Page:Weird Tales volume 02 number 03.djvu/64

Beginning a Series of Remarkable Articles

□ WEIRD CRIMES □

Not long ago the world was startled by the revelations of the trial of Henri Landru, accused of murdering ten women and an eighteen-year-old boy. "Bluebeard" the newspapers dubbed him, comparing him to the most grisly character in all the fairy tales.

How few of those who echoed the news writer's epithet realized that Landru, who later expiated his crimes upon the guillotine at Versailles, and even the "Bluebeard" whose story still frightens fretful children to stillness, were but amateurs in crime compared to the man who first bore the name; the man whose trial and conviction rocked. Mediaeval France to its foundations, and whose criminal exploits surpass the wildest flights of imaginative fiction! Never in the stories of Poe, of Gautier, of de Maupassant—not even Bram Stoker's Count Dracula—has a character more depraved, more terrible, more fascinating, been portrayed than Gilles de Laval, Sire de Retz, Marshal of France, chamberlain to the French king and cousin to the mighty Duke of Brittany.

"The most monstrously depraved imagination," says a French criminologist, "never could have conceived what this trial reveals. This memorable trial presents horrors unsurpassed in the entire volume of the world's history."

During the year 1440 terrible rumors spread through Brittany, especially through the ancient pays de Retz, which extends along the Loire from Nantes to Paimboeuf.

In hundreds of peasant cottages mothers wept for children they would see no more, and at the village inns, when the laborers repaired from their fields to drink an evening cup of wine, whispered curses, mingled with sighs and exclamations of grief, were heard. And always, when the peasants muttered their sullen complaints to each other, the name of the Sire de Retz was whispered.

In that day the great feudal lords owned the common people almost as absolutely as they owned the land itself, and the Sire de Retz's chateau was strong, his men at arms were many. What could a handful of wooden-shod peasants, armed only with scythes and flails, avail against the King's favorite?

But one last hope remained to the peasantry. Though the chivalry of France was a mighty institution, the Church of Rome was mightier. No noble, be his sword ever so long or his arrogance so great, dared lay hand upon the humblest village priest; and to their spiritual advisers the peasants betook themselves when their pleas to the civil authorities fell on deaf ears.

Word was borne to Jean de Chateaugiron, Bishop of Nantes, that oppression lay heavy upon his people in Brittany, and, like the energetic prince of the church he was, the bishop despatched his agents to investigate the reports.

Gilles de Laval, the investigators found, had suddenly quit a most promising career at court to immure himself in his country seat at Machecoul, a gloomy chateau, composed of huge towers and surrounded by deep moats. Also, since his residence in the country, he had deeded vast tracts of land to John V. Duke of Brittany, in order, it was whispered, to prevent that nobleman's too close scrutiny of his actions.

While the marshal kept closely to his house most of the time, he was wont to make occasional trips to nearby towns, always accompanied by a princely retinue. He spent money with a lavish hand, enriching inn-keepers and tradesmen beyond their wildest dreams, and distributing vast sums of gold to the poor.

It might have been supposed that the townspeople would have welcomed his coming as a visitation from the good Saint Nicholas himself. Yet, the bishop's agents found, whenever the marshal left a town, the cries of the poor, which had been restrained while the clank of his men at arms sounded in the streets, broke forth. Tears flowed, curses were uttered; a long-continued wail went up to heaven. Mothers had lost their children, babes had been snatched from the cradle, infants had been spirited almost from their mothers' breasts; and it was known by sad experience that the vanished little ones would never be seen again.

De Retz's castle at Machecoul was always in condition to resist siege. The drawbridge was raised, the portcullis down, the gates closed, the retainers constantly under arms. No one, except the marshal's own servants, the investigators heard, had even been known to go through the chateau's mysterious gates and come forth alive.

In the surrounding country strange tales of horror and deviltry circulated in hushed whispers. Yet it was observed that the chapel of the castle was gorgeously decked with silk and cloth of gold and the sacred vessels were encrusted with gems. The excessive devotion of the marshal was also noted. He was said to be passionately fond of ecclesiastical music and to hear mass three times daily.

But when dusk settled over the forest, and one by one the castle windows became illuminated, peasants would point to one casement, high up in an isolated tower from which a clear light streamed through the gloom. They told of a fierce red glare which came from that window at times, and of agonized cries—children's cries—ringing from it; cries which had no answer but the howl of the wolf as he rose to quest and kill his prey by night.

{{subst:#if:|[[Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/{{{2}}}, O {{{3}}}|O {{{2}}}]] {{{3}}}|[[Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/{{{2}}}, O|O {{{2}}}]]}}nce or twice a week the drawbridge was lowered and the servants of de Retz stood at the gateway distributing clothes, money and food to the beggars who crowded round. It often happened