High up, crowning the grassy summit of a swelling
mount whose sides are wooded near the base with the gnarled trees of the
primeval forest stands the old chateau of my ancestors. For centuries
its lofty battlements have frowned down upon the wild and rugged
countryside about, serving as a home and stronghold for the proud house
whose honored line is older even than the moss-grown castle walls. These
ancient turrets, stained by the storms of generations and crumbling
under the slow yet mighty pressure of time, formed in the ages of
feudalism one of the most dreaded and formidable fortresses in all
France. From its machicolated parapets and mounted battlements Barons,
Counts, and even Kings had been defied, yet never had its spacious halls
resounded to the footsteps of the invader.
But since those glorious years, all is changed. A poverty but little
above the level of dire want, together with a pride of name that forbids
its alleviation by the pursuits of commercial life, have prevented the
scions of our line from maintaining their estates in pristine splendour;
and the falling stones of the walls, the overgrown vegetation in the
parks, the dry and dusty moat, the ill-paved courtyards, and toppling
towers without, as well as the sagging floors, the worm-eaten wainscots,
and the faded tapestries within, all tell a gloomy tale of fallen
grandeur. As the ages passed, first one, then another of the four great
turrets were left to ruin, until at last but a single tower housed the
sadly reduced descendants of the once mighty lords of the estate.
It was in one of the vast and gloomy chambers of this remaining tower
that I, Antoine, last of the unhappy and accursed Counts de C-, first
saw the light of day, ninety long years ago. Within these walls and
amongst the dark and shadowy forests, the wild ravines and grottos of
the hillside below, were spent the first years of my troubled life. My
parents I never knew. My father had been killed at the age of
thirty-two, a month before I was born, by the fall of a stone somehow
dislodged from one of the deserted parapets of the castle. And my mother
having died at my birth, my care and education devolved solely upon one
remaining servitor, an old and trusted man of considerable intelligence,
whose name I remember as Pierre. I was an only child and the lack of
companionship which this fact entailed upon me was augmented by the
strange care exercised by my aged guardian, in excluding me from the
society of the peasant children whose abodes were scattered here and
there upon the plains that surround the base of the hill. At that time,
Pierre said that this restriction was imposed upon me because my noble
birth placed me above association with such plebeian company. Now I know
that its real object was to keep from my ears the idle tales of the
dread curse upon our line that were nightly told and magnified by the
simple tenantry as they conversed in hushed accents in the glow of their
cottage hearths.
Thus isolated, and thrown upon my own resources, I spent the hours of my
childhood in poring over the ancient tomes that filled the shadow
haunted library of the chateau, and in roaming without aim or purpose
through the perpetual dust of the spectral wood that clothes the side of
the hill near its foot. It was perhaps an effect of such surroundings
that my mind early acquired a shade of melancholy. Those studies and
pursuits which partake of the dark and occult in nature most strongly
claimed my attention.
Of my own race I was permitted to learn singularly little, yet what
small knowledge of it I was able to gain seemed to depress me much.
Perhaps it was at first only the manifest reluctance of my old preceptor
to discuss with me my paternal ancestry that gave rise to the terror
which I ever felt at the mention of my great house, yet as I grew out of
childhood, I was able to piece together disconnected fragments of
discourse, let slip from the unwilling tongue which had begun to falter
in approaching senility, that had a sort of relation to a certain
circumstance which I had always deemed strange, but which now became
dimly terrible. The circumstance to which I allude is the early age at
which all the Counts of my line had met their end. Whilst I had hitherto
considered this but a natural attribute of a family of short-lived men,
I afterward pondered long upon these premature deaths, and began to
connect them with the wanderings of the old man, who often spoke of a
curse which for centuries had prevented the lives of the holders of my
title from much exceeding the span of thirty-two years. Upon my
twenty-first birthday, the aged Pierre gave to me a family document
which he said had for many generations been handed down from father to
son, and continued by each possessor. Its contents were of the most
startling nature, and its perusal confirmed the gravest of my
apprehensions. At this time, my belief in the supernatural was firm and
deep-seated, else I should have dismissed with scorn the incredible
narrative unfolded before my eyes.
The paper carried me back to the days of the thirteenth century, when
the old castle in which I sat had been a feared and impregnable
fortress. It told of a certain ancient man who had once dwelled on our
estates, a person of no small accomplishments, though little above the
rank of peasant, by name, Michel, usually designated by the surname of
Mauvais, the Evil, on account of his sinister reputation. He had studied
beyond the custom of his kind, seeking such things as the Philosopher's
Stone or the Elixir of Eternal Life, and was reputed wise in the
terrible secrets of Black Magic and Alchemy. Michel Mauvais had one son,
named Charles, a youth as proficient as himself in the hidden arts, who
had therefore been called Le Sorcier, or the Wizard. This pair, shunned
by all honest folk, were suspected of the most hideous practices. Old
Michel was said to have burnt his wife alive as a sacrifice to the
Devil, and the unaccountable disappearance of many small peasant
children was laid at the dreaded door of these two. Yet through the dark
natures of the father and son ran one redeeming ray of humanity; the
evil old man loved his offspring with fierce intensity, whilst the youth
had for his parent a more than filial affection.
One night the castle on the hill was thrown into the wildest confusion
by the vanishment of young Godfrey, son to Henri, the Count. A searching
party, headed by the frantic father, invaded the cottage of the
sorcerers and there came upon old Michel Mauvais, busy over a huge and
violently boiling cauldron. Without certain cause, in the ungoverned
madness of fury and despair, the Count laid hands on the aged wizard,
and ere he released his murderous hold, his victim was no more.
Meanwhile, joyful servants were proclaiming the finding of young Godfrey
in a distant and unused chamber of the great edifice, telling too late
that poor Michel had been killed in vain. As the Count and his
associates turned away from the lowly abode of the alchemist, the form
of Charles Le Sorcier appeared through the trees. The excited chatter of
the menials standing about told him what had occurred, yet he seemed at
first unmoved at his father's fate. Then, slowly advancing to meet the
Count, he pronounced in dull yet terrible accents the curse that ever
afterward haunted the house of C-.
'May ne'er a noble of thy murd'rous line
Survive to reach a greater age than thine!'
spake he, when, suddenly leaping backwards into the black woods, he drew
from his tunic a phial of colourless liquid which he threw into the face
of his father's slayer as he disappeared behind the inky curtain of the
night. The Count died without utterance, and was buried the next day,
but little more than two and thirty years from the hour of his birth. No
trace of the assassin could be found, though relentless bands of
peasants scoured the neighboring woods and the meadowland around the
hill.
Thus time and the want of a reminder dulled the memory of the curse in
the minds of the late Count's family, so that when Godfrey, innocent
cause of the whole tragedy and now bearing the title, was killed by an
arrow whilst hunting at the age of thirty-two, there were no thoughts
save those of grief at his demise. But when, years afterward, the next
young Count, Robert by name, was found dead in a nearby field of no
apparent cause, the peasants told in whispers that their seigneur had
but lately passed his thirty-second birthday when surprised by early
death. Louis, son to Robert, was found drowned in the moat at the same
fateful age, and thus down through the centuries ran the ominous
chronicle: Henris, Roberts, Antoines, and Armands snatched from happy
and virtuous lives when little below the age of their unfortunate
ancestor at his murder.
That I had left at most but eleven years of further existence was made
certain to me by the words which I had read. My life, previously held at
small value, now became dearer to me each day, as I delved deeper and
deeper into the mysteries of the hidden world of black magic. Isolated
as I was, modern science had produced no impression upon me, and I
laboured as in the Middle Ages, as wrapt as had been old Michel and
young Charles themselves in the acquisition of demonological and
alchemical learning. Yet read as I might, in no manner could I account
for the strange curse upon my line. In unusually rational moments I
would even go so far as to seek a natural explanation, attributing the
early deaths of my ancestors to the sinister Charles Le Sorcier and his
heirs; yet, having found upon careful inquiry that there were no known
descendants of the alchemist, I would fall back to occult studies, and
once more endeavor to find a spell, that would release my house from its
terrible burden. Upon one thing I was absolutely resolved. I should
never wed, for, since no other branch of my family was in existence, I
might thus end the curse with myself.
As I drew near the age of thirty, old Pierre was called to the land
beyond. Alone I buried him beneath the stones of the courtyard about
which he had loved to wander in life. Thus was I left to ponder on
myself as the only human creature within the great fortress, and in my
utter solitude my mind began to cease its vain protest against the
impending doom, to become almost reconciled to the fate which so many of
my ancestors had met. Much of my time was now occupied in the
exploration of the ruined and abandoned halls and towers of the old
chateau, which in youth fear had caused me to shun, and some of which
old Pierre had once told me had not been trodden by human foot for over
four centuries. Strange and awesome were many of the objects I
encountered. Furniture, covered by the dust of ages and crumbling with
the rot of long dampness, met my eyes. Cobwebs in a profusion never
before seen by me were spun everywhere, and huge bats flapped their bony
and uncanny wings on all sides of the otherwise untenanted gloom.
Of my exact age, even down to days and hours, I kept a most careful
record, for each movement of the pendulum of the massive clock in the
library told off so much of my doomed existence. At length I approached
that time which I had so long viewed with apprehension. Since most of my
ancestors had been seized some little while before they reached the
exact age of Count Henri at his end, I was every moment on the watch for
the coming of the unknown death. In what strange form the curse should
overtake me, I knew not; but I was resolved at least that it should not
find me a cowardly or a passive victim. With new vigour I applied myself
to my examination of the old chateau and its contents.
It was upon one of the longest of all my excursions of discovery in the
deserted portion of the castle, less than a week before that fatal hour
which I felt must mark the utmost limit of my stay on earth, beyond
which I could have not even the slightest hope of continuing to draw
breath that I came upon the culminating event of my whole life. I had
spent the better part of the morning in climbing up and down half ruined
staircases in one of the most dilapidated of the ancient turrets. As the
afternoon progressed, I sought the lower levels, descending into what
appeared to be either a mediaeval place of confinement, or a more
recently excavated storehouse for gunpowder. As I slowly traversed the
nitre-encrusted passageway at the foot of the last staircase, the paving
became very damp, and soon I saw by the light of my flickering torch
that a blank, water-stained wall impeded my journey. Turning to retrace
my steps, my eye fell upon a small trapdoor with a ring, which lay
directly beneath my foot. Pausing, I succeeded with difficulty in
raising it, whereupon there was revealed a black aperture, exhaling
noxious fumes which caused my torch to sputter, and disclosing in the
unsteady glare the top of a flight of stone steps.
As soon as the torch which I lowered into the repellent depths burned
freely and steadily, I commenced my descent. The steps were many, and
led to a narrow stone-flagged passage which I knew must be far
underground. This passage proved of great length, and terminated in a
massive oaken door, dripping with the moisture of the place, and stoutly
resisting all my attempts to open it. Ceasing after a time my efforts in
this direction, I had proceeded back some distance toward the steps when
there suddenly fell to my experience one of the most profound and
maddening shocks capable of reception by the human mind. Without
warning, I heard the heavy door behind me creak slowly open upon its
rusted hinges. My immediate sensations were incapable of analysis. To be
confronted in a place as thoroughly deserted as I had deemed the old
castle with evidence of the presence of man or spirit produced in my
brain a horror of the most acute description. When at last I turned and
faced the seat of the sound, my eyes must have started from their orbits
at the sight that they beheld.
There in the ancient Gothic doorway stood a human figure. It was that of
a man clad in a skull-cap and long mediaeval tunic of dark colour. His
long hair and flowing beard were of a terrible and intense black hue,
and of incredible profusion. His forehead, high beyond the usual
dimensions; his cheeks, deep-sunken and heavily lined with wrinkles; and
his hands, long, claw-like, and gnarled, were of such a deadly
marble-like whiteness as I have never elsewhere seen in man. His figure,
lean to the proportions of a skeleton, was strangely bent and almost
lost within the voluminous folds of his peculiar garment. But strangest
of all were his eyes, twin caves of abysmal blackness, profound in
expression of understanding, yet inhuman in degree of wickedness. These
were now fixed upon me, piercing my soul with their hatred, and rooting
me to the spot whereon I stood.
At last the figure spoke in a rumbling voice that chilled me through
with its dull hollowness and latent malevolence. The language in which
the discourse was clothed was that debased form of Latin in use amongst
the more learned men of the Middle Ages, and made familiar to me by my
prolonged researches into the works of the old alchemists and
demonologists. The apparition spoke of the curse which had hovered over
my house, told me of my coming end, dwelt on the wrong perpetrated by my
ancestor against old Michel Mauvais, and gloated over the revenge of
Charles Le Sorcier. He told how young Charles has escaped into the
night, returning in after years to kill Godfrey the heir with an arrow
just as he approached the age which had been his father's at his
assassination; how he had secretly returned to the estate and
established himself, unknown, in the even then deserted subterranean
chamber whose doorway now framed the hideous narrator, how he had seized
Robert, son of Godfrey, in a field, forced poison down his throat, and
left him to die at the age of thirty-two, thus maintaing the foul
provisions of his vengeful curse. At this point I was left to imagine
the solution of the greatest mystery of all, how the curse had been
fulfilled since that time when Charles Le Sorcier must in the course of
nature have died, for the man digressed into an account of the deep
alchemical studies of the two wizards, father and son, speaking most
particularly of the researches of Charles Le Sorcier concerning the
elixir which should grant to him who partook of it eternal life and
youth.
His enthusiasm had seemed for the moment to remove from his terrible
eyes the black malevolence that had first so haunted me, but suddenly
the fiendish glare returned and, with a shocking sound like the hissing
of a serpent, the stranger raised a glass phial with the evident intent
of ending my life as had Charles Le Sorcier, six hundred years before,
ended that of my ancestor. Prompted by some preserving instinct of
self-defense, I broke through the spell that had hitherto held me
immovable, and flung my now dying torch at the creature who menaced my
existence. I heard the phial break harmlessly against the stones of the
passage as the tunic of the strange man caught fire and lit the horrid
scene with a ghastly radiance. The shriek of fright and impotent malice
emitted by the would-be assassin proved too much for my already shaken
nerves, and I fell prone upon the slimy floor in a total faint.
When at last my senses returned, all was frightfully dark, and my mind,
remembering what had occurred, shrank from the idea of beholding any
more; yet curiosity over-mastered all. Who, I asked myself, was this man
of evil, and how came he within the castle walls? Why should he seek to
avenge the death of Michel Mauvais, and how bad the curse been carried
on through all the long centuries since the time of Charles Le Sorcier?
The dread of years was lifted from my shoulder, for I knew that he whom
I had felled was the source of all my danger from the curse; and now
that I was free, I burned with the desire to learn more of the sinister
thing which had haunted my line for centuries, and made of my own youth
one long-continued nightmare. Determined upon further exploration, I
felt in my pockets for flint and steel, and lit the unused torch which I
had with me.
First of all, new light revealed the distorted and blackened form of the
mysterious stranger. The hideous eyes were now closed. Disliking the
sight, I turned away and entered the chamber beyond the Gothic door.
Here I found what seemed much like an alchemist's laboratory. In one
corner was an immense pile of shining yellow metal that sparkled
gorgeously in the light of the torch. It may have been gold, but I did
not pause to examine it, for I was strangely affected by that which I
had undergone. At the farther end of the apartment was an opening
leading out into one of the many wild ravines of the dark hillside
forest. Filled with wonder, yet now realizing how the man had obtained
access to the chauteau, I proceeded to return. I had intended to pass by
the remains of the stranger with averted face but, as I approached the
body, I seemed to hear emanating from it a faint sound, as though life
were not yet wholly extinct. Aghast, I turned to examine the charred and
shrivelled figure on the floor.
Then all at once the horrible eyes, blacker even than the seared face in
which they were set, opened wide with an expression which I was unable
to interpret. The cracked lips tried to frame words which I could not
well understand. Once I caught the name of Charles Le Sorcier, and again
I fancied that the words 'years' and 'curse' issued from the twisted
mouth. Still I was at a loss to gather the purport of his disconnnected
speech. At my evident ignorance of his meaning, the pitchy eyes once
more flashed malevolently at me, until, helpless as I saw my opponent to
be, I trembled as I watched him.
Suddenly the wretch, animated with his last burst of strength, raised
his piteous head from the damp and sunken pavement. Then, as I remained,
paralyzed with fear, he found his voice and in his dying breath screamed
forth those words which have ever afterward haunted my days and nights.
'Fool!' he shrieked, 'Can you not guess my secret? Have you no brain
whereby you may recognize the will which has through six long centuries
fulfilled the dreadful curse upon the house? Have I not told you of the
great elixir of eternal life? Know you not how the secret of Alchemy was
solved? I tell you, it is I! I! I! that have lived for six hundred years
to maintain my revenge, for I am Charles Le Sorcier!'
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