The Book of Were-Wolves by Sabine Baring-Gould (best desktop ebook reader .txt) 📕

shapeless,” or “those who go in the water “—it is

uncertain which. is the correct derivation—is expressive of the white

cirrus, constantly changing form, and apparently floating swan-like on

the blue heaven-sea. These apsaras, according to the Vedaic creed,

were fond of changing their shapes, appearing generally as ducks or

swans, occasionally as human beings. The souls of heroes were given to

them for lovers and husbands. One of the most graceful of the early

Indian myths is the story of the apsaras, Urvaçî. Urvaçî loved

Puravaras and became his ‘wife, on the condition that she was n-ever

to behold him in a state of nudity. They remained together for years,

till the heavenly companions of Urvaçî determined to secure her return

to them. They accordingly beguiled Puravaras into leaving his bed in

the darkness of night, and then with a lightning flash they disclosed

him, in his nudity, to his wife, who was thereupon constrained to

leave him. He pursued her, full of sorrow at his loss, and found her

at length swimming in a large lotus pond, in swan’s shape.

 

That this story is not a mere invention, but rests on some

mythological explanation of natural phenomena, I think more than

probable, as it is found all over the world with few variations. As

every Aryan branch retains the story, or traces of it, there can be no

doubt that the belief in swan-maidens, who swam in the heavenly sea,

and who sometimes became the wives of those fortunate men who managed

to steal from them their feather dresses, formed an integral portion

of the old mythological system of the Aryan family, before it was

broken up into Indian, Persian, Greek, Latin, Russian, Scandinavian,

Teutonic, and other races. But more, as the same myth is found. in

tribes not Aryan, and far removed from contact with European or Indian

superstition,—as, for instance, among Samoyeds and American

Indians,—it is even possible that this story may be a tradition of

the first primæval stock of men.

 

But it is time for me to leave the summer cirrus and turn to the

tempest-born rain-cloud. It is represented in ancient Indian mythology

by the Vritra or Râkshasas. At first the form of these dæmons was

uncertain and obscure. Vritra is often used as an appellative for a

cloud, and kabhanda, an old name for a rain-cloud, in later times

became the name of a devil. Of Vritra, who envelopes the mountains

with vapour, it is said, “The darkness stood retaining the water, the

mountains lay in the belly of Vritra.” By degrees Vritra stood out

more prominently as a dæmon, and he is described as a “devourer” of

gigantic proportions. In the same way Râkshasas obtained corporeal

form and individuality. He is a misshapen giant “like to a cloud,”

with a red beard and red hair, with pointed protruding teeth, ready to

lacerate and devour human flesh. His body is covered with coarse

bristling hair, his huge mouth is open, he looks from side to side as

he walks, lusting after the flesh and blood of men, to satisfy his

raging hunger, and quench his consuming thirst. Towards nightfall his

strength increases manifold. He can change his shape at will. He

haunts the woods, and roams howling through the jungle; in short, he

is to the Hindoo what the werewolf is to the European.

 

A certain wood was haunted by a Râkschasa; he one day came across a

Brahmin, and with a bound reached his shoulders, and clung to them,

exclaiming, “Heh! go on with you!” And the Brahmin, quaking with fear,

advanced with him. But when he observed that the feet of the Râkschasa

were as delicate as the stamens of the lotus, he asked him, How is it

that you have such weak and slender feet? The Râkschasa replied, “I

never walk nor touch the earth with my feet. I have made a vow not to

do so.” Presently they came to a large pond. Then the Râkschasa bade

the Brahmin wait at the edge whilst he bathed and prayed to the gods.

But the Brahmin thought: “As soon as these prayers and ablutions are

over, he will tear me to pieces with his fangs and eat me. He has

vowed not to walk; I will be off post haste!” so he ran away, and the

Râkschasa dared not follow him for fear of breaking his VOW.

(Pantschatantra, v. 13.) There is a similar story in the

Mahâbhârata, xiii., and in the Kathâ Sarit Sâgara, v. 49-53.

 

I have said sufficient to show that natural phenomena gave rise to

mythological stories, and that these stories have gradually

deteriorated, and have been degraded into vulgar superstitions. And I

have shown that both the doctrine of metempsychosis and the

mythological explanations of meteorological changes have given rise to

abundant fable, and among others to the popular and wide-spread

superstition of lycanthropy. I shall now pass from myth to history,

and shall give instances of bloodthirstiness, cruelty, and

cannibalism.

 

CHAPTER XI.

 

THE MARÉCHAL DE RETZ.-I. THE INVESTIGATION OF CHARGES.

 

The history of the man whose name heads this chapter I purpose giving

in detail, as the circumstances I shall narrate have, I believe, never

before been given with accuracy to the English public. The name of

Gilles de Laval may be well known, as sketches of his bloody career

have appeared in many biographies, but these sketches have been very

incomplete, as the material from which they were composed was meagre.

M. Michelet alone ventured to give the public an idea of the crimes

which brought a marshal of France to the gallows, and his revelations

were such that, in the words of M. Henri

 

Martin, “this iron age, which seemed unable to feel surprise at any

amount of evil, was struck with dismay.”

 

M. Michelet derived his information from the abstract of the papers

relating, to the case, made by order of Ann of Brittany, in the

Imperial Library. The original documents were in the library at

Nantes, and a great portion of them were destroyed in the Revolution

of 1789. But a careful analysis had been made of them, and this

valuable abridgment, which was inaccessible to M. Michelet, came into

the hands of M. Lacroix, the eminent French antiquarian, who published

a memoir of the marshal from the information he had thus obtained, and

it is his work, by far the most complete and circumstantial which has

appeared, that I condense into the following chapters.

 

“The most monstrously depraved imagination,” says M. Henri Martin,

“never could have conceived what the trial reveals.” M. Lacroix has

been obliged to draw a veil over much that transpired, and I must draw

it closer still. I have, however, said enough to show that this

memorable trial presents horrors probably unsurpassed in the whole

volume of the world’s history.

 

During the year 1440, a terrible rumour spread through Brittany, and

especially through the ancient pays de Retz, which extends along the

south of the Loire from Nantes to Paimbuf, to the effect that one of

the most famous and powerful noblemen in Brittany, Gilles de Laval,

Maréchal de Retz, was guilty of crimes of the most diabolical nature.

 

Gilles de Laval, eldest son of Gay de Laval, second of his name, Sire

de Retz, had raised the junior branch of the illustrious house of

Laval above the elder branch, which was related to the reigning family

of Brittany. He lost his father when he was aged twenty, and remained

master of a vast territorial inheritance, which was increased by his

marriage with Catharine de Thouars in 1420. He employed a portion of

their fortune in the cause of Charles VII., and in strengthening the

French crown. During seven consecutive years, from 1426 to 1433, he

was engaged in military enterprises against the English; his name is

always cited along with those of Dunois, Xaintrailles, Florent

d’Illiers, Gaucourt, Richemont, and the most faithful servants of the

king. His services were speedily acknowledged by the king creating him

Marshal of France. In 1427, he assaulted the Castle of Lude, and

carried it by storm; he killed with his own hand the commander of the

place; next year he captured from the English the fortress of

Rennefort, and the Castle of Malicorne; in 1429, he took an active

part in the expedition of Joan of Arc for the deliverance of Orleans,

and the occupation of Jargeau, and he was with her in the moat, when

she was wounded by an arrow under the walls of Paris.

 

The marshal, councillor, and chamberlain of the king participated in

the direction of public affairs, and soon obtained the entire

confidence of his master. He accompanied Charles to Rheims on the

occasion of his coronation, and had the honour of bearing the

oriflamme, brought for the occasion from the abbey of S. Remi. His

intrepidity on the field of battle was as remarkable as his sagacity

in council, and he proved himself to be both an excellent warrior and

a shrewd politician.

 

Suddenly, to the surprise of every one, he quitted the service of

Charles VII., and sheathed for ever his sword, in the retirement of

the country. The death of his maternal grandfather, Jean de Craon, in

1432, made him so enormously wealthy, that his revenues were estimated

at 800,000 livres; nevertheless, in two years, by his excessive

prodigality, he managed to lose a considerable portion of his

inheritance. Mauléon, S. Etienne de Malemort, Loroux-Botereau, Pornic,

and Chantolé, he sold to John V., Duke of Brittany, his kinsman, and

other lands and seigneurial rights he ceded to the Bishop of Nantes,

and to the chapter of the cathedral in that city.

 

The rumour soon spread that these extensive cessions of territory were

sops thrown to the duke and to the bishop, to restrain the one from

confiscating his goods, and the other from pronouncing

excommunication, for the crimes of which the people whisperingly

accused him; but these rumours were probably without foundation, for

eventually it was found hard to persuade the duke of the guilt of his

kinsman, and the bishop was the most determined instigator of the

trial.

 

The marshal seldom visited the ducal court, but he often appeared in

the city of Nantes, where he inhabited the Hôtel de la Suze, with a

princely retinue. He had, always accompanying him, a guard of two

hundred men at arms, and a numerous suit of pages, esquires,

chaplains, singers, astrologers, &c., all of whom he paid handsomely.

 

Whenever he left the town, or moved to one of his other seats, the

cries of the poor, which had been restrained during the time of his

presence, broke forth. Tears flowed, curses were uttered, a

long-continued wail rose to heaven, the moment that the last of the

marshal’s party had left the neighbourhood. Mothers had lost their

children, babes had been snatched from the cradle, infants had been

spirited away almost from the maternal arms, and it was known by sad

experience that the vanished little ones would never be seen again.

 

But on no part of the country did the shadow of this great fear fall

so deeply as on the villages in the neighbourhood of the Castle of

Machecoul, a gloomy château, composed of huge towers, and surrounded

by deep moats, a residence much frequented by Do Retz, notwithstanding

its sombre and repulsive appearance. This fortress was always in a

condition to resist a siege: the drawbridge was raised, the portcullis

down, the gates closed, the men under arms, the culverins on the

bastion always loaded. No one, except the servants, had penetrated

into this mysterious asylum and had come forth alive. In the

surrounding country strange tales of horror and devilry circulated in

whispers, and yet it was observed that the chapel of the castle was

gorgeously decked with