity and lairing-place were mysteries that none could
unravel; and church and state were alike powerless to curb its
maraudings, so that a dire terror fell upon the land and people
went to and fro as in the shadow of death.
From the very beginning, because of my own commerce with
occult things and with the spirits of darkness, the baleful Beast
was the subject of my concern. I knew that it was no creature of
earth or of the terrene hells, but had come with the flaming
comet from ulterior space; but regarding its character and
attributes and genesis, I could learn no more at first than any
other. Vainly I consulted the stars and made use of geomancy
and necromancy; and the familiars whom I interrogated
professed themselves ignorant, saying that the Beast was
altogether alien and beyond the ken of sublunar devils.
Then I bethought me of the ring of Eibon, which I had inherited
from my fathers, who were also wizards. The ring had come
down, it was said, from ancient Hyperborea; and it was made of
a redder gold than any that the earth yields in latter cycles, and
was set with a great purple gem, sombre and smouldering,
whose like is no longer to be found. And in the gem an antique
demon was held captive, a spirit from prehuman worlds and
ages, which would answer the interrogation of sorcerers.
So, from a rarely opened casket, I brought out the ring of Eibon
and made such preparations as were needful for the questioning
of the demon. And when the purple stone was held inverted
above a small brazier filled with hotly burning amber, the
demon made answer, speaking in a voice that was like the shrill
singing of fire. It told me the origin of the Beast, which
belonged to a race of stellar devils that had not visited the earth
since the foundering of Atlantis; and it told me the attributes of
the Beast, which, in its own proper form, was invisible and
intangible to men, and could manifest itself only in a fashion
supremely abominable. Moreover, it informed me of a method
by which the Beast could be banished, if overtaken in a tangible
shape. And even to me, the student of darkness [and evil], the
revelations were a source of horror and surprise.
Musing on these dark matters, I waited among my books and
braziers and alembics, for the
stars had warned me that my intervention would be required in
good time.
Toward the end of August, when the great comet was beginning
to decline a little, there occurred the lamentable death of Sister
Therèse, killed by the Beast in her cell at the Benedictine
convent of Ximes. On this occasion, the Beast was plainly seen
by late passers as it ran down the convent wall by moonlight
from a window; and others met it in the shadowy streets or
watched it climb the city ramparts, running like a monstrous
beetle or spider on the sheer stone as it fled from Ximes to
regain its hidden lair.
To me, following the death of Therèse, there came privily the
town marshal, together with a priest from the household of the
Bishop of Ximes. And the two, albeit with palpable hesitation,
begged my advice and assistance in the laying of the Beast.
"You, Messire le Chaudronnier," they said, "are reputed to know
the arcanic arts of sorcery, and the spells that summon or
dismiss evil demons and other spirits. Therefore, in dealing with
this
devil, it may be that you shall succeed where all others have
failed. Not willingly do we employ
you in the matter, since it is not seemly for the church and the
law to ally themselves with wizardry. But the need is desperate,
lest the demon should take other victims; and in return for your
aid, we can promise you a goodly reward of gold and a
guarantee of lifelong immunity from all inquisition and
prosecution which your doings might otherwise invite. The
Bishop of Ximes, and the Archbishop of Vyones, are privy to
this offer, which must remain secret."
"I ask no reward," I replied, "if it be in my power to rid the land
of this scourge. But you have set me a difficult task, and I must
prepare myself for the undertaking, in which I shall require
certain aid."
"All assistance that we can give you shall be yours to
command," they said. "Men-at-arms shall attend you, if need be;
and all doors shall be opened at your request. We have consulted
Theophile, the abbot of Perigon, and the grief-smitten brother of
the lately slain Therèse, who is most zealous for the laying of
the fiend, and will admit you to the abbey. The horror seems to
centre thereabout, and two of the monks have been done to
death, and the abbot himself, it is rumoured, has been haunted
by the Beast.
Therefore, it may be that you will wish to visit Perigon."
I reflected briefly, and said: "Go now, but send to me, an hour
before sunset, two men-at-arms with horses and a third steed;
and let the men be chosen for their valour and discretion: for this
very night I shall visit the abbey."
Now, when the priest and the marshal had gone, I spent several
hours in making ready for my journey. It was necessary, above
all other things, to compound a certain rare powder that had
been recommended by the demon in the purple gem; for only by
the casting of this powder could the Beast be driven away before
its time. The ingredients of the powder were named in the Book
of Eibon, that manual written by an old Hyperborean wizard,
who in his day had dealt with ultra-mundane spirits akin to the
demon of the comet; and had also been the owner of the ring.
Having compounded the powder, I stored it in a bag of viper-
skin. And soon after I had finished my preparations, the two
men-at-arms and the horses came to my house, as had been
stipulated.
The men were stout and tested warriors, clad in chain-mail, and
carrying spears and swords. I mounted the third horse, a black
and spirited mare, and we rode forth from Ximes toward
Perigon, taking a direct and little-used way which ran for many
miles through the werewolf-haunted forest.
My companions were taciturn, speaking only in brief answer to
some question; and this pleased me, for I knew that they would
maintain a discreet silence regarding that which might occur
before dawn. Swiftly we rode, while the sun sank in a redness as
of welling blood among the tall trees; and the darkness wove its
thickening webs from bough to bough, closing upon us like
some inextricable net of death and evil. Deeper we went, into
the brooding woods; and even I, the master of sorceries,
trembled a little at the knowledge of all that was abroad in the
darkness.
Undelayed and unmolested, however, we came to the abbey at
late moonrise, when all the monks, except the aged porter, had
retired to their dormitory. The porter, who had received word of
our coming, would have admitted us; but this, as it happened,
was no part of my plan.
Saying I had reason to believe that the Beast would re-enter the
abbey that very night, I told the porter my intention of waiting
outside the walls to intercept it, and merely asked him to
accompany us in a tour of the building's exterior, so that he
could point out the various rooms. This he did, and during the
course of the tour, he indicated a certain high window in the
second story as being that of the abbot Theophile's chamber. The
window faced the forest, and I remarked the abbot's rashness in
leaving it open. This, the porter told me, was his invariable
habit.
Behind the window we could see the glimmering of a taper, as if
the abbot were keeping late vigil. We had committed our horses
to the porter's care. After he had conducted us around the abbey
and had left us, we returned to the space beneath Theophile's
window and began our long watch in silence.
Pale and hollow as the face of a corpse, the moon rose higher,
swimming above the sombre oaks and pines, and pouring a
spectral silver on the grey stone of the abbey walls. In the west
the comet flared among the lustreless Signs, veiling the lifted
sting of the Scorpion as it sank.
We waited hour by hour in the shortening shadow of a high
pine, where none could see us from the abbey. When the moon
had passed over, falling westward, the shadow began to lengthen
toward the wall. All was mortally still, and we saw no
movement, apart from the slow changing of the light and shade.
Half-way between midnight and dawn, the taper went out in
Theophile's cell, as if it had burned to the socket; and thereafter
the room remained dark.
Unquestioning, with ready spears, the two men-at-
arms companioned me in that vigil. Well they knew the
demonian terror which they might face before dawn; but there
was no trace of trepidation in their bearing. And knowing much
that they could not know, I held in my hands for instant use the
bag of viper-skin that contained the Hyperborean powder.
The men stood nearer than I to the forest, facing it perpetually
according to a strict order that I had given. But nothing stirred in
the fretted gloom; and the skies grew paler, as if with morning
twilight. Then, an hour before sunrise, when the shadow of the
great pine had reached the wall and was climbing toward
Theophile's window, there came the thing which I had
anticipated. Very suddenly it came, and with no warning of its
nearness, a horror of hellish red light, swift as a kindling,
windblown flame, that leapt from the forest gloom and sprang
upon us where we stood stiff and weary from our night-long
vigil.
One of the men-at-arms was borne to the ground, and I saw
above him, in a floating redness as of blood, the black and
serpentine form of the Beast. A round and snakish head, without
ears or nose, was tearing at the man's armour with sharp
innumerable teeth, and I heard the teeth grate and clash on the
linked iron as I stepped forward and flung the powder of Eibon
at the Beast. The second man-at-arms, undaunted, would have
assailed it with his spear, but this I forbade. The floating
powder, fine as a dust of mummia, seemed to dim the bloody
light as it fell; and the Beast relinquished the fallen man,
writhing away like a burnt serpent from the fire. Its members
and body were loathfully convulsed; and the thing seemed to
change horribly beneath our gaze, undergoing an incredible
metamorphosis.
Moment by moment it took on the wavering similitude of man,
like a werewolf that returns from his beasthood; and the red light
grew dimmer, and the unclean blackness of its flesh appeared to
flow and swirl, assuming the weft of cloth, and becoming the
folds of a dark robe and cowl such as are worn by the
Benedictines.
Then, from the cowl, a face began to peer, glimmering pale and
thin in the shadow; and the thing covered its face with sooty
claws that were turning into hands, and shrank away from me as
I pressed upon it, sprinkling it with the remainder of the powder.
Now I had driven it against the abbey wall; and there, with a
wild, despairing cry that was half-human, half-demoniac, the
thing turned from me and clawed frantically at the grey stone as
if it would climb toward the abbot's window in that monstrous
fashion that had been its wont.
Almost, for a breath, it seemed to run upward, hanging to the
wall like a bat or a great beetle. But the change had progressed
too far, and it dropped back in the shadow of a pine, and
tottering strangely as if with sudden mortal weakness, fell to the
ground and lay huddled in its monkish garments like a black
night-bird with broken vans. The rays of the gibbous moon,
sifting thinly through the boughs, lay cold and cadaverous on the
dead face; though the body was immersed in shadow. And the
face, even as I had expected, was that of the abbot Theophile,
who had once been pointed out to me in Ximes.
Of Gaston Lévêque...
He makes a point of getting to know some of the more influential burghers and ecclesiarchs, and
makes plans to visit the mausoleum and tomb of the city’s blessed patron saint. He and his host, Rene
are feted by the city’s elite, and already some attractive marriage prospects have presented
themselves; Rene happily samples the juicy morsels which come his way, while Gaston is torn
between his true love and his weakness for a pretty smile.
Already the peace of death was upon him; and horror had left no
sign on the shut eyelids and the sealed lips; and there was no
mark on the worn and haggard cheeks, other than that which
might come from the saintly rigor of prolonged austerities. The
man-at-arms who had been struck down by the Beast was
unharmed, though sorely bruised
beneath his mail. He and his fellow stood beside me, saying
naught; and I knew that they had recognized the dead abbot. So,
while the moon grew grey with the nearness of dawn, I made
them swear an awful oath of secrecy, and enjoined them to bear
faithful witness to the statement I must make before the monks
of Perigon. Then, having settled this matter, so that the good
renown of the holy Theophile should rest unharmed, we aroused
the porter and acquainted him with the abbot's lamentable death.
And we told this story, averring that the Beast had come upon us
unaware, and had gained the abbot's cell before we could
prevent it, and had come forth again, carrying Theophile with its
snakish members as if to bear him away to the sunken comet.
Then, by means of a wizard powder, I had routed the unclean
Beast, compelling it to relinquish its prey. And the thing had
vanished in a cloud of sulphurous fire and vapor; but Theophile
had died from the horror of his plight while the Beast was
descending the wall. His death, I said, was a true martyrdom,
and would not be in vain: the Beast would no longer plague the
country or bedevil Perigon, since the use of Hyperborean
powder was a sure exorcism.
This tale was accepted by the Brothers, who grieved mightily for
their good abbot. Indeed, the tale was true enough in its fashion,
for Theophile had been innocent and was wholly ignorant of the
foul change that had come upon him nightly in his cell, and the
deeds that were done by the Beast through his loathfully
transfigured body. Each night the thing had come from the
comet to assuage its hellish hunger; and being otherwise
impalpable and powerless, it had used the abbot for its
energumen, moulding his flesh in the image of some obscene
monster from beyond the stars.
After Theophile's death, the Beast was seen no more in A.; and
the murderous deeds were not repeated. And in time the comet
passed to other heavens, fading slowly; and the black terror it
had wrought became a varying legend, even as all other bygone
things. And they who read this record in future ages will believe
it not, saying that no demon or malign spirit could ever have
prevailed upon true holiness. Indeed, it were well that none
should believe the story: for strange abominations pass-
evermore between earth and moon and athwart the galaxies; and
the gulf is haunted by that which it were madness for man to
know. Unnameable things have come to us in alien horror, and
shall come again. And the evil of the stars is not as the evil of
earth.

One crisp late winter's morning, after attending to his toilette, he is attired in full uniform, leaves the
tenement, crosses the town square, past the pillories and gallows, and then presents his account to
Captain Duhamel in his makeshift headquarters. It is with great sadness that he reports the odd
disappearance, and presumed tragic death of sous-lieutenant Rene Antoine d’Arnac-Pompadour,
taken, it seems, by the very beast he was hunting. The creature appears to have entered the camp at
night, the sentries asleep at their posts, and made off with the gendarme, right under the noses of the
company. There was evidence of a violent struggle; no man could have survived such loss of blood.
The beast and its grisly meal were tracked to a dense thicket in the foothills near Aumont, but the
path is many hours old, and snowfall makes further tracking impossible.

The hunts continue without success. Increasingly, following the recent recognition and reward by
King Louis XV of young Jacques Portefaix and his boyhood friends, some desperate, mercenary
individuals court danger by seeking out the Beast themselves, in the hopes being similarly rewarded
for their valour. Few have thus far returned...

Of Rene-Antoine d’Arnac-Pompadour/Rene duex fois...

Rene awakes naked but for the untreated hide of a recently slaughtered doe, on a cold stone slab. He
dimly hears merrymaking, the sounds of violins and tambourines, the smells of roasting chestnuts
filling his nostrils. His head pounds and he cannot feel his extremities. A middle-aged Romany
woman, noticing he has woken, rushes to his side, muttering strange, unintelligible ululations. Rene
tries to recoil, but finds he cannot. His last memory is of the Beast’s foetid stink, and those words
burned into his mind: you cannot be, you should not be; return whence you came! Then searing pain
and the oblivion of the
Void.

The woman gives her name: Ludmilla. She addresses his as the “twice-born” and relates how the
Beast was driven off by the men of the camp who were hunting (poaching, more likely) in the woods.
Only through the ancient rites of the People does Rene deux fois still live. Looking around, he sees
what he can only imagine are the signs of some blasphemous rite. Nevertheless, he is well cared for
and nursed to health, and by early-spring is able to travel once more, but not before fathering a bastard
child on a young woman of the camp named Esmerelda. He is gifted with a deck of odd playing cards,
of a Bohemian pattern, which they refer to as “the Devil’s Bible”.

Of Anton Dacian...
Anton has fevered dreams as he sleeps in the Ximes townhouse of Rene, dreams of another place, of a
role to play in a battle for a man's soul. His host, Rene, he's known forever, and yet he cannot recall
any specific memories. Yet the gendarme seems to have been drawn to the gypsy. Or rather, Anton
has been desired by Rene...

He wakes with a start, the foul, eye-watering breath of the Beast curling his frost-tipped nose hairs.
This one I claim, for he should not be, it says in a voice more felt than heard. It takes the sleeping,
unmoving Rene in its vice-like maw and bounds off into the darkness. Anton, too stunned to react
knows he must find another way. And so, he intones the ancient words which he hoped he’d never
have to use, tearing the Veil asunder as its silvery mists envelop the camp.

He wakes with a start, the camp in disarray. Rene is missing, dragged away, it seems by the very beast
he was hunting. The creature appears to have entered the camp at night, the sentries asleep at their
posts, and made off with the gendarme, right under the noses of the company. There was evidence of
a violent struggle; no man could have survived such loss of blood. The beast and its grisly meal were
tracked to a dense thicket in the foothills near Aumont, but the path is many hours old, and snowfall
makes further tracking impossible.

February, Spring 1765

Young Jacques Portefaix will wait out the end of Winter at d’Apcher; he will travel to Montepellier at
the State’s pleasure in Spring, once the roads and passes are open to heavy traffic. Gaston, meanwhile,
remains based at Le Malzieu, doing Captain Duhamel’s bidding, much of which seems aimed at
demeaning the hussar and trying to provoke him into rashness. The two have a history, having served
together in the forces of the Comte de Clermont’s Rhine campaign during the Seven Years War. It
turns out that Duhamel, himself requested Gaston’s secondment; Gaston can only guess at the
dragoon Captain’s reasons.

The wolf hunts continue with some success; a number of smaller

wolves and cubs have been killed, but not without risk to the
increasingly agitated civilian population. A cold winter, treacherous
mountain passes, and desperate wild beasts all hamper efforts.
Dissent is brutally put down. Villagers from further afield are
rounded up to supplement the hunting parties. The Beast is sighted
crossing the Truyère, but the frightened locals are slow to close in on
it, and it manages to escape. The expected retributions follow, and
the gallows groan from overuse. Soon after, a professional wolf
hunter from Normandy arrives in Le Malzieu. Jean Marc Antoine
Vaumesle d’Enneval and his son and eight specially trained
bloodhounds arrive. Duhamel and d’Enneval clash over resources
and tactics, but as d’Enneval is a Royal appointee, Duhamel must
acquiesce and relocates his headquarters across the river near Saint-Chély-d’Apcher, whose proud
inhabitants, the Barrabans, do not tolerate Duhamel’s excesses. They once again take up the cry
“barres en avant”, advancing towards the dragoons as they approach, before an understanding is
reached.

Anton has managed to escape Duhamel’s grasp and has

relocated briefly to Saint Alban, before visiting the Romany
camp at the source of the Truyère. He is welcomed by his
Romany brothers and sisters, and is shown to the brightly-
painted wain in which the delirious, convalescing Rene rests.
The camp’s matriarch, Madame Eva, takes Rene aside and
says to him soberly: “The Fate of this twice-born...”,
gesturing towards Rene “...rests not in this world. He and the
Beast are kindred spirits. The revenant creature shall not rest
until it is laid to rest. Only he”, nodding at Rene once more
“can end this calamity. You, Anton Tükröződött, can guide
him in this endeavour. Reflect on this well.” With that, Anton
is clothed and reprovisioned. Madame Eva has foretold that
Rene will face great peril as she draws from her tarot deck:

D’Enneval’s hounds pick up the scent, and before long they

descend upon the Romany camp. Forewarned, Anton and
Rene flee, pursued by the slavering pack though the foothills of the Aubracs, near the small village of
Prunières. The ruins of Château d’Apcher offer a defensible position from the hounds.

Some malevolence must surely have possessed the bloodhounds, for they are relentless in their
pursuit, heedless of even their handlers’ commands. Before long, the commotion reaches the ears of
the nearby villagers and Gaston, who is billeted there. The sound of gunfire piques his interest, and he
rides out to investigate, but is unable to deter the determined hounds; even their handlers, lagging well
behind, are unable to call them off. One of the dogs expires from its injuries and exhaustion, another
is struck by Gaston, but it seems heedless of its wounds.

The quarry is pursued into the ruined tower, and down into its cellars. The hounds bay las if possessed
by demoniac spirits, but dare not venture into the cellars. The handlers and Gaston manage to pull
them away, and the hussar descends. He sees by the dim light of his taper, a guttering makeshift torch
and the sleeping forms of Anton and Rene. Try as he might he is unable to rouse them. They lie
beside a low brick-lined well. Gaston cautiously peers in, whereupon...

Perigon, Autumn 1765

... having taken their fill, the companions resume their march towards the d’Ambreville-
Montagneveret estate, honoured and humbled by the Comte’s invitation. Perigon’s belltower can be
seen around the next bend, brother monks working the nearby fields. Perhaps a stop thither might be
in order, if for no other reason than to freshen up.
They are welcomed by the guest-master and introduced to the abbot, Hilaire, who offers them small
but luxuriously-appointed cells. “I am Hilaire, the abbot of Perigon. We are a Benedictine order, who
live in amity with God and with all men, and we do not hold that the spirit is to be enriched by the
mortification or impoverishment of the body. We have in our butteries an abundance of wholesome
fare, in our cellars the best and oldest vintages of the province”, he explains to the bemused trio.

Rene recalls Luc de Chaudronnier’s hidden letter, and the complicity of the abbot of Perigon,
Theophile, in a scandalous affair involving an Otherworldly beast, some 400 years past. He makes his
way to the vaults and sepulchres of past abbots, deep in the bowels of the monastery. Inspecting the
tombs, he can find nothing amiss, yet he suspects a wrongness about the long-dead and much-loved
abbot Theophile, and dares to ask that the tomb be opened and the remains inspected. Abbot Hilaire is
scandalised by this suggestion; has this holy place not endured enough scandal? Is being placed in
commendam not ignominy enough? The Holy See has had too much cause to cast its eye over this
holy place in ages past; Hilaire will preside not over yet another scandal! Only his sense of Christian
charity prevents him from ordering the overzealous gendarme out into the night.

Anton, meanwhile, coaxes the lay brothers in a bit of idle gossip, and learns of the debauched and
ungodly reputation of House of d’Ambreville-Montagneveret: the sudden arrival before living
memory, and the estate’s association with the cursed hill: the recent death of the patriarch of the
house, Prince Étienne; a forbidden affair between the new Comte, Henri and his newly-widowed
sister-in-law, Catharine du Marchand; the malady of Sire Charles; the estrangement of Simon; the
grief of Magdalene. Their children and vassals, fare no better: Andre-David arranges hunts, it is said,
for both four-legged and two-legged quarries; Jean-Louis entices bravos and bareknuckle fighters to
duel his unbeatable champion for a princely sum of 1,0o0 Livres; Claude is a grief-stricken recluse;
not to mention the abuses and appalling treatment of the household staff. Yet, for all their faults, it is a
great honour to receive an invitation, and their patronage and largesse is welcome, indeed.
Disturbingly, however, no record of the family’s existence can be found beyond the middle of the last
century.
The abbot confides in Gaston that just yesterday a young, well-spoken scholar visited, and ventured to
hike in the direction of cursed hill of Faussesflammes, yonder. He was cautioned by one of the
brothers to avoid the place, but cheerily laughed off the warning. Hilaire and the community would be
most grateful for his safe return. His name is Armand Dantes. As the invitation to the new Comte’s
château gave Faussessflammes as landmark from which Château Sylaire could be reached, he
consents to search the hill for any sign of the missing scholar.

After a night punctuated by unusual yellow-green flashes, their radiance seems to bore into the very
soul of Gaston, the party is ready to trek to Faussesflammes and on to the château. The Father-Abbot
gives them a pax vobiscum, to which Rene replies with the customary et cum spiritu tuo
jovially, they leave the Abbey of Perigon behind. The hill rises not more than one mile distant. On its
summit he can see crumbling ruin. As they leave the Abbey behind, the companions note the very
vibrancy of their surrounds. The brother monks working the fields greet them cheerily, warn about the
possibility of banditry even this late in the season. One of the more sober brothers crosses himself
before cautioning the group against venturing too close to the Hill of False Flames. “There a cursed
chateau is built. For untold years, men say, there do witches and unholy spirits play and cavort with
demons in indescribable festivals. No weapon known to man, nor exorcism or holy water has ever
prevailed against these demons; many brave cavaliers and monks have disappeared amid the shadows
of Faussesflammes, never to return. So delectable is the place, that men will gladly befoul their very
souls to sup at its pagan ecstasies.”

The ascend the narrow, steep goat

track on the hill’s western slopes,
passing a small shrine to Ste
Azéderac of Ximes. For now, the
details of good Azéderac’s life
escapes the trio, but all know the
esteem with which he is regarded
in the south of the province.
Rene’s keen senses detect a
lingering whiff of sulphur in the
air. At the same time, he notices a
pair of large, cloven-hoofed prints
facing a set of boot prints, which
seem to be travelling along a
narrow goat track/game trail up the
side of the hill. The cloven prints
are, disturbingly, of a bipedal creature... As the ground turns rocky, he loses the tracks, but can see
ahead the crumbling ruins of Château de Faussessflammes standing atop the hill’s broad, wind-
swept, flat plateau.

Aside from the nearby ruins, no grand noble’s estate can be seen. While voicing concerns about
banditry, as if summoned, a small squad of perhaps four to six of them appear from the south, two of
them mounted. The party moves quickly to shelter as a gunshot rings out, although whether in anger
or warning, they cannot be sure. The brigands pursue, and while Gaston seeks a place of refuge and
tactical advantage, they close it. Seeing that he will be soon overwhelmed, he makes a defensive
stand, and Rene and Anton hide behind the cover of an outlying ruined tower.

The horsemen approach, their leader, one Claude le Loupgarou stands tall in his saddle and demands
the party hand over its valuables so as to avoid any unpleasantness. The other rider has a carbine
trained and the three bandits arrive on foot, one musketeer and two pistoleers. All carry hand
weapons: axe, arming sword, truncheon, knives.

Gaston will have none of Claude’s arrogant demands and fires his primed pistols, forcing the
highwayman to reel back and duck for cover, while the other bandits return fire, wounding Gaston.
Anton tries to parley, and so disarming is his manner, that the bandits don’t press their advantage.
Gaston faces off against two of them, but his expertise fails him, and against such determined and
desperate foes, falls to their blows, while Rene enters the fray, coming to his fallen friend’s aid as his
limp form is being stripped by one of the villains. The gendarme manages to subdue one of the
bandits, knocking him insensate, and narrowly avoids being trampled by the other horseman’s steed.

Anton manages to wrestle Claude out of his saddle and onto the ground, and the two scuffle, but
Anton manages to subdue the highwayman who sues for peace. The gypsy detects evil intent in the
other horseman’s soul, who levels a pistol at the vulnerable highwayman. Anton interposes as the shot
is fired, and falls limply to the ground beside his foe Seeing this, the other two bandits turn tail and
flee, as Claude’s disloyal lieutenant is brought down by Rene. He trusses up Claude, then ministers to
Gaston who stirs fitfully at death’s door. Anton comes to, and they seek shelter with their two
captives in the nearby ruins. Meanwhile, there’s no sign of the Armand fellow.

Gaston, feverish and convulsing, stares unblinking into the distance, then sleeps and dreams:
June, Summer 1765

Gaston wakes in unfamiliar surrounds, as if from a long sleep, his mind still dulled for a moment, He
takes in the details of his accommodations; a hospice, he deduces, on the coast as a cool sea breeze
caresses his cheeks. He calls for assistance and is greeted by a monk who tells him he is a guest of the
Brothers of the Doctrine at Montpellier. He was found insensate in the basement of a ruined tower
near d’Apcher, and was conveyed here along with a young lad, Jacques Portfaix, by order of the king,
himself! A great honour, indeed for the Brothers’ order. This account is confirmed by his manservant,
August Leclerc.

Of the fates of Rene and Anton, he is none the wiser; no others were located in the cellars under the
ruined tower. No word has been heard from them and, in any case, Rene is officially deceased,
declared so by Gaston’s own account.

After securing a meeting with the abbot, Theophile, and ensuring all is in order and that a message has
been conveyed to his commanding officer, he makes arrangements to return north. Meanwhile, it
seems Duhamel and his dragoons have been recalled (in disgrace) to Clermont-Ferrand, and another is
tasked with hunting the elusive Beast: none other than  François Antoine, second lieutenant of the
Royal Captaincy of Saint-Germain-en-Laye. “Monsieur Antoine” is King Louis XV’s sole
arquebus-bearer and Lieutenant of the Hunt. He has been invested with the power of the king, and
cannot fail in his mission!

The abbot has one small request; there is a visiting monsignor is travelling to Avignon. Would
lieutenant Lévêque be so kind as to accompany him thither? As a favour for the kindness shown him
by the Brothers? The abbot has taken the liberty of formally notifying Gaston’s commander.

Perigon, again ...

Anton and Rene take stock, replacing most of

the items looted from Gaston. Claude has a letter
of credit redeemable at the banking house at
Ximes or Vyones, which should suffice to re-
equip him in some finery. Anton knows
something about le Loupgarou is somehow
familiar, but he can’t fathom why. He recalls?
No, that’s impossible, that the notorious
criminal Jacques le Loupgarou, who had been
slain in combat with the officers of the State,
and noted for his brawn, his cunning and his
ferocity, had long terrorized the woods and
highways of Averoigne. His great body had been
half eviscerated by the swords of the
constabulary; Anton can almost see the outlaw’s
beard, stiff and purple, with the dried blood of a
ghastly wound that had cloven his face from
temple to mouth. He had died unshriven. He
somehow holds the key to all this talk of a
Beast, yet none has been seen in these parts of
late.

Gingerly, Rene and Anton, master equestrians

and animal handlers, both, convey Gaston and the captives back to Perigon, but enroute the bandits
seize the opportunity while the party is distracted to slip their bonds and Claude escapes while the
other is shot in the back by Rene.

Abbot Hilaire is distressed by the party’s run-in

with the bandits, and extends to them every
courtesy and kindness. The kindness is repaid by
the gifting of one of the bandits’ captured horses;
Rene keeps the other. The finest abbey’s barber-
surgeon attends to Gaston, and constant prayers
are chanted in vigil for his speedy recovery. Such
is the holiness of this much-maligned place, that
on waking, he is hale-enough to return to Ximes.
He recalls another vivid dream, which he attributes
to his delirium.

Meanwhile, Rene, feels an inexplicable longing

for a maiden he can’t quite recall (there have been
so many, after all), yet she carries a part of him
inside her...

Gaston is discharged with three drams of fine

Laudanum tincture to ease his pain should he
needed, but is warned of its soporiferousness and
enticing euphoric effects.

The companions gather up their possessions from their recently-arrived carriage, and return with it to
Rene’s townhouse for another day or two of convalescence while August, Gaston’s manservant,
replaces his stolen items courtesy of Claude’s letter of credit which is redeemed at the local banking
house. August has also taken the liberty to procure a jar of The Salve of Healinge from the local
apothecary. Those of a more religious moiety would avoid such deviltry, but August thought it
prudent, just in case...

The trio sets off once more to the d’Ambreville-Montagneveret estate. Undeterred by the fact it
appears on no map, only that the path will be clear once they reach Faussesflammes (surely a quirk of
the local nobility conspiring with the region’s surveyors and cartographers, and a ‘test’ for worthy
potential clients and petitioners), they escort a postal carriage as far as the shallow northern slopes of
Faussessflammes and head off on horseback, on high alert for any banditry. They arrive at the scene
of their harrowing encounter. Recalling the
place which drew Gaston’s attention while
wounded, they discover a large, perfectly
manicured hedge maze folly, alone atop the
barren wind-swept hill.

Approaching, the entrance is marked by an

arch-way atop which are the coat of arms of
House d’Ambreville-Montagneveret. Gaston
fleetingly sees and inscription in Latin, which
he fails to mark well, but warns the others to
stay away. Heedless, and hungry for
excitement, Anton and Rene enter, whereupon
Gaston can no longer communicate with them. They find they leave no tracks behind, even to Rene’s
practiced eye, nor are they able blaze any meaningful trail. They wander aimlessly discovering
statuary of what must be important members of the House. Only one statue, crudely beheaded, bears a
plaque they recognise: Étienne d’Ambreville, Le prince Magicien. Gaston, meanwhile, grows
increasingly anxious and impatient. Against his better judgement he enters, hacking his way through
to the centre, only to find that the foliage knits together behind him, with no clear way out. Calling
out, be eventually meets his companions at a large clearing marked by a statue, newly-installed, to
Comte Henri.

Up ahead, in a small alcove a disturbing sight: a new grave from which an outstretched hand extends,
greying and mottled with lividity, long, dirty soil-caked nails hinting at unthinkable torment. The
small gravestone reads Xavier d’Espivant.
Armand Dantes
The account of Gerard de VenteillonIt concerned one Gerard, Comte de Venteillon, who, on the eve
of his marriage to the renowned and beautiful demoiselle, Eleanor des Lys, had met in the forest near
his chateau a strange, half-human creature with hoofs and horns. Now Gerard, as the narrative
explained, was a knightly youth of indisputably proven valour, as well as a true Christian; so, in the
name of our Saviour, Jesus Christ, he bade the creature stand and give an account of itself.
Laughing wildly in the twilight, the bizarre being capered before him, and cried:
“I am a satyr, and your Christ is less to me than the weeds that grow on your kitchen-middens.”
Appalled by such blasphemy, Gerard would have drawn his sword to slay the creature, but again it
cried, saying:
“Stay, Gerard de Venteillon, and I will tell you a secret, knowing which, you will forget the worship
of Christ, and forget your beautiful bride-, of tomorrow, and turn your back on the world and on the
very sun itself with no reluctance and no regret.”
Now, albeit half unwillingly, Gerard lent the satyr an ear and it came closer and whispered to him.
And that which it whispered is not known; but before it vanished amid the blackening shadows of the
forest, the satyr spoke aloud once more, and said:
“The power of Christ has prevailed like a black frost on all the woods, the fields, the rivers, the
mountains, where abode in their felicity the glad, immortal goddesses and nymphs of yore. But still,
in the cryptic caverns of earth, in places underground, like the hell your priests have fabled, there
dwells the pagan loveliness, there cry the pagan ecstasies.” And with the last words, the creature
laughed again its wild unhuman laugh, and disappeared among the darkening boles of the twilight
trees.
From that moment, a change was upon Gerard de Venteillon. He returned to his chateau with
downcast mien, speaking no cheery or kindly word to his retainers, as was his wont, but sitting or
pacing always in silence, and scarcely heeding the food that was set before him. Nor did he go that
evening to visit his betrothed, as he had promised; but, toward midnight, when a waning moon had
arisen red as from a bath of blood, he went forth clandestinely by the postern door of the chateau, and
following an old, half-obliterated trail through the woods, found his way to the ruins of the Chateau
des Faussesflammes, which stands on a hill opposite the Benedictine abbey of Perigon.
Now these ruins (says the manuscript) are very old, and have long been avoided by the people of the
district, for a legendry of immemorial evil clings about them, and it is said that they are the dwelling-
place of foul spirits, the rendezvous of sorcerers and succubi. But Gerard, as if oblivious or fearless of
their ill renown, plunged like one who is devil-driven into the shadow of the crumbling walls, and
went, with the careful groping of a man who follows some given direction, to the northern end of the
courtyard. There, directly between and below the two centre-most windows, he pressed with his right
foot on a flagstone differing “from those about it in being of a triangular form.” And the flagstone
moved and tilted beneath his foot, revealing a flight of granite steps that went down into the earth,
then lighting a taper he had brought with him, he descended the steps, and the flagstone swung into
place behind him.
On the morrow, his betrothed, Eleanor des Lys, and all her bridal train, waited vainly for him at the
cathedral of Vyones, the principal town of A., where the wedding had been set. And from that time
his face was beheld by no man, and no vaguest rumour of Gerard de Veriteillon or of the fate that
befell him has ever passed among the living ....
The Testimony of the Monks, 1281
Following the above-related occurrence, two of
the brothers who had previously desired to visit
the haunted castle again applied to the abbot for
this permission, saying that God would surely aid
them in avenging the abduction of Theophile's
body as well as the taking of many others from
consecrated ground. Marvelling at the hardihood
of these lusty monks, who proposed to beard the
Arch-enemy in his lair, the abbot permitted them
to go forth, furnished with aspergilluses and
flasks of holy water, and bearing great crosses of
hornbeam, such as would have served for maces
with which to brain an armoured knight.
The monks, whose names were Bernard and
Stephane, went boldly up at middle forenoon to
assail the evil stronghold. It was an arduous
climb, among overhanging boulders and along
slippery scarps; but both were stout and agile,
and, moreover, well accustomed to such
climbing. Since the day was sultry and airless,
their white robes were soon stained with sweat;
but pausing only for brief prayer, they pressed
on; and in good season they neared the castle,
upon whose grey, time-eroded ramparts they could
still descry no evidence of occupation or activity.
The deep moat that had once surrounded the
place was now dry, and had been partly filled by
crumbling earth and detritus from the walls. The
drawbridge had rotted away; but the blocks of the
barbican, collapsing into the moat, had made a
sort of rough causeway on which it was
possible to cross. Not without trepidation, and
lifting their crucifixes as warriors lift their
weapons in the escalade of an armed fortress, the
brothers climbed over the ruin of the barbican
into the courtyard.
This too, like the battlements, was seemingly
deserted. Overgrown nettles, rank grasses and
sapling trees were rooted between its paving-
stones. The high, massive donjon, the chapel, and
that portion of the castellated structure containing
the great hall, had preserved their main outlines
after centuries of dilapidation. To the left of the
broad bailey, a doorway yawned like the mouth of
a dark cavern in the cliffy mass of the hall-
building; and from this doorway there issued a
thin, bluish vapour, writhing in phantom coils
towards the unclouded heavens. Approaching the
doorway, the brothers beheld a gleaming of red
fires within, like the eyes of dragons blinking
through infernal murk. They felt sure that the
place was an outpost of Erebus, an ante-chamber
of the Pit; but nevertheless, they entered bravely,
chanting loud exorcisms and brandishing their
mighty crosses of hornbeam.
Passing through the cavernous doorway, they
could see but indistinctly in the gloom, being
somewhat blinded by the summer sunlight they
had left. Then, with the gradual clearing of their
vision, a monstrous scene was limned before
them, with ever-growing details of crowding
horror and grotesquery. Some of the details were
obscure and mysteriously terrifying; others, all too
plain, were branded as if with sudden, ineffaceable
hell-fire on the minds of the monks.
They stood on the threshold of a colossal chamber,
which seemed to have been made by the tearing
down of upper floors and inner partitions
adjacent to the castle hall, itself a room of huge
extent. The chamber seemed to recede through
interminable shadow, shafted with sunlight falling
through the rents of ruin: sunlight that was
powerless to dissipate the infernal gloom and
mystery.
The monks averred later that they saw many
people moving about the place, together with
sundry demons, some of whom were shadowy
and gigantic, and others barely to be distinguished
from the men. These people, as well as their
familiars, were occupied with the tending of
reverberatory furnaces and immense pear-shaped
and gourd-shaped vessels such as were used in
alchemy. Some, also, were stooping above great
fuming cauldrons, like sorcerers, busy with the
brewing of terrible drugs. Against the opposite
wall, there were two enormous vats, built of stone
and mortar, whose circular sides rose higher than
a man's head, so that Bernard and Stephane were
unable to determine their contents. One of the
vats gave forth a whitish glimmering; the other, a
ruddy luminosity.
Near the vats, and somewhat between them,
there stood a sort of low couch or litter, made of
luxurious, weirdly figured fabrics such as the
Saracens weave. On this the monks discerned a
dwarfish being, pale and wizened, with eyes of
chill flame that shone like evil beryls through the
dusk. The dwarf, who had all the air of a feeble
moribund, was supervising the toils of the men
and their familiars.
The dazed eyes of the brothers began to
comprehend other details. They saw that several
corpses, among which they recognized that of
Theophile, were lying on the middle floor,
together with a heap of human bones that had
been wrenched asunder at the joints, and great
lumps of flesh piled like the carvings of butchers.
One of the men was lifting the bones and
dropping them into a cauldron beneath which
there glowed a ruby-coloured fire; and another
was flinging the lumps of flesh into a tub filled
with some hueless liquid that gave forth an evil
hissing as of a thousand serpents.
Others had stripped the grave-clothes from one of
the cadavers, and were starting to assail it with
long knives. Others still were mounting rude
flights of stone stairs along the walls of the
immense vats, carrying vessels filled with
semi- liquescent matters which they emptied over
the high rims.
Appalled at this vision of human and Satanic
turpitude, and feeling a more than righteous
indignation, the monks resumed their chanting of
sonorous exorcisms and rushed forward. Their
entrance, it appeared, was not perceived by the
heinously occupied crew of sorcerers and devils.
Bernard and Stephane, filled with an ardour of
godly wrath, were about to fling themselves upon
the butchers who had started to assail the dead
body. This corpse they recognized as being that
of a notorious outlaw, named Jacques Le
Loupgarou, who had been slain a few days
previous in combat with the officers of the state.
Le Loupgarou, noted for his brawn, his cunning
and his ferocity, had long terrorized the woods
and highways of A. His great body had been half
eviscerated by the swords of the constabulary;
and his beard was stiff and purple with the dried
blood of a ghastly wound that had cloven his face
from temple to mouth. He had died unshriven, but
nevertheless, the monks were unwilling to see his
helpless cadaver put to some unhallowed use
beyond the surmise of Christians.
The pale, malignant-looking dwarf had now
perceived the brothers. They heard him cry out
in a shrill, imperatory tone that rose above the
ominous hiss of the cauldrons and the hoarse
mutter of men and demons.
They knew not his words, which were those of
some outlandish tongue and sounded like an
incantation. Instantly, as if in response to an
order, two of the men turned from their unholy
chemistry, and lifting copper basins filled with an
unknown, fetid liquor, hurled the contents of
these vessels in the faces of Bernard and Stephane.
The brothers were blinded by the stinging fluid,
which bit their flesh as with many serpents' teeth;
and they were overcome by the noxious fumes, so
that their great crosses dropped from their hands
and they both fell unconscious on the castle floor.
Recovering anon their sight and their other
senses, they found that their hands had been
tied with heavy thongs of gut, so that they were
now helpless and could no longer wield their
crucifixes or the sprinklers of holy water which
they carried.
In this ignominious condition, they heard the
voice of the evil dwarf, commanding them to
arise. They obeyed, though clumsily and with
difficulty, being denied the assistance of their
hands. Bernard, who was still sick with the
poisonous vapour he had inhaled, fell twice
before he succeeded in standing erect; and his
discomfiture was greeted with a cachinnation of
foul, obscene laughter from the assembled
sorcerers.
Now, standing, the monks were taunted by the
dwarf, who mocked and reviled them, with
appalling blasphemies such as could be uttered
only by a bond-servant of Satan. At last,
according to their sworn testimony, he said to
them:
"Return to your kennel, ye whelps of Ialdabaoth,
and take with you this message: They that came
here as many shall go forth as one."
Then, in obedience to a dreadful formula spoken by
the dwarf, two of the familiars, who had the
shape of enormous and shadowy beasts,
approached the body of Le Loupgarou and that of
Brother Theophile. One of the foul demons,
like a vapour that sinks into a marsh, entered the
bloody nostrils of Le Loupgarou, disappearing
inch by inch, till its horned and bestial head was
withdrawn from sight. The other, in like manner,
went in through the nostrils of Brother Theophile,
whose head lay weird athwart his shoulder on
the broken neck.
Then, when the demons had completed their
possession, the bodies, in a fashion horrible to
behold, were raised up from the castle floor, the
one with ravelled entrails hanging from its wide
wounds, the other with a head that dropped
forward loosely on its bosom. Then, animated by
their devils, the cadavers took up the crosses of
hornbeam that had been dropped by Stephane and
Bernard; and using the crosses for bludgeons, they
drove the monks in ignominious flight from the
castle, amid a loud, tempestuous howling of
infernal laughter from the dwarf and his
necromantic crew. And the nude corpse of Le
Loupgarou and the robed cadaver of Theophile
followed them far on the chasm-riven slopes
below Ylourgne, striking great blows with the
crosses, so that the backs of the two
Cistercians were become a mass of bloody
bruises.

After a defeat so signal and crushing, no more of

the monks were emboldened to go up against
Ylourgne. The whole monastery, thereafter,
devoted itself to triple austerities, to quadrupled
prayers; and awaiting the unknown will of God,
and the equally obscure machinations of the Devil,
maintained a pious faith that was somewhat
tempered with trepidation.

In time, through goatherds who visited the monks,

the tale of Stephane and Bernard went forth
throughout A., adding to the grievous alarm that
had been caused by the wholesale disappearance
of the dead. No one knew what was really going
on in the haunted castle or what disposition had
been made of the hundreds of migratory corpses;
for the light thrown on their fate by the monks'
story, though lurid and frightful, was all too
inconclusive; and the message sent by the dwarf
was somewhat cabalistic.

Everyone felt, however, that some gigantic

menace, some black, infernal enchantment, was
being brewed within the ruinous walls. The
malign, moribund dwarf was all too readily
identified with the missing sorcerer, Nathaire;
and his underlings, it was plain, were Nathaire's
pupils.
 Memoir of Luc de Chaudronnier
Year of Our Lord 1392
Old age, like a moth in some fading arras, will gnaw my
memories oversoon, as it gnaws the memories of all men.
Therefore, I write this record of the true origin and slaying of
that creature known as the Beast of A. And when I have ended
the writing, the record shall be sealed in a brazen box, and that
box be set in a secret chamber of my house at Ximes, so that no
man shall learn the dreadful verity of this matter till many years
and decades have gone by.
Indeed, it were not well for such evil prodigies to be divulged
while any who took part in the happening are still on the
earthward side of Purgatory. And at present the truth is known
only to me and to certain others who are sworn to maintain
secrecy.
The ravages of the Beast, however, are common knowledge, and
have become a tale with which to frighten children. Men say
that it slew fifty people, night by night, in the summer of 1369,
devouring in each case the spinal marrow. It ranged mostly
about the abbey of Perigon and to Ximes and Ste. Zenobie and
La Frenaie.
Its nativity and lairing-place were mysteries that none could
unravel; and church and state were alike powerless to curb its
maraudings, so that a dire terror fell upon the land and people
went to and fro as in the shadow of death.
From the very beginning, because of my own commerce with
occult things and with the spirits of darkness, the baleful Beast
was the subject of my concern. I knew that it was no creature of
earth or of the terrene hells, but had come with the flaming
comet from ulterior space; but regarding its character and
attributes and genesis, I could learn no more at first than any
other. Vainly I consulted the stars and made use of geomancy
and necromancy; and the familiars whom I interrogated
professed themselves ignorant, saying that the Beast was
altogether alien and beyond the ken of sublunar devils.
Then I bethought me of the ring of Eibon, which I had inherited
from my fathers, who were also wizards. The ring had come
down, it was said, from ancient Hyperborea; and it was made of
a redder gold than any that the earth yields in latter cycles, and
was set with a great purple gem, sombre and smouldering,
whose like is no longer to be found. And in the gem an antique
demon was held captive, a spirit from prehuman worlds and
ages, which would answer the interrogation of sorcerers.
So, from a rarely opened casket, I brought out the ring of Eibon
and made such preparations as were needful for the questioning
of the demon. And when the purple stone was held inverted
above a small brazier filled with hotly burning amber, the
demon made answer, speaking in a voice that was like the shrill
singing of fire. It told me the origin of the Beast, which
belonged to a race of stellar devils that had not visited the earth
since the foundering of Atlantis; and it told me the attributes of
the Beast, which, in its own proper form, was invisible and
intangible to men, and could manifest itself only in a fashion
supremely abominable. Moreover, it informed me of a method
by which the Beast could be banished, if overtaken in a tangible
shape. And even to me, the student of darkness [and evil], the
revelations were a source of horror and surprise.
Musing on these dark matters, I waited among my books and
braziers and alembics, for the
stars had warned me that my intervention would be required in
good time.
Toward the end of August, when the great comet was beginning
to decline a little, there occurred the lamentable death of Sister
Therèse, killed by the Beast in her cell at the Benedictine
convent of Ximes. On this occasion, the Beast was plainly seen
by late passers as it ran down the convent wall by moonlight
from a window; and others met it in the shadowy streets or
watched it climb the city ramparts, running like a monstrous
beetle or spider on the sheer stone as it fled from Ximes to
regain its hidden lair.
To me, following the death of Therèse, there came privily the
town marshal, together with a priest from the household of the
Bishop of Ximes. And the two, albeit with palpable hesitation,
begged my advice and assistance in the laying of the Beast.
"You, Messire le Chaudronnier," they said, "are reputed to know
the arcanic arts of sorcery, and the spells that summon or
dismiss evil demons and other spirits. Therefore, in dealing with
this
devil, it may be that you shall succeed where all others have
failed. Not willingly do we employ
you in the matter, since it is not seemly for the church and the
law to ally themselves with wizardry. But the need is desperate,
lest the demon should take other victims; and in return for your
aid, we can promise you a goodly reward of gold and a
guarantee of lifelong immunity from all inquisition and
prosecution which your doings might otherwise invite. The
Bishop of Ximes, and the Archbishop of Vyones, are privy to
this offer, which must remain secret."
"I ask no reward," I replied, "if it be in my power to rid the land
of this scourge. But you have set me a difficult task, and I must
prepare myself for the undertaking, in which I shall require
certain aid."
"All assistance that we can give you shall be yours to
command," they said. "Men-at-arms shall attend you, if need be;
and all doors shall be opened at your request. We have consulted
Theophile, the abbot of Perigon, and the grief-smitten brother of
the lately slain Therèse, who is most zealous for the laying of
the fiend, and will admit you to the abbey. The horror seems to
centre thereabout, and two of the monks have been done to
death, and the abbot himself, it is rumoured, has been haunted
by the Beast.
Therefore, it may be that you will wish to visit Perigon."
I reflected briefly, and said: "Go now, but send to me, an hour
before sunset, two men-at-arms with horses and a third steed;
and let the men be chosen for their valour and discretion: for this
very night I shall visit the abbey."
Now, when the priest and the marshal had gone, I spent several
hours in making ready for my journey. It was necessary, above
all other things, to compound a certain rare powder that had
been recommended by the demon in the purple gem; for only by
the casting of this powder could the Beast be driven away before
its time. The ingredients of the powder were named in the Book
of Eibon, that manual written by an old Hyperborean wizard,
who in his day had dealt with ultra-mundane spirits akin to the
demon of the comet; and had also been the owner of the ring.
Having compounded the powder, I stored it in a bag of viper-
skin. And soon after I had finished my preparations, the two
men-at-arms and the horses came to my house, as had been
stipulated.
The men were stout and tested warriors, clad in chain-mail, and
carrying spears and swords. I mounted the third horse, a black
and spirited mare, and we rode forth from Ximes toward
Perigon, taking a direct and little-used way which ran for many
miles through the werewolf-haunted forest.
My companions were taciturn, speaking only in brief answer to
some question; and this pleased me, for I knew that they would
maintain a discreet silence regarding that which might occur
before dawn. Swiftly we rode, while the sun sank in a redness as
of welling blood among the tall trees; and the darkness wove its
thickening webs from bough to bough, closing upon us like
some inextricable net of death and evil. Deeper we went, into
the brooding woods; and even I, the master of sorceries,
trembled a little at the knowledge of all that was abroad in the
darkness.
Undelayed and unmolested, however, we came to the abbey at
late moonrise, when all the monks, except the aged porter, had
retired to their dormitory. The porter, who had received word of
our coming, would have admitted us; but this, as it happened,
was no part of my plan.
Saying I had reason to believe that the Beast would re-enter the
abbey that very night, I told the porter my intention of waiting
outside the walls to intercept it, and merely asked him to
accompany us in a tour of the building's exterior, so that he
could point out the various rooms. This he did, and during the
course of the tour, he indicated a certain high window in the
second story as being that of the abbot Theophile's chamber. The
window faced the forest, and I remarked the abbot's rashness in
leaving it open. This, the porter told me, was his invariable
habit.
Behind the window we could see the glimmering of a taper, as if
the abbot were keeping late vigil. We had committed our horses
to the porter's care. After he had conducted us around the abbey
and had left us, we returned to the space beneath Theophile's
window and began our long watch in silence.
Pale and hollow as the face of a corpse, the moon rose higher,
swimming above the sombre oaks and pines, and pouring a
spectral silver on the grey stone of the abbey walls. In the west
the comet flared among the lustreless Signs, veiling the lifted
sting of the Scorpion as it sank.
We waited hour by hour in the shortening shadow of a high
pine, where none could see us from the abbey. When the moon
had passed over, falling westward, the shadow began to lengthen
toward the wall. All was mortally still, and we saw no
movement, apart from the slow changing of the light and shade.
Half-way between midnight and dawn, the taper went out in
Theophile's cell, as if it had burned to the socket; and thereafter
the room remained dark.
Unquestioning, with ready spears, the two men-at-
arms companioned me in that vigil. Well they knew the
demonian terror which they might face before dawn; but there
was no trace of trepidation in their bearing. And knowing much
that they could not know, I held in my hands for instant use the
bag of viper-skin that contained the Hyperborean powder.
The men stood nearer than I to the forest, facing it perpetually
according to a strict order that I had given. But nothing stirred in
the fretted gloom; and the skies grew paler, as if with morning
twilight. Then, an hour before sunrise, when the shadow of the
great pine had reached the wall and was climbing toward
Theophile's window, there came the thing which I had
anticipated. Very suddenly it came, and with no warning of its
nearness, a horror of hellish red light, swift as a kindling,
windblown flame, that leapt from the forest gloom and sprang
upon us where we stood stiff and weary from our night-long
vigil.
One of the men-at-arms was borne to the ground, and I saw
above him, in a floating redness as of blood, the black and
serpentine form of the Beast. A round and snakish head, without
ears or nose, was tearing at the man's armour with sharp
innumerable teeth, and I heard the teeth grate and clash on the
linked iron as I stepped forward and flung the powder of Eibon
at the Beast. The second man-at-arms, undaunted, would have
assailed it with his spear, but this I forbade. The floating
powder, fine as a dust of mummia, seemed to dim the bloody
light as it fell; and the Beast relinquished the fallen man,
writhing away like a burnt serpent from the fire. Its members
and body were loathfully convulsed; and the thing seemed to
change horribly beneath our gaze, undergoing an incredible
metamorphosis.
Moment by moment it took on the wavering similitude of man,
like a werewolf that returns from his beasthood; and the red light
grew dimmer, and the unclean blackness of its flesh appeared to
flow and swirl, assuming the weft of cloth, and becoming the
folds of a dark robe and cowl such as are worn by the
Benedictines.
Then, from the cowl, a face began to peer, glimmering pale and
thin in the shadow; and the thing covered its face with sooty
claws that were turning into hands, and shrank away from me as
I pressed upon it, sprinkling it with the remainder of the powder.
Now I had driven it against the abbey wall; and there, with a
wild, despairing cry that was half-human, half-demoniac, the
thing turned from me and clawed frantically at the grey stone as
if it would climb toward the abbot's window in that monstrous
fashion that had been its wont.
Almost, for a breath, it seemed to run upward, hanging to the
wall like a bat or a great beetle. But the change had progressed
too far, and it dropped back in the shadow of a pine, and
tottering strangely as if with sudden mortal weakness, fell to the
ground and lay huddled in its monkish garments like a black
night-bird with broken vans. The rays of the gibbous moon,
sifting thinly through the boughs, lay cold and cadaverous on the
dead face; though the body was immersed in shadow. And the
face, even as I had expected, was that of the abbot Theophile,
who had once been pointed out to me in Ximes.
Already the peace of death was upon him; and horror had left no
sign on the shut eyelids and the sealed lips; and there was no
mark on the worn and haggard cheeks, other than that which
might come from the saintly rigor of prolonged austerities. The
man-at-arms who had been struck down by the Beast was
unharmed, though sorely bruised
beneath his mail. He and his fellow stood beside me, saying
naught; and I knew that they had recognized the dead abbot. So,
while the moon grew grey with the nearness of dawn, I made
them swear an awful oath of secrecy, and enjoined them to bear
faithful witness to the statement I must make before the monks
of Perigon. Then, having settled this matter, so that the good
renown of the holy Theophile should rest unharmed, we aroused
the porter and acquainted him with the abbot's lamentable death.
And we told this story, averring that the Beast had come upon us
unaware, and had gained the abbot's cell before we could
prevent it, and had come forth again, carrying Theophile with its
snakish members as if to bear him away to the sunken comet.
Then, by means of a wizard powder, I had routed the unclean
Beast, compelling it to relinquish its prey. And the thing had
vanished in a cloud of sulphurous fire and vapor; but Theophile
had died from the horror of his plight while the Beast was
descending the wall. His death, I said, was a true martyrdom,
and would not be in vain: the Beast would no longer plague the
country or bedevil Perigon, since the use of Hyperborean
powder was a sure exorcism.
This tale was accepted by the Brothers, who grieved mightily for
their good abbot. Indeed, the tale was true enough in its fashion,
for Theophile had been innocent and was wholly ignorant of the
foul change that had come upon him nightly in his cell, and the
deeds that were done by the Beast through his loathfully
transfigured body. Each night the thing had come from the
comet to assuage its hellish hunger; and being otherwise
impalpable and powerless, it had used the abbot for its
energumen, moulding his flesh in the image of some obscene
monster from beyond the stars.
After Theophile's death, the Beast was seen no more in A.; and
the murderous deeds were not repeated. And in time the comet
passed to other heavens, fading slowly; and the black terror it
had wrought became a varying legend, even as all other bygone
things. And they who read this record in future ages will believe
it not, saying that no demon or malign spirit could ever have
prevailed upon true holiness. Indeed, it were well that none
should believe the story: for strange abominations pass-
evermore between earth and moon and athwart the galaxies; and
the gulf is haunted by that which it were madness for man to
know. Unnameable things have come to us in alien horror, and
shall come again. And the evil of the stars is not as the evil of
earth.