The Wolf's Paw by Suzanne LaBounty

Many years ago I heard a story of a doomed young woman, her lot cast, her fate sealed, who found herself stranded in her car on the side of the road. The road in the story ran through a dark snowy forest in the French Alps, probably much like the road we are riding on now, and so I am reminded of it. And like me, this girl, she was alone, in need of a ride. Just as I was when you rescued me from the inn this evening, monsieur.

Halfway around a moonlit bend, so the story goes, her car simply winked off, rolling to a stop against a snow bank. And there she sat beneath the dripping black trees without a phone or heat, her feet as cold as ice. She was a small, mousy girl, as I recall, with limp brown hair and worried brown eyes. Her name was Emilie, which, oddly enough, is my name.

By her watch, it was midnight. Stranded for over an hour, only one car had passed her, and that without even slowing. She was icy miles from the next town. So trapped in her car with her growing fear, Emilie snuggled into her red woolen coat for warmth.

The narrow mountain lane glistened in the moonlight. A wolf howled in the woods to her right and was answered in kind. Soon there were several lupine voices, coming closer, their howling frightening poor Emilie nearly out of her mind. She searched the trees with wide white eyes, terrified of any shadows that might be hungry wolves come to eat her.

Then, a miracle! Car lights appeared in her rear view mirror!

Determined to be saved from the wolves, Emilie climbed bravely out into the oncoming headlights and waved. The car, a big, black Bentley, rolled to a halt where she shivered on the roadside. Its window slid down and a man with silver hair smiled at her from behind the wheel. He had an open, kindly face. And the next thing she knew, Emilie was racing off into the darkness in a long, black sedan. Ah, you see, monsieur, this is how women disappear in the dead of night!

The driver seemed a pleasant old fellow, dressed all in black. He wore boots like a chauffeur, although there was no one riding in the back seat. His name was Grenier, he said. He worked for a Monsieur Vargus. Now Emilie had never heard of this M. Vargus, but Grenier made him sound very grand indeed and called him, with affection, le Maitre de la Foret. Grenier said he was on his way to M. Vargus' country estate where she would be welcome. From there, he said, they would telephone for a tow truck to fetch her car. Happily, Grenier knew a mechanic with whom he often traded favors.

I am sure I can induce the fellow to come out despite the weather. We will have you fixed up in no time. During the ride, Grenier was ever attentive to Emilie in a gentlemanly fashion, increasing the heat to warm her pretty feet, focusing the vents to warm her ivory hands. So, in this way, the Bentley sped through the woods beneath the bright eye of the moon.

Soon Grenier turned off the road onto a neat stone drive that curled up in front of a magnificent white stone mansion, a palace indeed, set back in the forest, all but hidden by snowy pines. A superb example of French architecture, Grenier boasted as the Bentley rounded the drive, built in the late sixteen hundreds, in the time of Louis XIV's reign. He claimed the architect, LaVau, who had built the palace of Versailles, had been the designer. If this is true or not, I cannot say, but Grenier spoke as if he had met the man in person. Emilie was thrilled by the house. She said, It glows like a fairy castle in the moonlight. She called it enchanting.

When they entered the great foyer, with its marble pillars and crystal chandeliers, they were greeted by a sour-faced maid who took her coat. Then Emilie was shown into a parlor where a fire crackled in a king-sized hearth, and Grenier excused himself to call the tow truck, closing the double parlor doors behind him as he went. Alone in the high-ceilinged chamber, thankful for having been saved from the wolves, thankful for a moment to settle herself, Emilie explored the room. One could not help but notice the Vargus family portraits on the walls, each grim visage with the same strange slanting yellow eyes, and great black eyebrows that met over their long noses.

They watched her, those portraits. Especially the one above the fireplace, a Vargus in breeches and a black hunting coat who followed her every movement with sly golden eyes. His painted gaze was unnerving and she did her best to ignore him.

Fortunately, the parlor was filled with amusements. There was a tapestry depicting a boar hunt on one wall, and a life-sized statue of Pan dancing on a table, dozens of antlered trophies mounted on the walls. But the best thing was a gory sort of curio, a wolf's paw embedded in a block of amber. This strange relic sat by itself on a long polished table. Lit by a special light recessed in the ceiling, the amber slab looked like a thick pane of dirty yellow glass with little bubbles trapped in it. The paw inside the amber looked wet. Its claws were black, and bone splinters poked out of the severed end.

The engraved brass plate read Loup Garou, 1615, and below were the words:

Exposed to winds and frosts at night,
My soul is ravaged with delight.

Ah, the wolf's paw, said Grenier when he came into the room and saw her there. We French have suffered terribly from wolves. Our legends of the loup-garou, the werewolf, were created out of our fear of the wolf, I think. He ran his long fingers over the amber block. There is a legend connected to this piece, if you would care to hear it. Please, said Emilie.

In the year 1615, Grenier said, a local villain named Jean De Nynauld raped a peasant girl. A terrible business. However, while defending herself, the girl managed to put three deep scratches across Nynauld's face, marking him as the rapist. Afraid of being punished, Nynauld created a diabolical lie. He claimed the three wounds on his face had been made by a wolf who had attacked him in the night. In the fight against the wolf, he claimed, he had cut off the wolf's forepaw - this very one you see here - which he showed to the authorities.

That same day, of course, the poor girl he had raped was discovered with her hand cut off. Nynauld's doing. He had branded the girl as a werewolf, you see, by cutting off her hand. No one believed her story of being raped. They thought her missing hand was the wolf's paw. She was burned alive as a werewolf. He frowned. I see I shock you, my dear. I apologize. It is a gruesome tale. Those were, after all, barbaric times.

Before Emilie could reply, the maid stepped into the room. She looked pointedly at Grenier with pursed lips. The old man looked out through the tall front windows. Headlights were coming up the drive. The tow truck, said Grenier. He smiled at Emilie. My friend is quick tonight. Eager to exchange a favor. He excused himself and followed the maid out of the room.

Alone, Emilie went to the window. Moonlight shimmered on the snow like crushed pearl. To her left, the tow truck chugged up the drive, dragging her car. She sighed to see it, but as she turned away from the window, she saw a dark figure running out of the pines on her right. A huge wolf, it raced with a fierce, lopsided gait across the lawn toward the entranceway. Black, low to the ground, it sped in from of her window and out of view. Without waiting to be called, Emilie fled the parlor, wishing to warn the others. A wolf! A wolf! she wanted to cry. But when she reached the marble foyer, she stopped and fell silent.

For in the doorway, being attended by Grenier and the maid, was a giant of man who was shaking snow off his shaggy black coat. At her approach, he swiveled his strange sleek head to inspect her. He had slanted yellow eyes shelved beneath a single black brow, and when he smiled at her, his thin lips retreated so completely his back teeth were bared. Grenier introduced him as M. Vargus. The giant bowed his great head to her. Emilie bowed, too, and, looking down, she saw he only had one hand. She could not help but remember the story of Nynauld and the peasant girl and the severed wolf's paw. She recalled the lopsided gait of the huge wolf she had just seen on the lawn. Her head began to swim in confusion. But the maid quickly brought Emilie her red coat and helped her into it. Then Grenier ushered her out the front door into the night.

The huge M. Vargus watched from the doorway.

Outside, loose snow whispered warnings on the wind, the moon watched but could not speak. Grenier helped Emilie into the front seat of the rumbling tow truck. Mute, and a little dizzy, I think, she watched snowflakes collect on the windshield. Fear thumped in her chest. Beside the truck, Grenier was speaking to the driver. She could not hear them. She tried to think, to sort it out. What sinister connection did the wolf's paw in the amber have to M. Vargus' missing hand? She stared numbly, barely breathing. On some level she knew the wolf's paw was M. Vargus' missing hand. But how could that be, her mind cried? C'est impossible! For that would mean the rapist Nynauld had cut off a werewolf's paw by mistake!

Then the driver's door opened and a large bony man climbed in behind the wheel. When he turned to her and grinned, his eyes gleamed like chartreuse, and three scars lined his face. Nynauld! Oh, yes, Nynauld! His dues to Vargus long paid! And poor Emilie, a gift to him like a trussed pig! A gift from that gentle-faced scoundrel Grenier! And away the tow truck went, disappearing down the long drive, swallowed by the dead of night, taking Emilie with it.

Poor Emilie. It is a sad story of innocence lost, n'est ce pas? But fitting, I think. Ah, look, monsieur, the moon, how bright!

©2008 Suzanne LaBounty

Reproduced by kind permission of Suzanne LaBounty

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