Werewolf of Paris Read Online Free

kindly face. The venerable monk entertained the ladies with tales of the land of Italy, whence he had just come. “It is all sunshine and warmth down there,” he said, and played meditatively with his long beard.
    The ladies shivered with yearning. Outside the wind howled. The draft came in under the door and disturbed the rushes on the floor. A dog—or was it a wolf?—howled beyond in the forest. They crossed themselves. The monk added a few words of Latin.
    One young giant of a Pitaval slapped the table with his chunky hand and laughed hoarsely: “I hear that the men there, and elsewhere too, for the fashion has spread, write poetry, which they sing to the ladies while they twang on a lute. Is that so? Do men do that?”
    The monk added: “It is a pretty and gentle custom. Our Lord too loved peace.”
    The ladies looked wistfully at the friar. He seemed to have some of that southern sun and some of that gentle poetry of love clinging to him. But the men, red from much wine, had already turned away from the monk and were discussing their next boar hunt.
    The fire in the chimney had died down. The smoking candles had burned low. The men and women retired. The monk was permitted to stretch himself out on the floor, with a few sheepskins to protect himself from the cold.
    The silence in the castle was extreme. The darkness complete. The monk threw off his sheepskins and rose slowly. From the folds of his cowl he drew a long, sharp dagger. He, a Pitamont, disguised by a beard grown in secret, was free in the Pitaval castle at night. His breath came and went softly through his parted teeth. He had marked where the men and women had gone to retire and now directed his steps slowly toward the chambers of the sleeping Pitavals.
    He reached the first room. Faint light, from clouds lit by the moon behind them, shone through the narrow window. He dropped to his hands and knees and crept up to the bed. The curtains were parted. Holding his dagger with both hands he drew it aloft and brought it down full force on the man who lay sleeping there. A slush was the only sound, like that which a foul apple gives when you step on it.
    â€œWhat is it, Robert?” the lady beside him whispered sleepily. Already the Pitamont had freed his dagger and brought it down again.
    Silence.
    Pitamont stole softly out of that room of death and on to the next. Not a Pitaval was to be left alive in that castle by the morning. This was to be the end of them.
    But as he groped his way along the wall, his foot caught in a crevice and he went down on his face. His dagger was torn from his hands and went clattering down a short flight of steps.
    â€œHolà! Hugues. Holà! Jouffroy. Light!”
    â€œâ€™Tis only I,” said the monk. The young giant Pitaval, naked, had come up and collared him.
    â€œAnd what are you doing up here?”
    â€œI was only looking for a place to relieve myself,” the friar explained.
    â€œThe ashes of the hearth are not good enough for you?” By this time everybody in the castle was awake, everybody but the two who slept forever.
    In the morning, the new master of the castle of Pitaval was the young giant, heir to his father’s estate. Pitamont, the false monk, was locked in a little cell, where he pondered on the curious mischance that had ruined his plans, so near success. “I am not afraid to die,” he said to himself, with a sneer on his lips.
    In the great central hall, the young giant sat with his pretty wife and thought. “Now what shall we do with your sunny Italian?” he laughed. She turned away and wept.
    He summoned the stone mason from the nearest village. The two sat together for several hours and then the mason called for his assistants and went to work.
    In an interior court of the castle stood an old well that was not often used, a larger and better one having been dug at a more convenient point. The old well was now enlarged down to near