Gates of Imagination presents: "The
End of the Story" by Clark Ashton Smith. Read by Josh Greenwood.
The following narrative was found among the papers of Christophe Morand,
a young law-student of Tours, after his unaccountable disappearance during a visit at his
father’s home near Moulins, in November, 1798. A sinister brownish-purple autumn twilight,
made premature by the imminence of a sudden thunderstorm, had filled the forest of Averoigne.
The trees along my road were already blurred t
o ebon masses, and the road itself, pale and
spectral before me in the thickening gloom, seemed to waver and quiver slightly, as with
the tremor of some mysterious earthquake. I spurred my horse, who was woefully tired with
a journey begun at dawn, and had fallen hours ago to a protesting and reluctant trot, and
we galloped adown the darkening road between enormous oaks that seemed to lean toward us
with boughs like clutching fingers as we passed. With dreadful rapidity, the night was upon
us,
the blackness became a tangible clinging veil; a nightmare confusion and desperation drove me
to spur my mount again with a more cruel rigor; and now, as we went, the first far-off mutter of
the storm mingled with the clatter of my horse’s hoofs, and the first lightning flashes illumed
our way, which, to my amazement (since I believed myself on the main highway through Averoigne), had
inexplicably narrowed to a well-trodden footpath. Feeling sure that I had gone astray, but not
caring
to retrace my steps in the teeth of darkness and the towering clouds of the tempest,
I hurried on, hoping, as seemed reasonable, that a path so plainly worn would lead
eventually to some house or chateau. where I could find refuge for the night. My hope was
wellfounded, for within a few minutes I descried a glimmering light through the forest-boughs,
and came suddenly to an open glade, where, on a gentle eminence, a large building loomed,
with several litten windows in the lower story, and
a top that was well-nigh indistinguishable
against the bulks of driven cloud. “Doubtless a monastery,” I thought, as I drew
rein, and descending from my exhausted mount, lifted the heavy brazen knocker in the form of a
dog’s head and let it fall on the oaken door. The sound was unexpectedly loud and sonorous,
with a reverberation almost sepulchral, and I shivered involuntarily, with a sense
of startlement, of unwonted dismay. This, a moment later, was wholly dissipated when the
door was th
rown open and a tall, ruddyfeatured monk stood before me in the cheerful glow of
the cressets that illumed a capacious hallway. “I bid you welcome to the abbey of Perigon,” he
said, in a suave rumble, and even as he spoke, another robed and hooded figure appeared and took
my horse in charge. As I murmured my thanks and acknowledgments, the storm broke and tremendous
gusts of rain, accompanied by evernearing peals of thunder, drove with demoniac fury
on the door that had closed behind me. “I
t is fortunate that you found us
when you did,” observed my host. “Twere ill for man and beast to
be abroad in such a hell-brew.” Divining without question that I was hungry as
well as tired, he led me to the refectory and set before me a bountiful meal of mutton, brown
bread, lentils and a strong excellent red wine. He sat opposite me at the refectory table while
I ate, and, with my hunger a little mollifed, I took occasion to scan him more attentively.
He was both tall and stoutly built,
and his features, where the brow was
no less broad than the powerful jaw, betokened intellect as well as a love for good
living. A certain delicacy and refinement, an air of scholarship, of good taste
and good breeding, emanated from him, and I thought to myself: “This monk is probably
a connoisseur of books as well as of wines.” Doubtless my expression betrayed the quickening
of my curiosity, for he said, as if in answer: “I am Hilaire, the abbot of Perigon. We are a
Benedictine order, w
ho 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 district of Averoigne. And, if such things interest you, as mayhap they do, we have
a library that is stocked with rare tomes, with precious manuscripts, with the finest
works of heathendom and Christendom, even to certain unique writings
that
survived the holocaust of Alexandria.” “I appreciate your hospitality,” I said,
bowing. “I am Christophe Morand, a law-student, on my way home from Tours to my father’s estate
near Moulins. I, too, am a lover of books, and nothing would delight me more than the
privilege of inspecting a library so rich and curious as the one whereof you speak.”
Forthwith, while I finished my meal, we fell to discussing the classics, and to
quoting and capping passages from Latin, Greek or Christian au
thors. My host, I soon
discovered, was a scholar of uncommon attainments, with an erudition, a ready familiarity with
both ancient and modern literature that made my own seem as that of the merest beginner by
comparison. He, on his part, was so good as to commend my far from perfect Latin, and by
the time I had emptied my bottle of red wine we were chatting familiarly like old friends.
All my fatigue had now flown, to be succeeded by a rare sense of well-being, of physical comfort
combined
with mental alertness and keenness. So, when the abbot suggested that we pay a visit
to the library, I assented with alacrity. He led me down a long corridor, on each side of
which were cells belonging to the brothers of the order, and unlocked, with a huge brazen key that
depended from his girdle, the door of a great room with lofty ceiling and several deep-set windows.
Truly, he had not exaggerated the resources of the library; for the long shelves were overcrowded
with books, and many vo
lumes were piled high on the tables or stacked in corners. There were rolls
of papyrus, of parchment, of vellum; there were strange Byzantine or Coptic bibles; there were
old Arabic and Persian manuscripts with floriated or jewel-studded covers; there were scores of
incunabula from the first printing-presses; there were innumerable monkish copies of
antique authors, bound in wood or ivory, with rich illuminations and lettering
that was often in itself a work of art. With a care that was bot
h loving and meticulous,
the abbot Hilaire brought out volume after volume for my inspection. Many of them I had never
seen before; some were unknown to me even by fame or rumor. My excited interest, my
unfeigned enthusiasm, evidently pleased him, for at length he pressed a hidden spring in one
of the library tables and drew out a long drawer, in which, he told me, were certain treasures
that he did not care to bring forth for the edification or delectation of many, and whose
very existenc
e was undreamed of by the monks. “Here,” he continued, “are three odes by Catullus
which you will not find in any published edition of his works. Here, also, is an original
manuscript of Sappho — a complete copy of a poem otherwise extant only in brief fragments;
here are two of the lost tales of Miletus, a letter of Perides to Aspasia, an unknown
dialogue of Plato and an old Arabian work on astronomy, by some anonymous author, in which
the theories of Copernicus are anticipated. And, lastl
y, here is the somewhat infamous Histoire
d’Amour, by Bernard de Vaillantcoeur, which was destroyed immediately upon publication, and of
which only one other copy is known to exist.” As I gazed with mingled awe and curiosity on
the unique, unheard-of treasures he displayed, I saw in one corner of the drawer
what appeared to be a thin volume with plain untitled binding of dark
leather. I ventured to pick it up, and found that it contained a few sheets of
closely written manuscript in old Fr
ench. “And this?” I queried, turning
to look at Hilaire, whose face, to my amazement, had suddenly assumed
a melancholy and troubled expression. “It were better not to ask, my son.”
He crossed himself as he spoke, and his voice was no longer mellow, but
harsh, agitated, full of a sorrowful perturbation. “There is a curse on the pages
that you hold in your hand: an evil spell, a malign power is attached to them, and he who
would venture to peruse them is henceforward in dire peril both of b
ody and soul.” He
took the little volume from me as he spoke, and returned it to the drawer, again
crossing himself carefully as he did so. “But, father,” I dared to expostulate, “how can such things be? How can there be
danger in a few written sheets of parchment?” “Christophe, there are things beyond your
understanding, things that it were not well for you to know. The might of Satan is manifestable in
devious modes, in diverse manners; there are other temptations than those of the world
and the flesh,
there are evils no less subtle than irresistible, there are hidden heresies, and necromancies
other than those which sorcerers practise.” “With what, then, are these pages
concerned, that such occult peril, such unholy power lurks within them?” “I forbid you to ask.” His
tone was one of great rigor, with a finality that dissuaded
me from further questioning. “For you, my son,” he went on, “the danger would
be doubly great, because you are young, ardent, full of desires and c
uriosities. Believe me,
it is better to forget that you have ever seen this manuscript.” He closed the hidden drawer,
and as he did so, the melancholy troubled look was replaced by his former benignity.
“Now,” he said, as he turned to one of the book-shelves, “I will show you the
copy of Ovid that was owned by the poet Petrarch.” He was again the mellow scholar,
the kindly, jovial host, and it was evident that the mysterious manuscript was not to be
referred to again. But his odd perturbati
on, the dark and awful hints he had let fall, the
vague terrific terms of his proscription, had all served to awaken my wildest curiosity, and,
though I felt the obsession to be unreasonable, I was quite unable to think of anything else for the
rest of the evening. All manner of speculations, fantastic, absurd, outrageous, ludicrous,
terrible, defiled through my brain as I duly admired the incunabula which Hilaire took down
so tenderly from the shelves for my delectation. At last, toward mi
dnight, he led me to my room
— a room especially reserved for visitors, and with more of comfort, of actual luxury in its
hangings, carpets and deeply quilted bed than was allowable in the cells of the monks or of the
abbot himself. Even when Hilaire had withdrawn, and I had proved for my satisfaction the softness
of the bed allotted me, my brain still whirled with questions concerning the forbidden
manuscript. Though the storm had now ceased, it was long before I fell asleep; but slumber,
when it finally came, was dreamless and profound. When I awoke, a river of sunshine clear as molten
gold was pouring through my wmdow. The storm had wholly vanished, and no lightest tatter of
cloud was visible anywhere in the pale-blue October heavens. I ran to the window and peered
out on a world of autumnal forest and fields all a-sparkle with the diamonds of rain. All was
beautiful, all was idyllic to a degree that could be fully appreciated only by one who had lived for
a long time, as
I had, within the walls of a city, with towered buildings in lieu of trees and
cobbled pavements where grass should be. But, charming as it was, the foreground held my gaze
only for a few moments; then, beyond the tops of the trees, I saw a hill, not more than a mile
distant, on whose summit there stood the ruins of some old chateau, the crumbling, brokendown
condition of whose walls and towers was plainly visible. It drew my gaze irresistibly, with
an overpowering sense of romantic attrac
tion, which somehow seemed so natural, so inevitable,
that I did not pause to analyze or wonder; and once having seen it, I could not take
my eyes away, but lingering at the window for how long I knew not, scrutinizing as closely
as I could the details of each timeshaken turret and bastion. Some undefinable fascination
was inherent in the very form, the extent, the disposition of the pile — some fascination not
dissimilar to that exerted by a strain of music, by a magical combination of wor
ds in poetry,
by the features of a beloved face. Gazing, I lost myself in reveries that I could not recall
afterward, but which left behind them the same tantalizing sense of innominable delight which
forgotten nocturnal dreams may sometimes leave. I was recalled to the actualities of life by
a gentle knock at my door, and realized that I had forgotten to dress myself. It was the abbot,
who came to inquire how I had passed the night, and to tell me that breakfast was ready whenever
I shoul
d care to arise. For some reason, I felt a little embarrassed, even shamefaced, to
have been caught day-dreaming; and though this was doubtless unnecessary, I apologized for my
dilatoriness. Hilaire, I thought, gave me a keen, inquiring look, which was quickly withdrawn,
as, with the suave courtesy of a good host, he assured me that there was nothing
whatever for which I need apologize. When I had breakfast, I told Hilaire, with many
expressions of gratitude for his hospitality, that it was
time for me to resume my journey. But
his regret at the announcement of my departure was so unfeigned, his invitation to tarry for at
least another night was so genuinely hearty, so sincerely urgent, that I consented to
remain. In truth, I required no great amount of solicitation, for, apart from the real
liking I had taken to Hilaire, the mystery of the forbidden manuscript had entirely enslaved
my imagination, and I was loth to leave without having learned more concerning it. Also, for a
youth with scholastic leanings, the freedom of the abbot’s library was a rare privilege, a
precious opportunity not to be passed over. “I should like,” I said, “to pursue
certain studies while I am here, with the aid of your incomparable collection.” “My son, you are more than welcome to remain for
any length of time, and you can have access to my books whenever it suits your need or inclination.”
So saying, Hilaire detached the key of the library from his girdle and gave it to me. “There
are
duties,” he went on, “which will call me away from the monastery for a few hours today, and
doubtless you will desire to study in my absence.” A little later, he excused himself and departed.
With inward felicitations on the longed-for opportunity that had fallen so readily into
my hands, I hastened to the library, with no thought save to read the proscribed manuscript.
Giving scarcely a glance at the laden shelves, I sought the table with the secret drawer,
and fumbled for the spring.
After a little anxious delay, I pressed the proper spot
and drew forth the drawer. An impulsion that had become a veritable obsession, a fever
of curiosity that bordered upon actual madness, drove me, and if the safety of my soul had really
depended upon it, I could not have denied the desire which forced me to take from the drawer
the thin volume with plain unlettered binding. Seating myself in a chair near one of
the windows, I began to peruse the pages, which were only six in number. Th
e writing was
peculiar, with letter-forms of a fantasticality I had never met before, and the French was
not only old but well-night barbarous in its quaint singularity. Notwithstanding the
difficulty I found in deciphering them, a mad, unaccountable thrill ran through me
at the first words, and I read on with all the sensations of a man who had been bewitched or
who had drunken a philtre of bewildering potency. There was no title, no date, and the writing
was a narrative which began almos
t as abruptly as it ended. It 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
valor, as well as a true Christian; so, in the name of our Savior, 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 wit
h 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 cryp
tic
caverns of earth, in places far 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 a
lways 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 followed an old, halfobliterated 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
(said 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 t
he courtyard. There, directly between and below the two centermost
windows, which, it may be, looked forth from the chamber of forgotten chatelaines, 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, Gerard 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 Averoigne, where the wedding had been set. And from that
time his face was beheld by no man, and no vaguest rumor of Gerard de Venteillon or of the fate that
befell him has ever passed among the living... Such was the substance of the forbidden
manuscript, and thus it ended. As I have said before, there was no date, nor was there
anything to
indicate by whom it had been written or how the knowledge of the happenings related
had come into the writer’s possession. But, oddly enough, it did not occur to me
to doubt their veridity for a moment; and the curiosity I had felt concerning the
contents of the manuscript was now replaced by a burning desire, a thousandfold more powerful,
more obsessive, to know the ending of the story and to learn what Gerard de Venteillon had
found when he descended the hidden steps. In reading the tale,
it had of course occurred
to me that the ruins of the Chateau des Faussesflammes, described therein, were the very
same ruins I had seen that morning from my chamber window; and pondering this, I became more and
more possessed by an insane fever, by a frenetic, unholy excitement. Returning the manuscript to the
secret drawer, I left the library and wandered for awhile in an aimless fashion about the corridors
of the monastery. Chancing to meet there the same monk who had taken my horse in
charge the
previous evening, I ventured to question him, as discreetly and casually as I could, regarding the
ruins which were visible from the abbey windows. He crossed himself, and a frightened look
came over his broad, placid face at my query. “The ruins are those of the Chateau des
Faussesflammes,” he replied. “For untold years, men say, they have been the haunt of unholy
spirits, of witches and demons; and festivals not to be described or even named are held
within their walls. No wea
pon known to man, no 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; and once, it is told, an abbot of Perigon went
thither to make war on the powers of evil; but what befell him at the hands of the
succubi is not known or conjectured. Some say that the demons are abominable hags
whose bodies terminate in serpentine coils; others that they are women of more than mortal
beau
ty, whose kisses are a diabolic delight that consumes the flesh of men with the fierceness
of hell-fire... As for me, I know not whether such tales are true; but I should not care to
venture within the walls of Faussesflammes.” Before he had finished speaking, a resolve had
sprung to life full-born in my mind: I felt that I must go to the Chateau des Faussesflammes and
learn for myself, if possible, all that could be learned. The impulse was immediate, overwhelming,
ineluctable; and even if
I had so desired, I could no more have fought against it than if I had
been the victim of some sorcerer’s invultuation. The proscription of the abbot Hilaire, the
strange unfinished tale in the old manuscript, the evil legendry at which the monk had now hinted
— all these, it would seem, should have served to frighten and deter me from such a resolve; but,
on the contrary, by some bizarre inversion of thought, they seemed to conceal some delectable
mystery, to denote a hidden world of inef
fable things, of vague undreamable pleasures that
set my brain on fire and made my pulses throb deliriously. I did not know, I could not conceive,
of what these pleasures would consist; but in some mystical manner I was as sure of their ultimate
reality as the abbot Hilaire was sure of heaven. I determined to go that very afternoon, in the absence of Hilaire, who, I felt
instinctively, might be suspicious of any such intention on my part and would
surely be inimical toward its fulfillment.
My preparations were very simple: I put in my
pockets a small taper from my room and the heel of a loaf of bread from the refectory; and making
sure that a little dagger which I always carried was in its sheath, I left the monastery forthwith.
Meeting two of the brothers in the courtyard, I told them I was going for a short walk
in the neighboring woods. They gave me a jovial ‘pax vobiscum’ and went upon
their way in the spirit of the words. Heading directly as I could for Faussesflammes,
whose turrets were often lost behind the high and interlacing boughs, I entered the forest.
There were no paths, and often I was compelled to brief detours and divagations by the thickness
of the underbrush. In my feverous hurry to reach the ruins, it seemed hours before I came to the
top of the hill which Faussesflammes surmounted, but probably it was little more than thirty
minutes. Climbing the last declivity of the boulder-strewn slope, I came suddenly within
view of the chateau, standi
ng close at hand in the center of the level table which formed the
summit. Trees had taken root in its broken-down walls, and the ruinous gateway that gave on the
courtyard was half-choked by bushes, brambles and nettle-plants. Forcing my way through, not without
difficulty, and with clothing that had suffered from the bramblethorns, I went, like Gerard de
Venteillon in the old manuscript, to the northern end of the court. Enormous evil-looking weeds were
rooted between the flagstones, rear
ing their thick and fleshy leaves that had turned to dull sinister
maroons and purples with the onset of autumn. But I soon found the triangular flagstone indicated
in the tale, and without the slightest delay or hesitation I pressed upon it with my right foot.
A mad shiver, a thrill of adventurous triumph that was mingled with something of trepidation,
leaped through me when the great flagstone tilted easily beneath my foot, disclosing dark steps of
granite, even as in the story. Now, for a
moment, the vaguely hinted horrors of the monkish
legends became imminently real in my imagination, and I paused before the black opening that
was to engulf me, wondering if some satanic spell had not drawn me thither to perils of
unknown terror and inconceivable gravity. Only for a few instants, however, did I
hesitate. Then the sense of peril faded, the monkish horrors became a fantastic dream, and the charm of things unformulable, but ever
closer at hand, always more readily attainable,
tightened about me like the embrace of amorous
arms. I lit my taper, I descended the stair; and even as behind Gerard de Venteillon, the
triangular block of stone silently resumed its place in the paving of the court above me.
Doubtless it was moved by some mechanism operable by a man’s weight on one of the steps; but I
did not pause to consider its modus operandi, or to wonder if there were any way by which it
could be worked from beneath to permit my return. There were perhaps a dozen st
eps, terminating
in a low, narrow, musty vault that was void of anything more substantial than ancient,
dust-encumbered cobwebs. At the end, a small doorway admitted me to a second vault
that differed from the first only in being larger and dustier. I passed through several such vaults,
and then found myself in a long passage or tunnel, half blocked in places by boulders or heaps
of rubble that had fallen from the crumbling sides. It was very damp, and full of the noisome
odor of stagnant
waters and subterranean mold. My feet splashed more than once in little pools,
and drops fell upon me from above, fetid and foul as if they had oozed from a charnel. Beyond the
wavering circle of light that my taper maintained, it seemed to me that the coils of dim and shadowy
serpents slithered away in the darkness at my approach; but I could not be sure whether they
really were serpents, or only the troubled and retreating shadows, seen by an eye that was
still unaccustomed to the gloom o
f the vaults. Rounding a sudden turn in the passage, I saw the
last thing I had dreamt of seeing — the gleam of sunlight at what was apparently the tunnel’s
end. I scarcely know what I had expected to find, but such an eventuation was somehow altogether
unanticipated. I hurried on, in some confusion of thought, and stumbled through the opening, to
find myself blinking in the full rays of the sun. Even before I had sufficiently recovered
my wits and my eyesight to take note of the landscape
before me, I was struck by a strange
circumstance: Though it had been early afternoon when I entered the vaults, and though my passage
through them could have been a matter of no more than a few minutes, the sun was now nearing the
horizon. There was also a difference in its light, which was both brighter and mellower
than the sun I had seen above Averoigne; and the sky itself was intensely
blue, with no hint of autumnal pallor. Now, with ever-increasing stupefaction, I stared
about me, an
d could find nothing familiar or even credible in the scene upon which I had
emerged. Contrary to all reasonable expectation, there was no semblance of the hill upon which
Faussesflammes stood, or of the adjoining country; but around me was a placid land of rolling
meadows, through which a golden-gleaming river meandered toward a sea of deepest azure that
was visible beyond the tops of laureltrees... But there are no laurel-trees in Averoigne,
and the sea is hundreds of miles away: judge, t
hen, my complete confusion and dumbfoundment.
It was a scene of such loveliness as I have never before beheld. The meadow-grass at my feet was
softer and more lustrous than emerald velvet, and was full of violets and many-colored
asphodels. The dark green of ilex-trees was mirrored in the golden river, and far away I
saw the pale gleam of a marble acropolis on a low summit above the plain. All things bore the aspect
of a mild and clement spring that was verging upon an opulent summer. I felt
as if I had stepped
into a land of classic myth, of Grecian legend; and moment by moment, all surprise, all wonder
as to how I could have come there, was drowned in a sense of ever-growing ecstasy before
the utter, ineffable beauty of the landscape. Near by, in a laurel-grove, a white roof shone in
the late rays of the sun. I was drawn toward it by the same allurement, only far more potent and
urgent, which I had felt on seeing the forbidden manuscript and the ruins of Faussesflammes.
Her
e, I knew with an esoteric certainty, was the culmination of my quest, the reward
of all my mad and perhaps impious curiosity. As I entered the grove, I heard laughter
among the trees, blending harmoniously with the low murmur of their leaves in a
soft, balmy wind. I thought I saw vague forms that melted among the boles at my
approach; and once a shaggy, goat-like creature with human head and body ran across
my path, as if in pursuit of a flying nymph. In the heart of the grove, I found a m
arble place
with a portico of Doric columns. As I neared it, I was greeted by two women in the costume of ancient
slaves; and though my Greek is of the meagerest, I found no difficulty in comprehending
their speech, which was of Attic purity. “Our mistress, Nycea, awaits you,” they told
me. I could no longer marvel at anything, but accepted my situation without question
or surmise, like one who resigns himself to the progress of some delightful dream.
Probably, I thought, it was a dream, a
nd I was still lying in my bed at the monastery;
but never before had I been favored by nocturnal visions of such clarity and surpassing
loveliness. The interior of the palace was full of a luxury that verged upon the barbaric,
and which evidently belonged to the period of Greek decadence, with its intermingling
of Oriental influences. I was led through a hallway gIeaming with onyx and polished
porphyry, into an opulently furnished room, where, on a couch of gorgeous fabrics, there
recline
d a woman of goddess-like beauty. At sight of her, I trembled from head to foot
with the violence of a strange emotion. I had heard of the sudden mad loves by which men
are seized on beholding for the first time a certain face and form; but never before had
I experienced a passion of such intensity, such all-consuming ardor, as the one I
conceived immediately for this woman. Indeed, it seemed as if I had loved her for a long time,
without knowing that it was she whom I loved, and without be
ing able to identify the nature of
my emotion or to orient the feeling in any manner. She was not tall, but was formed with exquisite
voluptuous purity of line and contour. Her eyes were of a dark sapphire blue, with molten depths
into which the soul was fain to plunge as into the soft abysses of a summer ocean. The curve
of her lips was enigmatic, a little mournful, and gravely tender as the lips of an antique
Venus. Her hair, brownish rather than blond, fell over her neck and ears and for
ehead in
delicious ripples confined by a plain fillet of silver. In her expression, there was a mixture of
pride and voluptuousness, of regal imperiousness and feminine yielding. Her movements were all as
effortless and graceful as those of a serpent. “I knew you would come,” she murmured in the
same softvoweled Greek I had heard from the lips of her servants. “I have waited for you
long; but when you sought refuge from the storm in the abbey of Perigon, and saw the manuscript
in the secre
t drawer, I knew that the hour of your arrival was at hand. Ah! you did not dream
that the spell which drew you so irresistibly, with such unaccountable potency, was the spell
of my beauty, the magical allurement of my love!” “Who are you?” I queried. I spoke readily in
Greek, which would have surprised me greatly an hour before. But now, I was prepared to accept
anything whatever, no matter how fantastic or preposterous, as part of the miraculous fortune,
the unbelievable adventure which h
ad befallen me. “I am Nycea,” she replied
to my question. “I love you, and the hospitality of my palace and of my arms
is at your disposal. Need you know anything more?” The slaves had disappeared. I flung myself beside
the couch and kissed the hand she offered me, pouring out protestations that were no doubt
incoherent, but were nevertheless full of an ardor that made her smile tenderly. Her hand was cool to
my lips, but the touch of it fired my passion. I ventured to seat myself beside he
r on the couch,
and she did not deny my familiarity. While a soft purple twilight began to fill the corners of
the chamber, we conversed happily, saying over and over again all the sweet absurd litanies, all
the felicitous nothings that come instinctively to the lips of lovers. She was incredibly soft
in my arms, and it seemed almost as if the completeness of her yielding was unhindered
by the presence of bones in her lovely body. The servants entered noiselessly, lighting
rich lamps of in
tricately carven gold, and setting before us a meal of spicy meats,
of unknown savorous fruits and potent wines. But I could eat little, and while I drank, I
thirsted for the sweeter wine of Nycea’s mouth. I do not know when we fell asleep; but
the evening had flown like an enchanted moment. Heavy with felicity, I drifted
off on a silken tide of drowsiness, and the golden lamps and the face of Nycea
blurred in a blissful mist and were seen no more. Suddenly, from the depths of a slumber bey
ond
all dreams, I found myself compelled into full wakefulness. For an instant, I did not
even realize where I was, still less what had aroused me. Then I heard a footfall in the
open doorway of the room, and peering across the sleeping head of Nycea, saw in the lamplight the
abbot Hilaire, who had paused on the threshold, A look of absolute horror was imprinted upon his
face, and as he caught sight of me, he began to gibber in Latin, in tones where something of
fear was blended with fanat
ical abhorrence and hatred. I saw that he carried in his hands a
large bottle and an aspergillus. I felt sure that the bottle was full of holy water, and of
course divined the use for which it was intended. Looking at Nycea, I saw that she too was
awake, and knew that she was aware of the abbot’s presence. She gave me a strange
smile, in which I read an affectionate pity, mingled with the reassurance that
a woman offers a frightened child. “Do not fear for me,” she whispered. “Foul vampire!
accursed lamia! she-serpent of
hell!” thundered the abbot suddenly, as he crossed the threshold of the room, raising the aspergillus
aloft. At the same moment, Nycea glided from the couch, with an unbelievable swiftness of motion,
and vanished through an outer door that gave upon the forest of laurels. Her voice hovered in my
ear, seeming to come from an immense distance: “Farewell for awhile, Christophe. But have no fear. You shall find me again
if you are brave and patient.” As the words
ended, the holy water from the
aspergillus fell on the floor of the chamber and on the couch where Nycea had lain beside
me. There was a crash as of many thunders, and the golden lamps went out in a
darkness that seemed full of falling dust, of raining fragments. I lost all
consciousness, and when I recovered, I found myself lying on a heap of rubble in one
of the vaults I had traversed earlier in the day. With a taper in his hand, and an expression of
great solicitude, of infinite pity u
pon his face, Hilaire was stooping over me. Beside him
lay the bottle and the dripping aspergillus. “I thank God, my son, that I found
you in good time,” he said. “When I returned to the abbey this evening
and learned that you were gone, I surmised all that had happened. I knew you
had read the accursed manuscript in my absence, and had fallen under its baleful spell, as have
so many others, even to a certain reverend abbot, one of my predecessors. All of them, alas!
beginning hundreds of
years ago with Gerard de Venteillon, have fallen victims to
the lamia who dwells in these vaults.” “The lamia?” I questioned,
hardly comprehending his words. “Yes, my son, the beautiful Nycea who lay in your
arms this night is a lamia, an ancient vampire, who maintains in these noisome vaults her
palace of beatific illusions. How she came to take up her abode at Faussesflammes is not
known, for her coming antedates the memory of men. She is old as paganism; the Greeks knew
her; she was exo
rcised by Apollonius of Tyana; and if you could behold her as she really is,
you would see, in lieu of her voluptuous body, the folds of a foul and monstrous serpent.
All those whom she loves and admits to her hospitality, she devours in the end, after she has
drained them of life and vigor with the diabolic delight of her kisses. The laurel-wooded plain you
saw, the ilex-bordered river, the marble palace and all the luxury therein, were no more than a
satanic delusion, a lovely bubble that
rose from the dust and mold of immemorial death, of ancient
corruption. They crumbled at the kiss of the holy water I brought with me when I followed you.
But Nycea, alas! has escaped, and I fear she will still survive, to build again her palace
of demoniacal enchantments, to commit again and again the unspeakable abomination of her sins.”
Still in a sort of stupor at the ruin of my new-found happiness, at the singular revelations
made by the abbot, I followed him obediently as he led the w
ay through the vaults of Faussesflammes.
He mounted the stairway by which I had descended, and as he neared the top and was forced to stoop a
little, the great flagstone swung upward, letting in a stream of chill moonlight. We emerged; and
I permitted him to take me back to the monastery. As my brain began to clear, and the confusion
into which I had been thrown resolved itself, a feeling of resentment grew apace — a
keen anger at the interference of Hilaire. Unheedful whether or not he had
rescued me
from dire physical and spiritual perils, I lamented the beautiful dream of which
he had deprived me. The kisses of Nycea burned softly in my memory, and I knew that
whatever she was, woman or demon or serpent, there was no one in all the world who could ever
arouse in me the same love and the same delight. I took care, however, to conceal my feellings
fron Hilaire, realizing that a betrayal of such emotions would merely lead him to look upon
me as a soul that was lost beyond re
demption. On the morrow, pleading the urgency of my
return home, I departed from Perigon. Now, in the library of my father’s house near Moulins, I write this account of my adventures.
The memory of Nycea is magically clear, ineffably dear as if she were still beside me,
and still I see the rich draperies of a midnight chamber illumined by lamps of curiously carven
gold, and still I hear the words of her farewell: “Have no fear. You shall find me
again if you are brave and patient.” Soon I s
hall return, to visit again the
ruins of the Chateau des Faussesflammes, and redescend into the vaults below the triangular
flagstone. But, in spite of the nearness of Perigon to Faussesflammes, in spite of my esteem
for the abbot, my gratitude for his hospitality and my admiration for his incomparable library,
I shall not care to revisit my friend Hilaire. Thank you for listening. If you like our recordings consider liking
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