The Accursed: Two Diabolical Tales Read online

  THE ACCURSED

  Two Diabolical Tales

  by

  CLAUDE SEIGNOLLE

  TRANSLATED BY BERNARD WALL

  FOREWORD BY LAWRENCE DURRELL

  LONDON

  GEORGE ALLEN & UNWIN LTD.

  RUSKIN HOUSE MUSEUM STREET

  FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1967

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, 1956, no portion may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be addressed to the publisher.

  This translation © George Allen & Unwin Ltd 1967

  Translated from the French

  LES MALEDICTIONS © Claude Seignolle, Paris, 1963

  Printed in Great Britain in 11 point Juliana type by Clarke, Doble & Brendon Ltd Cattedown, Plymouth

  Table of Contents

  FOREWORD

  MALVENUE

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  MARIE THE WOLF

  FOREWORD

  BY LAWRENCE DURRELL

  It is perhaps the very diversity of his gifts and interests that has prevented Claude Seignolle so far from reaching the wide public that his work deserves. The scholars know him and rightly value his unique contributions to folklore; the novelists know well that his novels are a distinct contribution to literature, written as they are with the pure and forceful eye of the poet. Finally, those who are interested in the devil keep their eyes open for every new tale by this strange diabolist...

  These tales of mystery and horror have a quality which is entirely their own.

  I speak of diversity in his work, yet to anyone who looks at the whole range of it there is also a great unity - a unity of intention, of attitude. Everything he turns out has a sort of Seigtiollisme about it - the mark of a temperament which is at once curious, poetic and also realistic. He has achieved something rather strange. The devils, the werewolves and vampires he has discovered as a scholar have been carefully captured for literature; in the toils of his sinuous vivid unaffected prose they struggle in vain. He holds them firmly under his pen. They appear in his novels as disturbing realities, and the attitude he adopts towards them is so matter-of-fact that the reader rapidly finds himself believing in them, as presumably the author himself does. It is doubly curious that (I speak of the artist now, not the scholar) he should be French, for the tradition to which he so effectively contributes is not a French tradition at all. It is essentially the Romantic-Gothic tradition which calls to mind names like E. T. A. Hoffman, Mary Shelley, Maturin, Poe.

  Yet in the actual execution of Seignolle there is a very special quality which comes, I believe, from the fact that he is a Frenchman and not either a German or an Englishman; he treats his frightening subject-matter with a rather terrifying lucidity and intellectual control which makes it most convincing. He is of course a born story-teller, but you never feel with his work (as you so often do with the Gothic school) that the writer has set out to epater you, or to frighten you. You feel that he is cooly describing something which is taking place before his eyes, and that these strange creatures of the human subconscious do really exist and can at will materialise before our eyes.

  And if you feel at all incredulous about it a glance into one of his scholarly compilations will suffice to show you that whole communities believe in them as well! The sorcerer, the vampire... they are still alive today, acting invisibly on the secret life of man: they are not the dead subject-matter for scholarship alone, but also fitting material for the poet who is always turning over the stones of the human mind to see what might lie underneath. It does not take long to become completely seduced, completely Seignollisé. It is this curious taste of mystery which gives him poetic density in his work even when he is writing of things very far removed from the diabolical. In his memoirs of the war, for example, in La Gueule there is little enough about vampires or such matters; but the tone of his prose charges the atmosphere with the feeling of poetry and mystery. Poetic mystery hangs like a mist over his work. And yet - diable! - he is not dreamy, diffuse, sentimental; he is gay, strong, truthful and intense.

  But this volume consists of two of his ‘diabolical’ stories only, and it is in my opinion long overdue. Seignolle has won a distinct place for himself in literature and his particular temperamental gift of qualities - poetry, mystery and irony set him apart from most writers of the day. II est seul dans son genre!

  MALVENUE

  I

  The August night air was stifling. The moment had not yet come for the fresh breath of morning to release its perfumes and spread them far and wide. Silence struggled to insinuate itself between the noises that kept the night alive: croakings coming from the ponds, regular and tedious as the ticking of a clock; loud or disturbed cries from the woods that were made still more mysterious by the darkness; creakings that gnawed at the quiet. The walls of the la Noue farm, under the rough coat of pale limewash, gleamed in the moonlight against the shadowy fields. Wooden shutters and windows were open to inhale what little fresh air there was. On uncovered beds each person slept the same deep, laborious sleep, their muscles still preserving the rhythm of the day's work and sometimes harvesting in the void. Each one was genuinely suffering, but none woke up to escape from the nightmare of pointless effort. The women moaned with exhaustion. They felt a twisting in their loins as if they still really were hoisting up the loathsome swaths bristling with hostile thistles. In their heads the pale tide of corn was still unfolding with its thousands of sheaves that had to be bound and lifted and carried to an immense, arrogant stack with an insatiable appetite for grain and straw. And meanwhile the men were scything their ever-renewed vision of a sea of stalks.

  But for the people at la Noue their overburden of work had every reason to mingle with their sleep. It had been the worst job of the summer, but now the harvest was in. Before dusk fell the sun's last rays had slowly coloured and then discoloured the tall stack topped by the branch of fresh birch, bearing a red ribbon, which Antoine - la Noue's master - had thrust in with a sharp jab of victory as if he were the only conqueror. His action had brought the first trace of a smile to their faces. They all shouted and waved their hats in the air with their bruised arms. Antoine announced that the harvest feast would be tomorrow. But he distributed some pints of white wine on account, which brought a moment of youthful jollity.

  It was only six hundred yards back to the farm, yet when they arrived the corn-conquerors felt as if their arms and legs had suddenly been scythed too; they began swearing that they couldn't have gone a step further, and collapsed onto the benches. Only the old tramp who had been taken on the previous day (no-one knew him from Adam) seemed to be suffering less than the others. He took his time before he sat down, slowly produced his penknife, opened it, and carefully cut a slice off the loaf. He scraped the table with his long bony hand so as to gather up all the crumbs which he then put in his mouth with the help of the worn blade. Then he waited for la Galiotte to hand him his plate of soup.

  The old servant paid far more attention to this man than she had ever paid to the dozens of other casual labourers of a similar kind whose trouser-seats had polished the same benches in the past. This man hadn't the ways of those vagabonds who stray from small town to farm and from farm to small town, who begin a job and never finish it, and whose laziness is matched only by their nasty smell. No, this one had no smell either good or bad, he had done the work of four men, and when served with soup had nodded in gratitude and respect to la Galiotte - so
much so that an involuntary blush of pleasure had mounted to her age-lined cheeks. He was the last to go to bed and the only one to accept the barn, crammed with its heady scent of hay.

  And now this forcibly-sleeping and unconsciously-working world had been wrapped in four hours of night. But in her room Jeanne was awake. If she felt light and rested it was because her young body hadn't had to pump out sweat from all its pores. The palms of her hands were not full of prickles, nor were her arms and neck bitten red by the sun. She was the mistress’s daughter. She was given other, easier work. Her mother, Henriette, took the extra work on herself.

  Her maxim was that at sixteen you do everything badly so the best is to do as little as possible. Jeanne sat up in bed. She felt she couldn't breathe. She rolled up the sleeves of her linen night-dress with its little blue faded flowers, and undid the front buttons which fastened up to the neck. Now she could breathe better. The material swelled and expanded over her breasts.

  Suddenly she stiffened and began listening. But she could hear nothing but the chirping of the crickets, the croaking of the frogs, and the caress of night as it slid over the earth. She quickly jumped out of bed. She didn't like this lying awake. Her bare feet felt the coolness of the tiles. She didn't know what to do and was getting ready to get back into bed when she felt a presence forcing her back to the window. Her heart-beats spread like a fan and she started with a stab of anguish. Her calm returned when she realised that at this time of night everyone on the farm would be struggling to drown their fatigue in sleep and no-one would feel like taking a stroll in the yard.

  Her half-open bedroom door gave into the living-room. The remains of a fire were still smouldering in the hearth, just a few embers still glowing in the ashes. Now and again a stronger light flickered over the iron at the back of the fireplace. Without thinking, Jeanne picked up her skirt, put it on, and searched around for her wooden clogs. She could only find one, but that was enough for what she was going to do. Soundlessly she left the bedroom and felt drawn towards the fireplace. As she passed the table she was careful not to knock against the bench. If she was to succeed in what she could no longer resist doing, then silence was needed as an ally. She went up to the remains of the fire, stretched out her clog and hastily filled it with the brightest embers. Strange, she felt she was floating on the red lake of the tiles. Stranger still, the pain of the glowing embers didn't pierce her fingers. The clog was filled at last. She left the room.

  She set straight out along the track for Naullins. Her mind was made up: that was where she was going with her light tread. Her lips were frozen tight in a fierce smile. Her steps grew quicker, and then quicker still. The ground was warm. Her bare feet became fevered. Savage pleasure penetrated her body and heated her blood. Soon she broke into a run, both hands holding the clog in front of her, its wood smoking with the burning embers. Its acrid smell oppressed her, intoxicated her, and left a trail of life behind her. Far ahead the la Croule woods smudged the night with an endless band of black that melted into the Sologne ridge. A faint mist was floating over the Malnoue water pit. The girl ran, walked, then ran again. At last, a few steps away, rose the stack. It looked like a great tower, bulging with a great belly, Jeanne approached and touched the bristles which pricked her.

  And now her heart beat wildly, not because she had run so far but because she was there at last with the smoking clog, the evilly smoking clog. The girl coughed. With quick movements she thrust the embers into the foot of the stack, bent down, blew them. A small flame rose and then went out. With more blowing it returned and gained a grip on the straw. Another smell, a sweeter one, mingled with that of the charred wood. Jeanne broke into uncontrollable laughter. A ruddy glow ran up the sides of the great loaf. It ran as Jeanne had run to reach this spot. Already it was as tall as a man, and it went on climbing. Long flames shot out like angry arms. Jeanne was frightened and started back. She could never have believed that it would be as easy as this. She drew still further back. At moments she felt anguish. At others she wanted to yell with joy. Flames begot flames which bit relentlessly at the stomach of the stack, and the burning corn gave off an infinity of sparks.

  At last the crest fell in onto the eaten-up inner part, now white hot like iron hammered at the forge. The beribboned branch planted by Antoine gave a quick mewing sound. In one swoop the total harvest crackled and collapsed. A great suffocating breath swirled round the girl as her eyes drank in the slaughter. Flakes of flame flew far and wide. The fire sank rapidly and night closed over it once more. Jeanne was disappointed. She would have liked it to go on for ever.

  She knew that her action was worse than a crime, for no-one would know that she was to blame. But now it was time to flee. The Naullins people might arrive at any moment. Already their dog had begun to bark. She turned round. She was on the point of springing into a run when she froze in her tracks. A shadow was advancing towards her along the path.

  Jeanne covered her mouth with her hands so as to stifle her frightened cry. The figure approached without speaking. He came slowly, but soon he would reach her. Finally she heard a strangled voice, as if in holy terror.

  ‘It's you, Malvenue! And after all the trouble we took...’

  The girl had never heard a voice like it - a mixture of fear and dismay. And she had been expecting anger and blows! She still held her empty clog, gnawed by the embers, in her hand.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It's me, Lucas.’

  She managed a forced laugh. If it was Lucas she'd be able to shut his mouth. He was a man and she was a girl. He was a servant and she was the mistress. But her anxiety remained.

  ‘Are the others coming?’ she asked.

  'No, I couldn’t sleep, I went out into the yard, I saw you leaving... If I'd known I’d have stopped you in time...’

  Jeanne felt her strength returning. She went up close to the servant. Her body touched his. He, too, was lightly clad. He felt her rounded body and her soft flesh. He didn’t dare open his mouth. Yet the furnace beside them which was pouring its smoke upwards into the sky and thickening the night should by rights have made him knock up the neighbouring farmers so that they could seize the guilty girl and punish her there and then. But when the girl put her she-devil’s body against his, his will left him.

  She drew away after a minute and took him by the hand.

  ‘Come on,’ she said in a voice that was suddenly hard, ‘there's nothing more worth seeing here; it's all over...'

  He followed her with a stumbling step. She didn't leave go of his hand.

  Jeanne walked with a clenched jaw and forced him to fall into step. Then she started speaking in a low voice as if talking to herself.

  ‘It's no use trying to understand, it was stronger than me, as if I'd been forced to do it. I don't come into it.'

  ‘But...’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘But they’ll find out. What’ll you tell them?’

  She gave a quick shrug of her shoulders. 'Don’t worry, tomorrow there’ll be someone ready for the Angillon police.'

  ‘That’s too much. You’re not going to...?’

  The la Noue farmyard was just in front of them.

  ‘Go straight back to bed,’ she commanded imperiously, ‘all I ask is that you never remember this... never.’

  She pressed against him again. She wanted to show him how feminine she could be.

  ‘Now go, and keep mum, or else...’

  He didn’t dare take her in his arms as he would have liked, and, pausing a little, he made his way to the garret at the other end of the stable buildings. He would have liked to feel the girl's warmth against his body again. At last, with a gesture of frustration, he melted into the shadows. Noiselessly Jeanne went into the barn where the tramp with the hands of a bishop was asleep. She felt in the dark for one of the man's clogs. On finding it she went to the living-room and filled it with embers. Before going out again she looked into her bedroom and retrieved her second clog.

  W
hat she was doing she was doing almost in spite of herself. The same force that had urged her to get up, run, and set the stack on fire, now propelled her towards the cess-pit. When she reached it she raised one of the stone slabs and threw in her two clogs: the one she had just fetched from her room and the one in which she had carried evil to the stack. She also poured in the embers from the tramp's clog. All was swallowed up in the slime of the manure. Nobody would ever go down there to find two innocent girl’s clogs. She could wear others. She lowered the slab carefully back. Then she went and put the tramp's burnt clog in an obvious place on the path to Naullins.

  This done she was overtaken with the longing for sleep. Soon she was back in her room with the door closed. She had just enough energy left to get into bed. Her eyes were already closing. She lay stretched out. Her chestnut hair tumbled across her pillow. She sighed deeply. Soon she fell into peaceful sleep while the other farm people went on uselessly scything and gathering up the sheaves that were now no more than a heap of smoking ashes.

  * * *

  She was awakened from sleep by cries re-echoing against the farm walls. Among the threats and insults she could distinguish Antoine's loud voice and la Galiotte's shrill one. The girl got up and tried to shake herself awake, but her eyelids were still heavy and she lay down again so as to go on sleeping. Then she remembered. There was a tight feeling round her heart. She leapt up and ran to the window. From there she saw the people of la Noue, and the labourers hired for the harvest, all gesticulating and shouting by the barn wall. They had surrounded the tramp. The man stood motionless with folded arms. He looked larger and prouder than the others. He was holding himself in control so as not to answer the rough insults showered upon him. At one moment Antoine picked up some rope from the ground and raised it as if to strike him. Whereupon silence fell. Jeanne heard the farmer’s voice.