Here’s something different for you this week, a French ghost story for Hallowe’en. The Auvergne, a stunningly beautiful mountainous region, is a couple of hours away from us. Like every country area, it’s teeming with legends about ghosts and mythical beasts.

In times past, neighbours came together on winter nights in one another’s houses to carry out collective tasks like shelling walnuts. To pass the time, they gossiped and told jokes and stories. Many of the stories had a moral. Some were designed to chasten children, others simply to satisfy our primal need for narratives to make sense of the world. The scarier the better.

This tale comes from an area we know well, the Cère Valley in Cantal. I have adapted it from the original, of which several versions exist. I hope you enjoy it!

The Infernal Huntsman

A castle once stood near the village of Malbo, high above the Cère Valley. The baron was a brutal and dissolute man, who loved hunting and drinking. So godless was he that he thought nothing of hunting at Easter instead of going to Mass.

He ignored the peasants’ pleas not to flatten their crops and set his pack of vicious dogs on them when they complained. If they got in the way of the hunt, they were trampled beneath the horses’ hooves.

As the years unfolded, the baron’s joints ached at the end of the hunt. Sensing old age creep up on him, he muttered, “Give me another thirty years, and the Devil can take my soul.”

Instantly, the Devil appeared, dressed in fine clothes like a nobleman. Smiling, he granted the baron’s wish and promised him another thirty years for the price of his soul. The baron considered this a fair exchange and expected to continue his debauched lifestyle uninterrupted in Hell. The Devil seemed a reasonable sort of fellow to him, different from the way he was depicted.

For thirty years, the baron dedicated himself to hunting, carousing and terrorising the local people. He lived so long that his cronies believed he was immortal.

But one night, after a particularly savage hunt, he fell dead while raising his goblet of wine to his lips. The servants laid out his body and set two men to watch over it for the night.

At midnight, a fierce gust of wind tore at the shutters and roused the guards, who were dozing on their feet. They rushed to the window and pushed open the shutters, but the woods were still. The motionless leaves reflected the moonlight.

All at once, a magnificent stag appeared, careering across the plateau, pursued by a pack of slavering dogs and a throng of ghostly riders. Their hunting horns and the hounds’ baying were silent. Behind them ran a man dressed in red, brandishing a whip and a sword: the baron. His face twisted in a skull-like grimace. His eyes glowed like coals. Every step was laboured, as if his boots were weighed down with lead.

The guards turned to the bier, where the baron’s earthly body lay, cold and still. Shivering with terror, they crossed themselves and slammed the shutters closed. 

The villagers buried the baron’s body in haste and razed his castle to rubble. But the Devil held him to his pact. The baron and his ghostly pack are condemned forever to hunt on the high plateau every night at midnight. People close their shutters, bolt their doors and turn their faces to the wall.

Wayfarers passing late at night by the crossroads between Malbo and Brezons are advised to pray and trace a protective circle around them with a stick. Above all, they must avoid the baron’s gaze or they will go mad.

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Chasse volante legends

This is one of many legends found throughout Europe about la chasse volante or fantastique (Wild Hunt). In the majority of cases, the story concerns someone who has infringed a sacred law: leaving Mass, or not turning up at all, in order to pursue their obsession with hunting. The punishment they incur is to hunt for eternity without catching their prey. Additional torments usually embellish the legends.

Some believe that the story above is based on the life of Pierre de Brezons who had his younger brother assassinated in 1400. A cross marks the site of the crime. Like the baron in the story, Pierre de Brezons was notorious for being a blasphemer who never went to Mass.

Another story relates that Pierre’s descendant, Charles de Brezons, governor of the Haute-Auvergne, passed by the high plateau en route to Aurillac in September 1561. Charles was known for his antipathy towards, and cruel treatment of, the Huguenots. He had a ghastly vision, after which he was a gibbering wreck, although he apparently recovered later. The assumption is that he had looked upon his ghostly ancestor.

Toussaint

Tomorrow is Toussaint (All Saints’ Day), an important public holiday in France, when French people honour their dead. They visit their relatives’ graves and decorate them with pots of chrysanthemums, which have been for sale in the shops for several weeks.

In fact, le jour des morts is actually on 2nd November, but since that isn’t a public holiday, from the 19th century people have celebrated their dead at Toussaint. It’s a time for contemplation, remembrance and family reunions.

In the meantime, the boundary between the material and the spirit worlds is at its thinnest on All Hallows Eve. Wishing you a happy Halloween.

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