Vampire Books Online / The man with Wax Hands

Jules Claretie | The Sunday Call | 1880

"Yes, decidedly!" said the Marquis, looking courageously at the mocking circle that surrounded him. There were three elegant men, bald and decorated, several sceptical old men, a member of the Institute, who passed for the Napoleon of Voltaire, some incredulous dowagers, and some young men who were too smart and bashful to believe in anything else, without counting the witty Comtesse de Higny and the charming Mademoiselle Louise de Rigny, her daughter. "Yes!" said the Marquis, "I believe in magnetism, sorcerers, necromancers, magic, spiritism, chiromancy, metopology, vampires, the evil eye, in everything which is supernatural, astonishing, inexplicable, improbable, impossible, and I believe in it firmly, frankly and blindly. St Thomas is not my ancestor, thank God, and if I have declared war, implacable war, against any enemy, it is against doubt. In truth, I am so credulous that I had perfectly logical the reasoning of that brave who for instance that Adam had existed, because he had his portrait in the cabinet."

The Marquis Ange-Gontran de Rouvre was thirty-six years of age. He might pass, without discussion, for a handsome man, in spite of his red hair and a slight obliquity of vision, which seemed sometimes to direct his eyes toward the contemplation of his moustache. Gontran had a pale complexion, fine features, a woman's hands and feet, a slender waist, a fine name and a princely fortune. He enjoyed at the same time the reputation of being witty and eccentric. All these qualities were blended together, so as to form of a veritable hero of romance.

After a profession of faith the Marquis looked around him as if to seek a champion—an adverse champion. He found none, and continued smiling:

"Superstition is my element. I was born on a Friday, the thirteenth of the month of March. It is a fatality; every artless belief finds its echo in me, and that which absolves me is, that after successive observations I have come to convince myself that the strong minds are really the weak minds. I firmly believe there are unlucky days and lucky days, and I mark them gladly as people marked them of old at Rome, and you are now mark at me at Madagascar. For all the gold in the world I would not put a shoe or stocking on the right foot first, and I never laugh on Friday for fear of weeping on Sunday."

"You speak of vampires? You deny that vampires exist? Leave en scene!"

There was a profound silence, and the Marquis, after having passed his hand over his pale face, said, with a slight trembling in his narrative—the echo of fear:

"I was traveling on the banks of the Danube, two years ago. I was traveling alone. A companion is sometimes embarrassing. For anyone it is better to be alone." When I could leave my guide in an inn hotel I did so gladly, and I went out on foot, without any other companion than my thoughts, for days together. I used to leave, see, write, think. The language was tolerably familiar to me. I liked to talk to the peasants and I met. These good people do not look upon a stranger as an enemy; I knew, too, how to secure a welcome; I always carried with me a grand full of good liquor and some amulets against witchcraft. I made presents without expecting one, and if by chance I used to ask for some story, and I never had to press.

"It was thus that I had been received with open heart by Viecz Baglianovich, a rich farmer, loyal, jovial, a free laugher and a free drinker, who used to sip me songs watered by frequent libations, and used to say to me, pointing to his daughter Helen:

"'She is the pearl and rose of Prestag. It is because she has a fresh face and blooming health that I can say to you with a gay mouth: My little Helen, here is a good journey to you!'

"Helen was indeed pretty, but as I am neither a painter nor a novelist, I shall not paint her portrait. You have seen the eastern types of Delacroix, a brunette with the breath of life and make them live again in your thoughts. I remained for three days with Viecz Baglianovich. At the end of that time the rain was falling.

"'We shall have it for a long time, now,' said my host, 'and you cannot resume your journey during such weather.'

"The country was, in fact, nothing but a vast marsh; the flooded river, like a muddy lake, spread its yellow waters; and in the plain, furrowed with streams that increased each day, the trees set off their meagre branches sadly against a low, damp and gray sky. I thanked Baglianovich, and told him that I would remain in his dwelling until the return of the sunbeams.

"'May the sunbeams never return then,' said my host, gayly, 'and may this infernal brother continue, if not for long months.'

"That very evening as we were at table there came a brusque knock at the door. Who could it be, who came after us at the roads at such an hour in such weather? Everybody in the village was shut up in his house; you could hear the wind wailing, and the willows waving their disheveled branches. Baglianovich rose and opened the door. An old man and a young man, the French fashion, wrapped up in a large black mantle, which was all wet and splashed once over with traveling boots.

"'Will you not grant me hospitality?' he said, in a metallic voice which made me shudder. 'I am a stranger.'

"'Come in,' said Viecz Baglianovich, 'drink, eat and rest yourself. Sleep under my roof as if you were under your own; you are at home. Eh, by Saint Hyacinth, the headed, 'a man must be the devil himself to put foot out of doors in such weather.'

"The stranger approached the fire and held his feet and hands to the flame. He was pale, very pale, with long black hair. It nose, a brusque profile, thin lips; but what struck me was that him were his hands long, thin, delicate, almost always motionless hands, white and transparent as wax.

"He said nothing. I went up to him and asked him if he was French.

"'Yes,' he replied.

"He added some commonplace details about his life, but I learned nothing in particular. It seemed as if he wished to hide something from me. I confess I have felt an unceasing urge to insist. I left him to his reverie, and I looked at him for a long time of instinctive dread. I turned round and saw Helen with her eyes glued and fixed upon the stranger. At that moment Baglianovich rose.

"'You must need rest,' he said to his new guest. 'Come!'

"The stranger rose, saluted me politely, and went out fixing a glance upon Helen. I saw her become pale; she stood up and huddled herself up in a corner, and I heard her weeping.

"The stranger remained ten days in the house of Viecz Baglianovich, and from day to day Helen became whiter and whiter; her body grew weak and thin, immaterialized and her hands resembled the bloodless hands of the stranger. In brief, one morning she was found dead in her bed.

"With wild grief, the father threw himself into my arms, appealing to death and cursing God.

"'No!' I said to him. 'Viecz Baglianovich, do not die. Before you go join Helen, think that you can avenge her!'

"'Avenge her!' he said, with the roar of a lion.

"'Do you not see,' I continued, 'that she has been killed by a vampire?'

"The old Montagne bounded like a jackal and sprang to his arms, hung up over the chimney.

"'Yes!' he said, 'the stranger! the stranger!'

"And with one bound he rushed to the chamber of the man with the waxen hands.

"The stranger was not there. Viecz Baglianovich ran all over the village crying aloud for the murderer of his child. A beggar man, a player on the guzla, had seen the stranger that very morning fleeing away toward Vorzaraz. Viecz Baglianovich saddled his horse. He armed and Vorzaraz the same evening. The stranger had just left the village. They showed Viecz Baglianovich the road that the man had taken. Viecz Baglianovich caught him up on the road from Vorzaraz and Kasno. He seized him by the throat and plunged his poniard into his neck. The next day Viecz was at Prestag, and was present at the funeral of his daughter. In the evening we were both alone before the empty hearth. The wind was whistling outside, and the rain falling.

"Suddenly there was a knock at the door. It was I who opened this time, and I drew back terrified. Upon my honor we then saw enter the man with the waxen hands, pale, stiff as a corpse, with a gaping wound in his throat, but a calm smile on his lips, a calm and mocking smile. He said nothing; he went straight to Viecz Baglianovich, who watched him with a wild air; he stooped down and the wound went out. Then Baglianovich uttered a cry of mad and rushed out, but he saw nothing in the profound darkness.

"'To-morrow,' he said, as he came in, 'I will go to adopt the Kasno road and demand the body. I had forgotten that; I will drive a stake through its heart. The vampire then will not return.'"

"Beg..." interrupted Madame de Rigny, 'your story is horrifying, Marquis, and I will tell do not know whether I ought to allow you to continue it. Have pity on our sleep.'

On the contrary, the blonde and sentimental Mlle. de Rigny, who adored the works of Anna Radcliffe, was loud in the continuation of the story.

"I have finished," said M. de Rouvre. "The body of the stranger had been found on the road to some miles from carried to a neighboring farm. It was thither that Viecz Baglianovich was taken.

"'It is the body of a vampire!' said the father. 'He has killed my daughter.'

"He took a stake, sharpened like a lance, and plunged it into the breast of the corpse; immediately blood spouted from its eyes; a flood of blood spurted from his mouth, and left B Baglianovich turned toward the kneeling shepherds:

"'My children, this one is smitten with impotence. God wishes us to pray for the hangman and for his victim. Pray for Helen and pray for him.'"

At the moment when Gontran de Rouvre was just finishing his story he was adding that Viecz Baglianovich died of grief, the door of the salon was violently and the servant announced Mr. Vieber de Bermont. A fine young man was seen to enter, pale, and dressed all in black, as he had recently went forward to greet the new comer, Gontran uttered a cry and became as pale as a corpse. Mr. de Bermont looked at him with astonishment, and then saluted him politely.

"'Madame est servie!'" said the lackey. Gontran hastened to Mme. de Rigny.

"'Countess,' he said, in a trembling voice, 'do you not see that man?'"

"'I am his godmother. Where do you come from, Monsieur?'"

"'Ah! I am mad!' said Gontran. 'Do you know where I thought I recognized him?'"

"'No.'"

"'Who?'" said Louise, advancing.

"'The man with the waxen hand!'"

The company passed into the dining-room, where the most magnificent dinner that served. As he took M de Rouvre and Louise. Gontran could not keep his eyes off Mr. de Bermont.

"'How is it,'" he asked Louise, "'that I have never before seen Mr. de Bermont at your mother's house?'"

"He was in Germany when you were presented to us; he has only arrived in Paris within the last few days.'"

"'It is not! it is he?'" thought Mr. de Rouvre, as he kept examining him, and his eyes rested on Mr. de Bermont's hands. They were white, delicate and graceful as the hands of a woman. Gontran fancied that he was dreaming. Mr. de Bermont had, in common with the vampire of Prestag, not only an astonishing resemblance, but this electric peculiarity of dead hands. Assuredly the vampire and he were one. Or rather Mr. de Bermont was no other than the stranger whom Viecz Baglianovich had killed. There was no doubt about it. Mme. de Rigny was just talking to Mr. de Bermont. Gontran felt himself start as he heard the metallic ring of of voice. He shuddered and fixed on Mr. de Bermont his eyes, suddenly dilated with a sort of a static expression of hate. Gontran felt himself seized by a sudden fit of wrath, and he only controlled himself by a violent effort. He passed his hand across his brow several times as if to drive away some thought, then, to distract himself he took part in the conversation, which had become general.

The talk at that moment turned upon travels, adventures, Chinese, Aztecs. Mr. de Rouvre found the opportunity to talk about the Danube and to embarrass Mr. de Bermont, the vampire of Prestag.

After having spoken of the marshes and willows of the country, the guzla players, the shepherds and so forth, he turned toward Mr. de Bermont and asked him somewhat brusquely:

"'But have I not had the pleasure of meeting you in those parts?'"

Mr. de Bermont smiled and replied that the Marquis was mistaken, and that his travels had been bounded by the Alps and the Pyrenees; that he had been along the banks of the Rhine and had once he had passed through London, though so hurriedly that he had not had time to see the Crown diamonds at the Tower.

Gontran could hardly contain himself. The sang-froid of Mr. de Bermont was too much for him. He did not doubt for a moment but that Mr. de Bermont was the man whom he had already met. Everything betrayed it, even to those white, corpse-like hands. He remarked also that Victor's glance became fixed upon Mlle. de Rigny, who seemed to be fascinated by it, and who did not remove her eyes from the pale face of the young man, whom Gontran saw smile with an air of wicked triumph. The Marquis felt himself seized with a veritable vertigo. It seemed to him that he was no longer in the Countess' house, but in some fantastic world. The nightmare of a waking man became soon so unbearable and so terrible that Gontran rose, left the dining-room and threw himself into the first arm-chair that he found, closing his eyes and burying his face in his hands. It seemed to him that if his brain were in ebullition or that a legion of gnomes were teazing him.

"'Oh! what a man,'" he said; "'I hate him! But who is he? The godson of Mme. de Rigny? They never spoke to me about him. Eh? No! a thousand times no; it is the murderer of Helen. Viecz Baglianovich, too, would recognize him?'"

Mr. de Rouvre returned to his home thoroughly persuaded that Providence, in making him face to face with the vampire of Prestag, had assigned him an important role, that, namely, of delivering the de Rigny family from such a monster. It was more than a role which he had to fulfill, it was a duty. How could he succeed in his task? He would reflect, but he would certainly act soon and would show himself perfectly implacable.

Gontran passed a very agitated night. All the superstitions of his youth, all the black and blue tales that he had read in his early years, all the marvelous and grotesque masters of alchemy, necromancy, magnetism combined to procure him the most dreadful visions and the most complicated dreams. In the morning he was worn out, and livid. He rose almost with pain and hurried to the Countess and her daughter to frankly and clearly what he thought of Mr. de Bermont.

"'You are joking!'" said Madame de Rigny. "'You are joking, Monsieur le Marquis. Besides, I see through your game—you are jealous.'"

"'I jealous?'"

"'Yes, of Mr. de Bermont. You know that he has asked Louise's hand and that I find it an easy way to get rid of a rival to treat him as a vampire.'"

She was laughing. Gontran became pale and said to her, trembling:

"'I beseech you, madame, remove Mr. de Bermont from your house. Superstition or folly, I feel that that man brings misfortune with him. He is not the stranger of Prestag; I admit that, but he is the evileye, the jettatore of Paris. It is not he killed Helen, I admit, but it is he who will kill Louise!'"

"'Indeed, Marquis,' said the Countess, becoming pale in turn, 'think what you are saying. Such a suspicion is absurd, it is calumny, Mr. de Rouvre.'"

"'Say that it is cowardice!' cried the Marquis. 'But I love Louise. Is she not my fiance? Oh! I will save her, and, perhaps I will save her in spite of herself. That Mr. de Bermont, if it be needful, I will kill him!'"

"'You are really mad, Mr. de Rouvre,'" said the Countess. "'What warlike mood is this? Do you what Dante calls the lust of blood invaded you? Do you not know,'" she added, laughingly, "'that vampires cannot be killed?'"

"'Yes,' replied coldly Mr. de Rouvre; 'if you tear out their heart, burn it and scatter the dust to the four winds.'"

This time the Countess shuddered, drew back involuntarily, and looked with terror at this man, dressed in the latest and most elegant fashion, who played with his stick and talked of killing a man, simply because he suspected him of vampirism. This fanatic he varnished boots was really terrible; his wild eye, his clenched teeth, his purple lips, would have terrified a less courageous woman than Madame de Rigny. Hardly reassured, the Countess bitterly lamented the existence of Victor de Bermont. He was the most amiable and unfortunate man in the world, and a little cold, enthusiastic enough to love and egotist enough to be loved, witty without humor at all, and the possessor of a mediocre fortune which, however, his economical habits made considerable. He lived in retirement; he was an enemy of society, but not of men capable of utter devotion—who knows?—and incapable of the slightest caprice.

That very evening Gontran learned that M. de Bermont lived in the Rue Garde-in an entresol strangely furnished, as the door-porter said; that he came home regularly at midnight and never left his home before noon; and, finally, that he had a German servant named Gerder. All these circumstances seemed exceedingly romantic to the Marquis de Rouvre. In the first place, what in idea to go and live in the Rue Garde instead of the Avenue de Villiers! and the street narrow. One must certainly be love with solitude to go and live there. Then that regularity of conduct, those fixed habits, that life of discipline, was not all that a proof that Mr. de Bermont was hiding some terrible secret? From that moment Gontran's brain was i rise a furnace. He conceived a thousand wild projects; he had, like a celebrated publicist, Emile de Girardin, at least one idea a day for getting rid of the man whose presence annoyed him. He first of all thought of provoking him to a duel, but that was too vulgar a way to kill a vampire.

His visits to the Hotel de Rigny became rarer. He remarked that the Countess received him with a sort of coldness When he spoke of marriage one evening, Mme. de Rigny made an evasive answer. He insisted, and asked her for a plain reply. Mme. de Rigny replied that Louise was very unwell.

"'Of course she is!'" said the Marquis, his eyes darting fire. "'It is that wretch! it is he!'"

"'Of whom are you speaking?'" said the Countess.

"'I will kill him,'" said Mr. de Rouvre, without replying.

He left Mme. de Rigney entirely convinced of his madness.

"'Poor fellow!'" said Mlle. Louise in the evening, when the Countess informed her of the unhappy event. "'Perchance Mr. de Bermont does not end in the same way,'" she added with a sigh.

Gontran returned to his home in a high state of excitement, instinctively he glanced first of all at a panoply that adorned the wall of his cabinet. Suddenly he seized a little Spanish poniard, detached it from the wall, and examined it for a long time. The poniard came from Toledo, and dated from the sixteenth century. On the hilt, in the form of a cross, was a cipher of the Santa Maria virgen, and on one of the Castilian blades had engraved a pious inscription:

Por ever. por patria.
Por Dios y por Maria.

"'The arm is blessed!'" said Gontran. "'With it I will strike!'"

The next day he rang at Victor's door. Gerder opened; the valet was alone.

"'How often must I zero you to let me in here to-morrow, after midnight?'" said Gontran.

The German looked at the Marquis with an astonished air. Gontran repeated the question.

"'But who are you?'" said Gerder.

"'I am the Marquis de Rouvre. I am neither a thief nor a malefactor. I want to cut off a lock of your master's hair while he is asleep. It is a bet that I have made; do you understand?'"

"'Oh! if it is a bet!' said Gerder, holding out a hand, which the Marquis filled with gold.

Mr. de Rouvre came the same night. Gerder came and opened the door softly.

"'Is it you, mon maître?'"

He felt a few more louis slip into his hand.

"'Yes, it is you. Come!'" he added.

He conducted Gontran across a vast room into an alcove lighted by a single lamp.

"'There he is!'" he said, pointing to his sleeping master. Mr de Bermont was pallid, and slept with his eyes half open. His white hands were suspended from the ceiling by hoops of velvet, and his hair was fixed indeed in a sort of red-colored cup. The lamp shed a sinister light over his thin face.

"'Well!'" said Gerder, as he saw Gontran look fixedly at the sleeper, "'Cut off the lock!'"

Gontran felt a cold sweat cover his whole body; his hair stood on end, he shuddered, drew back, advanced, drew back again.

"'Make haste!' said Gerder. 'If he were to awaken—'"

"'He will not awaken.'" replied Gontran. "'I rule saw him sleep with his eyes full mo mint; he heard a terrible cry and saw the Marquis knivi, his mouth contracted, rise up and gain the door walking backwards.

Mr. de Bermont was still in his bed, pale and inanimate. Only his eyes were open and the light shone on the hilt of the poniard that had transfixed his heart. Gerder thought it prudent to inform the police of what had taken place. The commissary hastened to the spot.

"'My master,'" said the German, "'was a man of regular habits, who lived religiously and ranged his appetite and his habits strictly. He used to sleep with his hands in the air, in order to have white hands. He had no enemies; I do not know why that man assassinated him.'

The Marquis de Rouvre was arrested late at the moment when he was about to blow out his brains. The Marquis was at first judged. According with the reports of the doctors, he was taken to the asylum of Dr. F——, where he now is. He is the calmest and gentlest of the inmates of that establishment. His frenzy has calmed down; he thinks now that he is the husband of the fairy Urgell, and he passes his time playing builata in her honor.

Mlle de Rigny has consoled herself by marrying Mr. de Langterre, one of those bald young men who had received the story of Gontran de Rouvre with benevolent incredulity.—Translated from the French of Jules Claretie