Beast Read online

Snarling, the Beast rushed in behind her. Pebbles scattered, striking the girl. The Beast thrust a misshapen muzzle within the opening, snapping its jaws. She felt its hot breath.

  The smell. She clapped her hands to her face and shrank back.

  Outside, the Beast paced. The baby goat bleated. There was a pause. The girl’s heart pounded. The Beast seized the kid in its jaws and shook. The little goat cried out piteously for its mistress.

  “My baby!” shouted the girl. “Let him alone!” Without thinking, she lunged from the cave. “Get away, you devil!” she exclaimed, hurling a stone. The Beast dropped the goat.

  Then—according to the 1889 chronicle of Abbé Pierre Pourcher—the Beast, “quick as lightning, jumped on the girl and ate her almost completely.”

  And so Madeleine Paschal, a fourteen-year-old shepherdess from Auvers, became the sixty-sixth victim of the Beast of the Gévaudan.

  ***

  A twelve-year-old boy was killed on September 12 in Paulhac, another on November 1: “Jean Pierre Ollier of La Soucheyre, aged about twelve years, was devoured … by La Bête Féroce, which is eating everybody …”

  The Beast seemed to be on hiatus from November 2, 1766, until March 2, 1767, as far as records show. But then it returned for what would be a final killing spree.

  CHAPTER 16

  Ténazeyre

  From March 2 through the end of May 1767, about three months, thirteen people lost their lives, an average of about one death per week, including seven children, five teenagers, and a forty-eight-year-old woman. Many were around the parishes of Saugues, La Besseyre-Saint-Mary, Grèzes, and Auvers. Two females were killed on May 5. There were possibly as many as thirty attacks altogether during this period.

  June 1767

  Tradition holds that, in the face of these new predations, the terror-fraught peasantry came together for support at community gatherings and pilgrimages to sacred sites of the Virgin Mary: Nôtre-Dame d’Estours near Saugues, and Nôtre-Dame Beaulieu, “lovely place,” near Paulhac. Throngs of Gévaudanais came out, praying for deliverance from this latest onslaught.

  Pilgrim Jean Chastel famously had his blunderbuss (the word comes from the Dutch for “thunder-box”)—a short-range gun loaded with shot, slugs, nails, etc., to cover a wide area—and his ammunition—cast from “leaden medals of the Virgin of the type affixed to the brim of one’s hat”—blessed by the priest.

  Many historians say such pilgrimages would have been unlikely in May and June, as it would have been in the midst of the busy spring agricultural season. However, Judith Devlin says it was common for country people to embark on pilgrimages in which they followed time-honored rituals appropriate to each sacred site, be it church or fountain. These pilgrimages were not made for spiritual salvation, but rather to bring about solutions to various real-life problems, from finding husbands to keeping livestock safe from wolves.

  From June 1 through June 17, there were yet more attacks, perhaps half a dozen. Nine-year-old Catherine Chautard of Le Malzieu was killed on June 12. On June 18, Jeanne Bastide of Desges, nineteen years old, perished.

  The wave of new attacks compelled the Marquis d’Apcher, now twenty years old, to renewed action. It was close to midnight on June 18, soon after the most recent fatal assault, when the young nobleman, on impulse, managed to convince twelve locals to accompany him on a hunt, among them Jean Chastel and three of his sons.

  Under the light of a pallid half moon, the group and their dogs hastened to the vicinity of the crime, searching the dense forest far into the night.

  Finally, the exasperated marquis stopped his mount on the banks of a stream and dismounted, allowing the horse to drink. The elder Chastel followed suit.

  “The Beast has eluded us once more!” The marquis said in despair.

  Chastel looked up above the trees. He studied the stars thoughtfully.

  “Let’s try the Ténazeyre woods, Marquis,” he said quietly. “Perhaps we’ve driven him there.”

  It was nearly four o’clock on the morning of June 19 when the thirteen arrived at Ténazeyre, on the lower slopes of Mont Mouchet—where, one hundred seventy-seven years later, during World War II, French countrymen would fight a different kind of evil.

  Among the silent, resin-scented pines, the weary hunters regrouped, resuming their efforts in a rolling pre-dawn fog so dense that their dogs, scrutinizing it, growled from deep within their throats as if it were a living thing.

  On all minds was the ever-persistent question: Would this new day be the day?

  ***

  Jean Chastel had moved away from the others, who were now crashing through the underbrush some distance from him, startling wildlife, searching for the enemy.

  The dawn had come and gone and he had not yet paid his respects to Our Lady.

  He stopped at the Sogne (marsh) d’Auvers, placed his gun against a tree, and retrieved his spectacles and prayer book from his pockets.

  The sun, still cloaked in a misty gauze, shone down through the trees.

  Chastel prayed.

  The wind muttered among the pines.

  A twig snapped.

  Chastel calmly looked up from his book. There, through the pines, was one of the marquis’s dogs coming toward him, in hot pursuit of—

  —the Beast.

  “In a spirit of piety and confidence,” Chastel finished his prayers and slipped his book and spectacles into a waistcoat pocket.

  The monster turned, to the dog’s surprise, and lunged at the canine, snapping, savagely biting its nose and face. The dog howled, blood running into its eyes.

  Chastel took up his gun.

  The Beast proceeded on its course, moving fast, winding through the trees.

  Then it saw Chastel.

  It slid to a stop.

  Chastel did not move.

  Man and menace faced one another.

  Chastel ticked off all the characteristics of the Beast: the immense size, the odd coloring, the blazing orbs.

  Like a wolf and yet not a wolf.

  He fired.

  BAM! The shot echoed through the woods of Ténazeyre.

  It was good.

  The medals of Our Lady hit home.

  The shot severed the animal’s trachea. The Beast shuddered, as if something possessed it. It stumbled, got up, stumbled again.

  Chastel waited as the chalky gunsmoke cleared.

  The Beast fell.

  It did not get up again.

  Sides heaving, fighting for its breath, it focused on Chastel with a savage look.

  And then the hunter watched as the embers of its eyes faded and went out at last.

  “Beast,” said Chastel softly, “thou will eat no more.”

  A griffon vulture, Gyps fulvus, circling above, gave a raspy cry.

  ***

  “Jean! Are you well?”

  D’Apcher materialized in the mist.

  Chastel said, “Marquis, our prayers have been answered.”

  Epilogue

  After the Ténazeyre creature was killed by Chastel, its remains were taken to d’Apcher’s château and, as with the Beast of Chazes, thoroughly examined by local surgeons, in this case Boulanger, father and son, with the results confirmed by Roch-Étienne Marin, royal notary.

  Nearly two centuries later, a document confirming Chastel’s deed was found in the National Archives of France. He received a modest reward.

  Legend has it Chastel is said to have taken the Beast’s remains to Versailles, accompanied by a d’Apcher servant named Gilbert who, after their by-then malodorous offering was rebuffed by the king, interred it somewhere on the palace grounds. However, many believe this anecdote to be a part of tradition. Louis XV may have been hunting at his summer residence, Compiègne, north of Paris, at this time of the year.

  In any case, three years and six days after the first herdgirl, Jeanne Boulet, was laid to rest in Les Hubacs, a July 7, 1767, communication authorized by notary Marin stated, “The monster of the Gévaudan is no longer … tr
anquility reigns in the country … Children which were contained within their homes so long lead their cattle to pasture safely, and men of mature age leave them these tasks to resume those more substantial and more fruitful.”

  ***

  The Bishop of Mende, coincidentally, passed away that very day.

  Afterword

  Paris, early 1900s

  Paul Le Blanc, a visitor to Paris, wandered its Jardin des Plantes, the National Museum of Natural History, taking in its exhibits of plants, minerals, and fossils. Founded in 1626, the Jardin was originally Jardin du Roi, the King’s Garden.

  But where were the remains of La Bête?

  He proceeded to the main desk. The lone administrator seemed extremely busy.

  Inexplicably, Le Blanc’s heart began to race.

  The administrator barely glanced at him, rustling papers. “Oui?” (“Yes?”)

  Le Blanc took a breath. “I am inquiring,” he said, “about a creature killed by one Monsieur François Antoine in 1765.” He referred to his carnet, or notebook. “It was originally exhibited in the Jardin du Roi.”

  “Oui.”

  “Is it … here?” Le Blanc blurted.

  The administrator rolled his eyes. “That specimen? Non. We disposed of it not long ago.”

  “Disposed of it?” Le Blanc exclaimed.

  Other visitors stared.

  “Monsieur, please,” said the administrator.

  “But,” Le Blanc sputtered. “It was La Bête Féroce!”

  “Non.” The administrator sniffed. “It was a hairless remnant rustique from another time. Destroyed according to the policies of the museum.” He arched an eyebrow, returning to his papers. “Why would someone of this century ever want to see such a thing?”

  Part 2.

  The Hunt for Truth

  CHAPTER 17

  Hypotheses

  Whence this creature came no one knew; as to what he was like no two persons could agree; but the terror inspired by his presence was universal.

  —Charles Dickens

  The 2001 French film Le Pacte des loups (Brotherhood of the Wolf), directed by Christophe Gans, is a lush kaleidoscope of entertaining elements, from exotic armored attack beasts with fangs of steel, to an investigative French naturalist and his friend, a Native American martial arts expert, to religion, revolution, secret societies, and much more, all set against a “gloriously atmospheric” (according to the late film critic Roger Ebert) backdrop. And, as Ebert pointed out in his January 2002 review, it’s based on a true story.

  The real deal is no less intriguing. What or who was responsible for the attacks in the Gévaudan? Since the time of the Beast, many unusual suspects have been considered culpable for the approximately two hundred attacks that took place between 1764 and 1767. Besides a wolf or wolves, historians, researchers, and novelists have speculated about a hyena, a bear, a primate, a lion, wolf-dog hybrids, animals thought to have been extinct, a werewolf, a mad human trainer of attack animals, a new species, and the Marquis de Sade.

  Through the years, and especially during the twentieth century, French books, novels, dramas, periodicals, websites, films, television programs, comics, and graphic novels have presented the story of the Beast, along with various hypotheses as to the events of 1764, 1765, 1766, and 1767.

  Conjectures

  There are a number of camps: One believes wolves are blameless, as, generally speaking, in our modern world, Canis lupus is a reserved and cautious animal, as far as humans go. Therefore, lovers of the wolf credit the theory that the culprit, if an animal, had to have been a hyena or other exotic animal, or possibly some sort of hybrid animal.

  In 1911, Doctor Paul Puech, a professor of the University Montpellier’s medical faculty, proposed in a paper that there were three possible culprits. First, wolves. Second, cruel jokesters who may have been responsible for some of the Beast’s more fabulous behavior, such as peering through the window of the home of one of its young victims, even as preparations were underway for the child’s funeral. Third, a maniac who, dressed in wolfskin, preyed upon children using the Beast’s attacks to cover up his own perversions. Perhaps he used one or more dogs outfitted in suits of armor of tough boarskin to expedite his evil actions. In responding to Puech, Richard Thompson points out that wolf attacks at the time were not unusual, and generally the natives were prepared to stave off such predators with staffs, pikes, and whatever else was available. What was uncommon were mortalities, “especially on the scale experienced in the Gévaudan.”

  The Dogs of War

  French writers Abel Chevalley and Henry Pourrat of the 1930s and 1940s, respectively, among others, introduced now-popular ideas that have been modified and reinforced so that they are often taken to be historical fact. There are those who support the ideas put forth by Chevalley and Pourrat, that the animal was an armored attack dog or another creature trained by Antoine Chastel. Chevalley held that Count Morangiès was in league with Antoine; Pourrat that Antoine acted alone, and that his father, Jean Chastel, eventually ended the affair by putting down the animal himself.

  Some believe the Beast was covered in boarskin in order to deflect eighteenth-century musket balls. Boarskin was also proposed by Raymond Francis Dubois and supported by zoologist Louis Michel, not only for its level of protection, but because it would present the dorsal stripe for which the Beast was famed. Dogs have been used, and are used, as formidable agents of war in military organizations since ancient times, often outfitted with various types of armor and spiked collars to protect their throats. Today, the US military’s highly trained dogs of war wear bulletproof armor, protective footwear, “doggles” (canine goggles), and other equipment, depending on the circumstances of each mission.

  ***

  The horrors of the Gévaudan included sixteen known decapitations. Researcher Phil Barnson, of the site www.labetedugevaudan.com, states that after speaking with French rural historian Jean-Marc Moriceau in 2012 and studying the semantics of the documentation related to the beheadings, a human may or may not have been responsible for half of them; the other eight appear to have been carried out by an animal. But, he adds, this does not contribute to the theory of a sadistic killer, or another very disturbing theory: that the murderer may have been collecting victims’ heads. It simply indicates that these incidents were subject to individual interpretation, and the wording used by those whose responsibility it was to create the record succeeded in amplifying the awe and dread of the Beast. He also tells us that of the many attacks in which witnesses were present, their reports spoke of an animal, not a human. Others believe the Beast could have been a disguised and disturbed member of Paris’s beau monde, getting his “kicks” by coming to the Gévaudan to kill children of the rural highlands.

  Count Morangiès of Saint-Alban, son of the most influential nobleman of the area, is also suspected of carrying on a duplicitous existence: on one hand actively partaking in the chasses (hunts) for the Beast in the Gévaudan; on the other, frequenting Versailles and Paris on mysterious business, perhaps related to his many debts, or perhaps as a playboy. Derek Brockis, English translator of the Abbé Pierre Pourcher’s seminal account of La Bête, describes Morangiès as a “powerful local nobleman. Independent abrasive attitude. Suspicious character.” Writer Roger Oulion considered Morangiès to be at the helm of a gang of malefactors carrying out evildoings in the Gévaudan.

  The Marquis de Sade (1740–1814) was even suggested as a potential culprit in the 1962 booklet by Mademoiselle Marguerite Aribaud-Farrère, mentioned in our Foreword, but the time of the Beast prefaced the activities for which he is notorious; in August 1767, he was married and a new father.

  A 2014 novel by French senator Gérard Roche entitled Gévaudan: The Novel of the Beast approaches the story by focusing on one rural family and on what life was like in the Gévaudan. The author says he explored several theories in the course of his writing, including that of the Beast being a result of a collective psychosis after a harsh winter
, or wolves that devoured cadavers left behind after the Seven Years’ War, or that the Beast was an experimental hybrid.

  Religious Turbulence

  Was the Beast an instrument of the seemingly never-ending conflicts between religions? The diocese of Mende became an ecclesiastical, or church, principality in the fourteenth century, when its bishop also became the Gévaudan’s count after negotiating with the king the lands each would rule separately and together. In other words, in his diocese, the bishop of Mende was on equal footing with the king. The bishop at the time of the Beast was Gabriel-Florent de Choiseul-Beaupré. (His cousin, Étienne François Duc de Choiseul, was a prime minister in King Louis XV’s administration.) The bishop held that the Beast was a scourge of God in his famous mandement of 1764, as did nineteenth-century Beast chronicler Abbé Pierre Pourcher.

  Seventy-nine years before the Beast’s appearance, Louis XIV revoked the Edict of Nantes (which had been intended to bring some civil accord between religious factions). The revocation meant that French Protestants who refused to convert to Catholicism were “invited” to leave the country. The Camisards, as mentioned in our introduction, revolted in the early 1700s. The wild mountains of the Beast became a haven for fugitive Protestants. Two centuries later, in the 1920s, the author of the book Undiscovered France came across homes near Florac with large white crosses painted above their doors. This, she was told, signified that the household was made up of Catholics who would not associate with those of the religion réformée. The two faiths “existed side by side in sort of an armed truce.” Richard Thompson points out, however, if the Beast was used in this way, “Catholics got the worst of it, as all of the hundred-odd victims of the Beast were Catholics and there is no record of a series of retaliatory murders in Protestant districts south of the Margeride.” French anthropologist and folklorist Véronique Campion-Vincent mentions another hypothesis sometimes proffered: A Protestant was “settling his scores with the Catholic inhabitants.”