The Werewolf Megapack. Александр Дюма
and my soul groaned in its wolfish prison, and the winds and the waters and the trees bade me, ‘Go, search and kill, thou accursed brute; go, search and kill.’
“Nowhere was there pity for the wolf; what mercy, thus, should I, the werewolf, show? The curse was on me and it filled me with a hunger and a thirst for blood. Skulking on my way within myself I cried, ‘Let me have blood, oh, let me have human blood, that this wrath may be appeased, that this curse may be removed.’
“At last I came to the sacred grove. Sombre loomed the poplars, the oaks frowned upon me. Before me stood an old man—’twas he, grizzled and taunting, whose curse I bore. He feared me not. All other living things fled before me, but the old man feared me not. A maiden stood beside him. She did not see me, for she was blind.
“Kill, kill,’ cried the old man, and he pointed at the girl beside him.
“Hell raged within me—the curse impelled me—I sprang at her throat. I heard the old man’s laughter once more, and then—then I awoke, trembling, cold, horrified.”
Scarce was this dream told when Alfred strode that way.
“Now, by’r Lady,” quoth he, “I bethink me never to have seen a sorrier twain.”
Then Yseult told him of Harold’s going away and how that Harold had besought her not to venture to the feast of Ste. Aelfreda in the sacred grove.
“These fears are childish,” cried Alfred boastfully. “And thou sufferest me, sweet lady, I will bear thee company to the feast, and a score of my lusty yeomen with their good yew-bows and honest spears, they shall attend me. There be no werewolf, I trow, will chance about with us.”
Whereat Yseult laughed merrily, and Harold said: “’Tis well; thou shalt go to the sacred grove, and may my love and Heaven’s grace forefend all evil.”
Then Harold went to his abode, and he fetched old Siegfried’s spear back unto Yseult, and he gave it into her two hands, saying, “Take this spear with thee to the feast to-morrow night. It is old Siegfried’s spear, possessing mighty virtue and marvellous.”
And Harold took Yseult to his heart and blessed her, and he kissed her upon her brow and upon her lips, saying, “Farewell, oh, my beloved. How wilt thou love me when thou know’st my sacrifice. Farewell, farewell forever, oh, alder-liefest mine.”
So Harold went his way, and Yseult was lost in wonderment.
On the morrow night came Yseult to the sacred grove wherein the feast was spread, and she bore old Siegfried’s spear with her in her girdle. Alfred attended her, and a score of lusty yeomen were with him. In the grove there was great merriment, and with singing and dancing and games withal did the honest folk celebrate the feast of the fair Ste. Aelfreda.
But suddenly a mighty tumult arose, and there were cries of “The werewolf!” “The werewolf!” Terror seized upon all—stout hearts were frozen with fear. Out from the further forest rushed the werewolf, wood wroth, bellowing hoarsely, gnashing his fangs and tossing hither and thither the yellow foam from his snapping jaws. He sought Yseult straight, as if an evil power drew him to the spot where she stood. But Yseult was not afeared; like a marble statue she stood and saw the werewolf’s coming. The yeomen, dropping their torches and casting aside their bows, had fled; Alfred alone abided there to do the monster battle.
At the approaching wolf he hurled his heavy lance, but as it struck the werewolf’s bristling back the weapon was all to-shivered.
Then the werewolf, fixing his eyes upon Yseult, skulked for a moment in the shadow of the yews and thinking then of Harold’s words, Yseult plucked old Siegfried’s spear from her girdle, raised it on high, and with the strength of despair sent it hurtling through the air.
The werewolf saw the shining weapon, and a cry burst from his gaping throat—a cry of human agony. And Yseult saw in the werewolf’s eyes the eyes of some one she had seen and known, but ’twas for an instant only, and then the eyes were no longer human, but wolfish in their ferocity. A supernatural force seemed to speed the spear in its flight. With fearful precision the weapon smote home and buried itself by half its length in the werewolf’s shaggy breast just above the heart, and then, with a monstrous sigh—as if he yielded up his life without regret—the werewolf fell dead in the shadow of the yews.
Then, ah, then in very truth there was great joy, and loud were the acclaims, while, beautiful in her trembling pallor, Yseult was led unto her home, where the people set about to give great feast to do her homage, for the werewolf was dead, and she it was that had slain him.
But Yseult cried out: “Go, search for Harold—go, bring him to me. Nor eat, nor sleep till he be found.”
“Good my lady,” quoth Alfred, “how can that be, since he hath betaken himself to Normandy?”
“I care not where he be,” she cried. “My heart stands still until I look into his eyes again.”
“Surely he hath not gone to Normandy,” outspake Hubert. “This very eventide I saw him enter his abode.”
They hastened thither—a vast company. His chamber door was barred.
“Harold, Harold, come forth!” they cried, as they beat upon the door, but no answer came to their calls and knockings. Afeared, they battered down the door, and when it fell they saw that Harold lay upon his bed.
“He sleeps,” said one. “See, he holds a portrait in his hand—and it is her portrait. How fair he is and how tranquilly he sleeps.”
But no, Harold was not asleep. His face was calm and beautiful, as if he dreamed of his beloved, but his raiment was red with the blood that streamed from a wound in his breast—a gaping, ghastly spear wound just above his heart.
THE WOLF, by Guy de Maupassant
This is what the old Marquis d’Arville told us after St. Hubert’s dinner at the house of the Baron des Ravels.
We had killed a stag that day. The marquis was the only one of the guests who had not taken part in this chase. He never hunted.
During that long repast we had talked about hardly anything but the slaughter of animals. The ladies themselves were interested in bloody and exaggerated tales, and the orators imitated the attacks and the combats of men against beasts, raised their arms, romanced in a thundering voice.
M. d’Arville talked well, in a certain flowery, high-sounding, but effective style. He must have told this story frequently, for he told it fluently, never hesitating for words, choosing them with skill to make his description vivid.
Gentlemen, I have never hunted, neither did my father, nor my grandfather, nor my great-grandfather. This last was the son of a man who hunted more than all of you put together. He died in 1764. I will tell you the story of his death.
His name was Jean. He was married, father of that child who became my great-grandfather, and he lived with his younger brother, Francois d’Arville, in our castle in Lorraine, in the midst of the forest.
Francois d’Arville had remained a bachelor for love of the chase.
They both hunted from one end of the year to the other, without stopping and seemingly without fatigue. They loved only hunting, understood nothing else, talked only of that, lived only for that.
They had at heart that one passion, which was terrible and inexorable. It consumed them, had completely absorbed them, leaving room for no other thought.
They had given orders that they should not be interrupted in the chase for any reason whatever. My great-grandfather was born while his father was following a fox, and Jean d’Arville did not stop the chase, but exclaimed: “The deuce! The rascal might have waited till after the view—halloo!”
His brother Franqois was still more infatuated. On rising he went to see the dogs, then the horses, then he shot little birds about the castle until the time came to hunt some large game.
In the countryside they were called M. le Marquis and M. le Cadet,