The Dedalus Book of French Horror: The 19th Century (24 page)

Besides, when you took the time to think about it, was this death really so unlikely? Monsieur Mathias had obviously had some foreboding. Had he not, quite recently, ordered the building – by workmen called from Paris for the purpose – of the family chapel which awaited his mortal remains in the cemetery? Moreover, for some time it had been noticed that he appeared worried. He would wander about his own house as if in fear of mysterious thieves. He kept his wife shut up and for weeks on end locked himself in the laboratory, its chimney ablaze at night. Were not these things symptoms of some damage to the brain – Doctor Labarre pronounced knowingly – which had resulted in a haemorrhage.

Well, Monsieur Mathias had been given a splendid funeral. One-third of the entire population had accompanied him to his last resting place and a few eyes were moist when the oak coffin had been lowered into the crypt of the funeral chapel, which was a monument and no mistake, a place where two men of his size might have slept in comfort.

As people left they were wondering what would become of Monsieur Mathias’ widow.

*

Now the truth is that Monsieur Mathias was not dead. Two hours after the ceremony, the latter was to be seen in the vault where the bier had been lowered. There was the sound of two little taps, like the clicking of a spring, and the coffin had opened like a wardrobe, at which Monsieur Mathias had sat up, stretching like a man upon waking. Through a barred opening set high in the wall above him, there fell a ray of light. Monsieur Mathias had got to his feet by now and was slowly rubbing his knees, which had become a little stiff.

In short, he felt perfectly all right, perfectly comfortable. The drug which he had ingested, after having carefully measured out the dosage, had produced exactly the desired effect. He had been believed dead, he had been buried, everything was going according to plan.

Monsieur Mathias had made all his preparations well in advance. Things had been very cleverly worked out down there in the vault. There were some proper clothes, some food provisions, a few bottles of good wine, kept nicely chilled, as everyone can imagine. And since there is nothing like a funeral – even your own – to give you an appetite, Monsieur Mathias, sitting comfortably on his coffin, made his repast and drank to the future.

For it is time to tell you why Monsieur Mathias was there, six feet under, of his own accord.

As ever, a woman came into it. Celibate until the age of forty, Monsieur Mathias, formerly a pharmacist who had made a small fortune from his cramp-relieving pills, had been smitten by the charming Anne Piédefer, the niece of the Lyre-sur-Ys tax collector. He had bluntly made his proposal to the young girl who, just as bluntly, had turned him down, which had rendered him utterly besotted … would you believe it! … like a man of forty who takes it into his head to fall in love. Being by nature dishonest, he had ensnared the tax collector in such devious schemes that within a year the poor wretch was seriously contemplating suicide, in the knowledge that government funds were somewhat diminished. At this point Monsieur Mathias came to his rescue, setting some small conditions of his own. The niece sacrificed herself for the sake of the uncle who had been like a father to her, even despite a very close understanding with a notary’s clerk in the next town. Anne, the doleful victim, became Madame Mathias. She had undergone all the consequences of this catastrophe. But Monsieur Mathias, in all fairness to him, was convinced that she hated him. It was but a step from this to the belief that he was cuckolded, as he deserved. This suspicion degenerated into an obsession. His wife never went out, and no one came to visit his wife. What did it matter. Monsieur Mathias accused himself of ineptitude. If he was unable to catch his wife
in flagrante
it was because he was nothing but a simpleton.

So this brilliant idea had arisen in his mind: to fake a journey; not a journey to Versailles or Le Havre, like husbands in plays, but a much longer journey and one from which return would seem much harder.

And he would come back one of these nights, very much alive, and put his unfaithful wife on the spot.

He had allowed himself three days; he thought about all this with satisfaction as he tucked himself up once more in his coffin.

*

The third day had just ended. Monsieur Mathias was feeling impatient. He waited for the cemetery clock to strike eleven. The time had come.

The plan was well thought out. The cemetery walls adjoined his own property. He had what he needed to dress himself all in black, like the ghost of a pharmacist. He would cover himself in his winding sheet only in the cemetery, in keeping with local colour. Once he was over the wall he would go straight to his wife’s bedroom. And that would be that!

Monsieur Mathias attired himself, and then, everything being just as it should be, he toppled the tombstone, climbed up into the chapel above, opened the door and was outside, his winding sheet under his arm.

Once he was on the pathway, he unfolded the voluminous white sheet and spread it around him to cast it over his shoulders. But the folds were heavy, he could not manage it and had to start again.

‘Wait!’ said a voice behind him, ‘I’ll give you a hand.’

*

If you have never been found at midnight trying to put on your shroud in a cemetery, you will not understand quite how unpleasant this surprise was.

The owner of the voice was the caretaker, old man Grimbot, well-known as a bit of a character in the local taverns. He went up to Monsieur Mathias and peered at him. Then he said:

‘What! It’s you, Monsieur Mathias! … Already!’

Somewhat embarrassed, Monsieur Mathias attempted to muffle himself up, imagining that a sinister appearance would rid him of this annoying encounter. Nothing of the kind. Grimbot gladly gave him a hand, arranging the shroud around him neatly.

‘I have come from my grave …’ Monsieur Mathias began in a sepulchral voice.

‘So I see,’ Grimbot interrupted. ‘You’re in a lot more of a hurry than the others.’

Monsieur Mathias was not listening. He was now walking with great strides on tiptoe, like a ghost.

Grimbot, walking beside him, went on:

‘The others, you see, don’t get the urge right away. Only after a month or two.’

Monsieur Mathias turned round abruptly, waving both his arms:

‘Be off, blasphemer! Be off!’

‘Come now! Come now!’ Grimbot turned paternal. ‘I’m not bothering you … You wanted to take a little walk … just like your pals.’

Disconcerted, Monsieur Mathias walked straight on, not deigning to reply. In the shadows he discerned the cemetery gate. With his customary foresight, he had several louis in his pocket.

‘Enough of your chatter!’ he said, holding out two gold coins to Grimbot. ‘The key!’

Grimbot shrank back:

‘The key! You want to go out, my lad? (somewhat disrespectfully!) Now there’s a notion! Now then! None of that …’

‘Four louis!’ groaned Monsieur Mathias.

‘Listen, you, fellow,’ answered Grimbot, ‘no more of that or I’ll thump you. I’ve got no objections to you leaving your chapel or going for a walk. The others come out too.’

‘The others! What others?’

Grimbot made an ample gesture.

‘The dead, of course!’

‘The dead …! Who is talking about the dead? I’m alive, living!’

‘Sure you are! That’s a good one! Well listen, I’m a decent chap … Come and have a drink.’

His hand fell claw-like on Monsieur Mathias’ wrist, dragging him into the small edifice where he lodged. He shoved him inside a ground floor room.

Monsieur Mathias was literally stunned. Grimbot had pushed the door shut, taken a bottle from a dresser and filled two glasses. He raised his with these words:

‘Your health, Monsieur Mathias!’

*

‘Listen, my good man,’ said Monsieur Mathias, ‘this is your little joke. Fine. But there is a time for everything. You know very well that I’m alive. I allowed myself to be buried for personal reasons. But there is serious business that I must attend to outside. I’ll pay you well, don’t worry …’

While he was talking, Grimbot had progressed slowly around the table and now stood with his back to the door.

‘You’ve got a way with words,’ he sniggered. ‘So you’re alive, eh! You’re not the first to tell me that. I hear some funny ones alright. Mind you, I’m fond of my subordinates. Every night there are one or two that come and have a drink, no standing on ceremony. Last night, it was the notary, you know who I mean – Radel, your nextdoor neighbour … the one with the broken pillar. The night before, it was Madame Claudin, a fine looking woman! I’m good-humoured about it, I let them stretch their legs all night, I have a bit of a natter … But letting them out! – that would be going too far!’

Monsieur Mathias was becoming distraught. Grimbot talked with total calm, like a functionary bent on doing his duty.

He was of medium height, thick-set, with hands like a gorilla’s paws. His eyes were black, shining … Monsieur Mathias shuddered. This was a madman!

Yes, that was the truth of it. He hallucinated. He thought his cemetery was filled with revenants; he lived in a world of fantasy that was the product of his drunkard’s imagination. And he got confused! Yes, my word, he got confused!

Monsieur Mathias started talking, pleading, promising, begging. What! A clever, right-thinking man like Grimbot mistaking him for someone really dead! He burst out laughing …

‘That’s enough!’ Grimbot spoke curtly! ‘What do you take me for? Back inside!’

‘Back inside! Where?’

‘Your own place, of course! At the corner of the third section …’

‘Back to the grave! Never!’

‘You refuse! Once! Twice!’

Monsieur Mathias saw the huge hands quivering. He took fright and looked around, seeking a way out. There was but one. The door, with Grimbot planted right in front of it. It made no difference! He had to get past at all cost. He hurled himself forward, with a shout …

Unperturbed, Grimbot reached out his open hand, his aggressor’s throat firmly in its grip. Monsieur Mathias, hiccupping, tried to put up a struggle. The vice tightened. Monsieur Mathias, hanging from the outstretched arm, went limp. He wriggled a little longer, then stopped moving altogether.

Grimbot was no stranger to such sights. He slung Monsieur Mathias over his shoulder and, walking with the slow, dignified step of the trusty warden, carried him to the chapel, threw him into the crypt, kicked the tombstone back in place, closed the barred opening and returned to his stroll among the graves, grumbling to himself:

‘Have you ever seen the like! Take themselves outside! More than my job’s worth! …’

*

And this was how it came about that the widow of Monsieur Mathias married the man she had always loved.

To Alfred Vallette
¹

When you’re dead, you’re dead.

AN HEIR

Having amassed a considerable fortune by way of his trade as a manufacturer of coffins, Monsieur Fiacre-Prétextat Labalbarie had retired from business at the age of sixty.

He had never let a customer down and the Genevan aristocracy, who had charged him for so long with their commissions, were unanimous in proclaiming his probity and his meticulousness.

The excellent quality of his workmanship, which was conceded even by the mistrustful English, had obtained the universal approbation of Belgium, Illinois and Michigan.

His retirement was thus the cause of a certain amount of resentment in the Old and the New World alike as soon as the international press had, regretfully, announced that this much respected old craftsman was relinquishing the obsequies of the shop counter to dedicate the last years of his life to his beloved studies.

Fiacre was, in fact, a happy old man, whose philosophical and humanitarian vocation had not declared itself until the very moment when fortune – probably considerably less blind, and certainly far less capricious than the empty-headed masses would believe – had at last crowned him with her favours.

Unlike so many others, he in no way despised the entirely honourable and lucrative commerce by which he had raised himself up from virtually nothing to a pinnacle of nigh on ten million francs.

On the contrary, he insisted, with all the naïve enthusiasm of the seasoned campaigner, on the innumerable battle he had fought with competitors, and took pleasure in recalling the rough and tumble, sometimes heroic, of the inventories.

Following the example of Charles V, he had simply abdicated the empire of the invoice in order to embrace a higher life.

In short, having enough to live on, and recognising that his commercial powers were failing him (that indefinable quality of acting naturally, which is so essential to dealings in the business world, together with a penetrating insight into all the chicaneries of which one’s rivals are capable), he had the foresight to withdraw on advantageous terms from a powerful trading position before his professional luck started to desert him.

***

Henceforth, he devoted himself exclusively to the pursuit of worldly pleasures.

Taking stock, not without a touching shrewdness, of the utter failure of every scheme ever devised by the stupid for the relief of poverty, unshakeably convinced moreover of the
usefulness
of the poor, he believed that he could do far better than to employ his financial resources and intellectual acumen in alleviating the misery of the masses.

Consequently, he resolved to apply the final glimmers of his genius to the consolation of millionaires.

‘Whoever thinks,’ he used to say, ‘of the sufferings of the rich? I alone, perhaps, together with the incomparable Bourget,
²
whom my clients so dote on. Because they accomplish their task, which consists of enjoying themselves to the utmost so as to stimulate commerce, we assume too readily that they are happy, forgetting that they also have hearts. We have the impudence to compare their suffering to the vulgar tribulations of the destitute whose duty it is to be miserable; after all, rags and hunger are nothing in comparison with the distress of knowing that one day you must die. But that is the way of things. Only the wealthy realise what it is to die. Vast assets are indispensable to the surrendering of the soul; and that’s just what people fail to realise. Death is only the parting with money. Those who don’t have any wealth aren’t alive; therefore, they are incapable of dying.’