Pierre-Barthélemy Gheusi
Christmas Wolves
Pierre-Barthélemy Gheusi (1865-1943) was French, and this story first appeared as “Le Loups de Noël” in Figaro Illustré, January 1897. Its first appearance in English was in The International [Chicago], December 1897, and it was later reprinted in the May 1940 issue of Weird Tales as “The Red Gibbet.” The translator, credited only as H. Twitchell on this and numerous French stories and books, was Hannah Stackpole Perret-Gentil Twitchell (1851-1942), of Wisconsin.
Toward the close of day the snow ceased falling; the wind suddenly veered into the north, and its gusts cut like blows from a switch. Night fell; the silver light of the winter moon flooded the sky, lit up the ermine helmets of the Vabre and of Baffignac, and was reflected from the ice covered rocks of the gorge which hung over the raging Agout.
Just as the door of a wayside inn opened with a great rattling of chains, and the landlady stepped out on the threshold, a horseman came in sight around a turn in the road, his powerful horse snorting with terror, and stopped in front of the door of the rustic inn. The woman hastily summoned the hostler, while the traveller, dismounting, exclaimed roughly:
“Hallo! here is Joue-en-Fleur! Wine and a fire, my good woman! Tell the boy to give my horse a bountiful supper, and see if he is wounded in the flank.”
“Holy mother!” cried Thiébaude; “how you look, seigneur! Your corselet and sleeves and even the knot on your sword hilt are dyed with blood and dirt!”
“May Astaroth choke every beast of them!” shouted Amalric. “They have ruined my best doublet. And I was dressed for the midnight mass and feast at the château of the Sire de Ferrières! I look more horrible than the Vabre butcher, the terror of all the hogs in the country!”
Angry and crestfallen at the same time, the reister laid his heavy gun on the table, and sat down before the roaring fire, a genuine Christmas fire. Half a dozen carousers, sitting at a table at one end of the room, resumed their interrupted game of cards, whispering timidly to each other; they seemed to stand in awe of the new comer. When his steaming wine was set before him Amalric, of his own accord, related his misadventures to the hostess, who served him with timid deference.
“It is a bright night, to be sure, on account of the moon. But what a road, ventre de lézard! chasms, torrents, precipices, snow drifts, and in the ravines all the wolves in Cevennes, more stubborn and relentless than the Calvinists! When I left Vabre they contented themselves with following me, watching for a misstep on the part of my horse. But near Therondel I had to slacken up a little, for it would have been mortal to gallop fast. Then a famished creature leaped on Argant’s back and I had trouble in getting him off; had to use my dagger! But look at the tourteaux on my doublet! From a distance, one would take me for Guillaume de Montpellier’s herald!”
Some of the players, leaving their game, which lagged for the want of oaths and uproarious mirth, had drawn near the fireside. One of them even ventured to raise his voice and question the formidable reister.
“Monseigneur, do you think it would be imprudent to go to Albignier to-night?”
“You would certainly never reach the end of your journey, whether you went on foot or on horseback. Stay here, if you value your rustic hides; Joue-en-Fleur will say your midnight mass for you.”
“Is your lordship not going to order a battue soon for all these famished beasts?”
“The first one will be called before the Epiphany; all the wolf hunters of the neighborhood will be summoned.”
“But if monseigneur would condescend to put himself at the head of our rabatteurs to-morrow . . .”
“Silence, knave! I hunt with you! See those cowardly faces, Joue-en-Fleur!” exclaimed Amalric with insulting contempt. “Is there a man here who could pass the Red Gibbet at night without dying with fear?”
A thrill of terror passed over the audience; heads dropped; no one replied.
“The Red Gibbet?” said the hostess crossing herself; “but it is . . .”
“Occupied? I know that very well! It was about a week ago—wasn’t it?—that we hung the old witch of la Balme? That old hag who howled every one’s fortune at him, and who practised witchcraft.”
“L’Armassière?” asked Joue-en-Fleur, crossing herself again, and glancing furtively toward the door, which had just opened and closed noiselessly behind the king’s officer.
“Exactly! At this season she will keep fresh for a long time; she will serve as a scarecrow on the Ferrières road. Yesterday Argant shied and nearly threw me into the Agout under the old hag’s hooked nose.”
“Seigneur captain,” said a trembling voice, “I will go to the Red Gibbet!”
The reister started in surprise, and turned fiercely upon the speaker; he was a youth, almost a child, whose large, dark eyes shone out from his pale face with an expression of perfect fearlessness. “Here is a cub of a dangerous sort! Is he a habitual visitor here, Mistress Thiébaude?”
“No, monseigneur.”
“Who is his master? Does any one here know him?”
“We took him in to-night for the first time,” stammered Thiébaude, under the compelling influence of the boy’s magnetic glance. “We never saw him before.”
“Come here, my bold fellow. Where do you hail from?”
“From the forest of Montagnole.”
“But before that?”
“From the caves of Anglés.”
“Where did you get that hang-dog look? Have you been poaching a little on our lands?”
“I have no other trade, captain.” At this unexpected reply, so quietly made, a stupor fell upon all in the room; Amalric himself was disarmed by the boy’s audacity.
“Ventre-Mahon!” he growled, half laughing and half angry; “you shall enter my service. My war page let himself get hung at La Salvetat. Do you want his place? But braggart, will you really go to the Red Gibbet to-night?”
“I will.”
“Alone?”
“Alone.”
“How shall I know it?”
“I will await you there, since you are to pass that way in an hour.”
“The wolves will leave nothing of you but your carcass.”
“You might lend me your gun.”
“So you know how to handle that plaything, do you? Let me see you shoulder it, you rascal.”
The vagabond smiled confidently; with the dexterity of an old soldier he grasped the heavy weapon; to the officer’s surprise he rapidly unloaded it, then reloaded it, all the accessories being so manifestly familiar that Amalric could not help showing his admiration.
“If you shoot the gun as well as you load it,” he exclaimed, “it would not be pleasant to be your target! At forty paces you must be able to blow the kernel out of a nut, or the brains out of a trespasser.”
“Easily, monseigneur.”
“And at the first shot you can bring down the most nimble game, I’ll wager.”
“Dozens of your hares would bear witness to that, monseigneur,” replied the young poacher, strangely bent on a provocation as impudent as it was uncalled for. This was the master-stroke. The drinkers exchanged glances of consternation and terror at the furious expression on the face of the Seigneur de Vabre.
“Serpent!” he shouted. “You shall join the old woman on the Red Gibbet, with a cravat of hemp just like hers!” He rose and stood threateningly over the boy, who made no effort to avoid the soldier’s raised fist. Amalric paused in astonishment at this defiance. “Why do you confess that to me, you robber?” he asked at length, pleased at such courage. “I like brave hearts; you suit me perfectly. Here is the gun; wait for me out there. If the wolves press you too hard climb up on the crossbar of the gallows; the old woman will keep you company. I’ll warrant that she’ll not be talkative, but if her presence annoys you, send her into the Agout with a kick!”
The boy became livid; his lips trembled, and his eyes fairly blazed. He grasped the gun offered him, and without a word slipped out into the clear, frosty night.
“By Hercules!” cried Amalric, “there is a man for you, you cowards! That is what I call having a heart in one’s breast and blood in one’s veins.”
One of the peasants now ventured a reply which alarmed the adventurous cavalier. “To be sure, seigneur! But there is also a Spanish musket which you will probably never again see on your gun rack.”
“What do you mean? Do you think that that rascal . . . ?”
“It was a clever way for him to get firearms. At any rate, the gun is in good hands, as your wild boars will know to their cost a dozen times before Epiphany.”
Convinced of his credulity, Amalric swore like a pagan. But where could he go to search for the robber? He drank his warm wine, and no one dared risk exasperating him further. When he was well warmed he wrapped his dark cloak about him, leaped into his saddle and rode away in the moonlight. Reassured by his departure, the other guests resumed their carousing, while Thiébaude anxiously listened for sounds outside, as if she were expecting something to happen.
Amalric rode along at a good pace over the snow already hardened by the intense cold. The moon shone brightly in the pale sky. The roaring and rushing of water rang out in the stillness of the frosty air as the Agout flowed rapidly along. The mournful, continuous howling of wolves, repeated by the echoes of the mountain, sounded like a lament over the buried landscape. Argant, who had not recovered from the hurt received from the Therondel wolf, shied at every isolated bush and every dark turn in the road. Guided by a hand of iron, he fairly flew along the dangerous declivities bordering the precipices.
Being unarmed Amalric anxiously scanned the dark hedges among which the road wound about on the mountain side. To reassure himself he whistled the strains of an old Venetian march, not without a multitude of false notes, however. His horse, growing more and more excited, would certainly have broken the neck of the musician if the latter had persisted in his efforts.
To repress the impatience which devoured him, the captain next evoked the images of the two ladies he was soon to meet; one was a beautiful blonde of the Flemish type, the other a charming brunette. With these two noble dames he was to take communion this Christmas Eve, and afterward feast at the board of the opulent d’Azais de Ferrières, the greatest baron in the country. With soldierly stupidity he repeated to himself the gallant remarks which he intended to address to these beauties; he had learned them for the purpose from the Senechal de Castres, who made pretensions to being a wit and who was much better equipped with platitudes than with ideas.
In spite of his application, Amalric could with difficulty recall the vision of the two profiles. In their place all his misdeeds—hangings without trials, rapines and violences—rose before him like so many ghosts. To his summary way of dealing with offenders—freed as he was from all control, by the isolation of his estate and the troubles of the epoch—the gallows which dotted the highways for leagues around bore witness.
Recently the sorceress of la Balme had predicted that he would hang from the last gibbet he had constructed on the Ferrières road, and he had summarily hung her to the tree, without any fear of her supernatural prowess.
He certainly would not die by hanging, he, the brave soldier whose glance alone terrorized the mountaineers of the region. But he was not so sure that some fine winter’s night, during one of his frequent expeditions, always for a wicked purpose, an ambuscade of exasperated peasants would not leave his lifeless body by the wayside. And what a sinister night the present one was; how thoughtlessly he had allowed himself to be disarmed by a poacher, a mere child at that! A thrill of fear passed over him. As he rode around a turn in the road the Red Gibbet loomed up before him.
An exclamation escaped the reister’s lips as he recognized the vagabond of Luzières perched on the ghostly tree, the moonlight reflecting from the shining metal of the gun he held in his hands! He had not for a moment thought the boy would keep his word; the surprise he felt was mingled with joy at the thought of not being alone in the icy waste.
“So you are here!” he exclaimed. “A brute of a peasant back there took you for a thief; you might shoot him, for practice at large animals. Well, it is settled then. You are to be my page and the first arquebusier of my company. Has my musket been of use to you in keeping off the wolves?”
“Not yet, monseigneur,” replied the boy trembling, with cold, doubtless.
“Were there no beasts on the road?”
“There were many, monseigneur, with eyes like blazing furnaces. They followed me without daring to touch me; I walked along singing at the top of my voice, and beating the measure with the click of the musket.”
“An excellent way to keep the bullies at bay; a shot would have been better, however.”
“I saved that for a better enterprise.”
“What?”
“You shall see, monseigneur.”
“You must have been cold on your picturesque perch; you should have warmed yourself up by giving the brutes a taste of saltpetre and lead.”
The boy now descended and walked slowly toward the captain. “I could not hit the wolf I wanted to kill.”
“Which one was it?” questioned Amalric, and he looked around expecting to see the blazing eyes of some beast.
“A very large one, which I do not want to miss,” replied the strange boy.
A gust of wind cut the captain’s face so sharply that he swore a great oath and exclaimed: “Jump on behind and we will go. I will take you to Ferrières since you are henceforth to be in my service; if I leave you here, nothing will be left of you by to-morrow. If the old he wolf you have your eye on comes near I give you permission to dispatch him at once.”
“Let him die then!” exclaimed Amalric’s page, taking sudden aim at his master. A sharp detonation broke the silence of the night. The reister, struck in the heart, fell heavily in the snow.
The boy grasped Argant’s bridle and fastened it securely to a strong root. With granite firmness he climbed up to the gibbet. Leaning out over the gulf he uncoiled a rope which was wound around his waist, and tried to fasten it to the body hanging there, and draw it toward him. As he worked he murmured:
“You have been avenged, grandmother, and you shall be buried in consecrated ground. I told Thiébaude this night that you would be avenged before the dawn!”
But even as he spoke the body of the woman which had been exposed so long to the cold and storm dropped to pieces, and, falling from rock to rock, at last disappeared in the tumultuous waters of the Agout.
At that moment a bell rang out not far away; its clear music resounded through the still air like a prayer winging its flight above. Other bronze voices replied in the distance celebrating that Nativity which promises to the humble blessings to be realized, and to the wicked a chastisement for their iniquities. The vagabond, leaning over the gulf, made the august sign of redemption; then descending he went up to the body of the soldier, which was already stiff, and regarded it with a look of bitter hatred.
Approaching howls warned him to hasten with his task. He dragged the body to the gibbet, and, by means of a slipknot, drew it up to the beam lately occupied by the other corpse. It swayed to and fro in a sort of funereal dance in the moonlight; the gibbet creaked, and a pack of hungry wolves rushed out from the hedges, attracted by the scent of blood.
Crazed with terror, Argant kicked vigorously at his agile foes. One of them had already sprung into the saddle and was about to close his jaws on the charger’s neck, but swinging the heavy musket around, the boy broke the beast’s back with a terrific blow; then springing upon the horse he gave his life into the keeping of the terrified animal’s instinct. The noble creature sped away like an arrow toward Luzières, followed by a pack of howling wolves; the captain’s body swayed in the moonlight, while the silvery bells at Fernières sent their joyous Christmas peals down through the echoing valley.