Maugis, ye sorcerer from ye ancient French : a wonderful tale from ye writings of ye mad savant of ye Maison Maugis in ye olde citie of Mouzon, France
so that to this day no living thing will grow upon it, and even now, at
midnight, by putting the ear to the ground, the peasantry believe that
the sounds of battle, the crash of arms, and the shrieks of the wounded
and dying may be heard.
“It was in the immense forests, part of which now remain, that
Charlemagne had his hunting lodge, for he was a lover of the chase. It
was nearby that Maugis, the oldest son of Aymon, built the Château de
Montfort, and in it, with his doughty brothers, stubbornly resisted
the king, until finally driven out by treachery. The fortress was then
razed to the ground, so that not a trace of it remains to-day.
“Thus the history of Mouzon has been that of war and vicissitude.
It was held by the Spanish in the middle ages for a long time, and
specimens of their peculiar architecture may yet be seen in these
ancient streets.
“In 1672 the great abbey was pillaged by the iconoclasts and its vast
store of precious manuscripts was destroyed and scattered. I am still
unearthing them from all sorts of queer hiding places.”
The voice of the schoolmaster now ceased. Its echoes died away in
the dim interior. Albert and he arose to visit the organ loft, but
I remained seated, musing. The western sun shone softly through the
lofty, stained glass windows, shooting subdued colored pencils of light
across the worn pavement that finally rested upon and glorified the
recumbent figure of a warrior on a tomb near at hand, and then falling
at my feet, illumined a half-effaced epitaph:
“_Fortiter et recta haec olim_——”
The organ commenced a solemn chant and the vast interior, with an
indescribably beautiful effect, palpitated with soft harmony. As I sat
there, looking upward into the dim obscurity of the beautifully arched
roof, the ghosts of centuries seemed to float before me and a feeling
of awe possessed all my being.
Below my feet rested the ashes of generations of warriors and of
saintly men of peace who had stood before that altar and administered
the beautiful offices of the church. That floor had been trodden by
kings and princes and potentates of high degree, and more than all, by
an immeasurable mass of common humanity, that through the centuries had
prayed, wept and rejoiced within those silent walls.
Ah! if they could only speak!
My reverie was interrupted by the return of my companions; then the
professor bade us adieu.
Albert and I once more were out into the sunlight, when the thought of
that mysterious door in that narrow street came back to me with sudden
force.
“Albert,” said I, “I have an irresistible desire to see the interior of
that queer old house, the professor told us was the home of Maugis, the
sorcerer.”
“I wouldn’t do it,” replied he.
“Why not?”
“Because the professor told me, while we were visiting the organ, that
the occupant of that house was a strange-acting old man, who becomes
very violent when intruded upon. Some regard him as partly insane,
and though he is said to be a very learned man, no one knows anything
of his early history, except that he has occupied the house for many
years. Tradition has it that the house was the home of Maugis, and it
is believed to be haunted. It certainly is the most ancient house in
Mouzon and has a remarkable fireplace, with a huge carved mantelpiece.”
“Will you come with me, Albert?” I insisted.
“Certainly,” replied he; “if you care to risk it.”
We rapped a long time upon the heavy oak door with no result, and were
about to give up in despair when we heard a creaking of bolts and
chains, and it swung partly open on its rusty hinges. A shock head of
iron-gray hair and two wild gray eyes appeared in the opening.
“Monsieur!” said Albert, “this gentleman, who is my guest, is a
foreigner and is much interested in antiquarian research. I have
ventured to intrude upon you in the hopes that you would permit us to
see the interior of this ancient house.”
No answer.
“Our object in coming here is not mere curiosity,” continued Albert;
“we shall feel much concerned to know that we disturb you, or that you
consider our visit an intrusion.”
Albert was certainly a born diplomatist.
“Did that sneaking schoolmaster send you here?” asked the old man.
“On the contrary, we came here without his knowledge and I may say
against his advice.”
A bony, inkstained hand unfastened a chain; the door creaked open.
“Come in,” he said.
We were ushered into a small apartment, with a low, heavy-beamed
ceiling, black with age. One side of the room was entirely taken up
with an enormous fireplace of a size sufficient to roast an ox. Huge
grotesque figures carved from stone, one on either side, supported
a high mantel, and a great, cast-iron plate, bearing an almost
obliterated coat-of-arms, formed its back. The uneven stone floor,
worn into hollows by the feet of generations, was cluttered up by a
bench and other _débris_, and a huge table, on which bundles of papers
were piled in the utmost confusion; a small dust-begrimed window
half-lighted the gloom.
The old man said not a word, while Albert and I examined the fireplace;
but he regarded us with a keenness that we could almost feel.
“This small house,” said Albert to me, “was evidently the porter’s
lodge or guard room of the great citadel, which centuries ago occupied
this site. It has but two rooms, you will observe, this one and the one
above.”
“You are right,” interrupted the old man; then going to the door he
opened it wide and commanded, “now go!”
We silently bowed, and were about to pass out when he laid his hand on
my arm and said:
“You will remain!”
There was an earnest look in his eyes, and I hesitated a moment; but an
imperious gesture sent Albert without; the door closed, and I was alone
with the hermit, half-madman, for such he seemed to be.
“What are you?” he demanded, turning to me.
“An Irishman.”
“When do you leave the country?”
“Next week.”
“Would you do a service for a man whose days on earth are numbered?”
asked the old man in a tone almost of entreaty.
“Surely, if I can,” I answered; “in what way could I serve you?”
“In a thousand ways,” he almost shouted, jumping to his feet, his tall
form erect, and his eyes gleaming.
“Listen,” continued he, “for thirty years I have not known a moment’s
peace. Though this place is haunted, I cannot, dare not leave—I had so
much to do. I had so much to do,” he moaned, passing his bony hand over
his forehead, and after a few moments’ pause, he continued:
“It was thirty odd years ago the curse fell upon me. I was a
schoolmaster at Pau, in southern France, and I was a passionate
antiquarian. One day I read a paper before the Société d’Ethnographie
of Nancy, of which I was then a member, on an ancient document I had
unearthed, concerning the warrior sorcerer Maugis. This manuscript I
had discovered in the ruins of an old castle. It was a short document,
but to decipher its cryptogramic characters cost me infinite labor.
It merely told the hiding place, in the north of France, of sundry
writings concerning the history of Maugis and the four sons of the
Duc d’Aymon, historic characters of the reign of Charlemagne. What
think you was my reception from them? They laughed me to scorn, those
savants. They said Maugis was apochryphal, was a myth. Then in the
intensity of my mortification and rage I defied them to their teeth and
told them I would find the papers; but France never should see them, I
would burn them first.
“They only laughed the more, and when I cursed them they expelled
me in disgrace. That did not end my persecution,” explained the old
man excitedly. “Very soon afterward they took from me my position. I
was said to be insane, and I left the south broken-hearted and came
here; that was many years ago. Aided by the directions given me in the
ancient writing, I found a vast number of documents of the greatest
historical value. Their hiding place was right here in this ancient
home of Maugis. I found them stored in a recess back of yonder iron
plate of the fireplace. Since then I have read what I could and I
have deciphered what I could, for many were written in mysterious and
magical characters, and burned them.”
“You burned them?”
“Yes, I burned them, every one.”
“Man, you are surely mad!”
“No! no!” cried he, “I am not mad, I only have my revenge, but
then”—and here his voice sank to a whisper—“_it_ told me to do it.”
“Who?”
“The vision—the vision that visits this room every night—I but do its
bidding,” he replied, shuddering.
I then saw that I was dealing with a paranoiac, yet I could not resist
the impression that there was a certain reason in his madness.
“Have you many of those papers left?” I asked.
“They are nearly finished, and when they are done I must die.”
“Listen!” he continued, his voice sinking to a whisper. “Every night
a ghostly company sits about that table, and what they say I know
not; but most awful! a decapitated head stands on its dripping neck
on the corner of that mantel up there and presides. It is the head of
Lothaire. Its dreadful eyes search my very soul. Its very bidding I
feel I must obey. It hurries me on to read! burn! read! burn! and yet
I now know very well that every paper I give to the flames in that
fireplace is a step toward death. _It_ commands, I obey, and after all
it is better so; I am content.
“Worse than all,” continued he after a moment’s pause, “that society
at Nancy learned in some way that I was right. They searched France
for me, and they finally found me here. They have written me time and
time again, but I took no notice. Then they put spies upon me—they
have even tried to poison me, and failing in that they have tried to
steal in upon me. That schoolmaster is one of them. So far they have
failed, but they are now waiting for my death, thinking then to gain
the precious writings.
“_It_ told me that a stranger would come from a far-off land, and that
I should give the result of my labor to him.
“You are the man,” he exclaimed, “I will trust you!
“Listen! while I have read and deciphered and destroyed, I have
written. See,” said he, producing a roll of closely written manuscript,
“this is a synopsis of it all, it is a history of the life of Maugis,
the sorcerer, who was not in league with the devil, as supposed, but
acted under the commands of God.
“This must never be shown to France,” cried the old man earnestly.
“Will you accept the trust and take oath to do my behest regarding it?”
“I will, providing I can,” I replied.
“Then swear it!” with a sudden force that startled me, thrusting an
ancient breviary in my face for me to kiss. “Repeat after me! swear,”
he shouted.
“+OATH.+
“I, Frederick, Lord Gilhooley, do now swear, on my hope of eternal
salvation that I accept the manuscript, notes of Maugis, from
Charles Voudran as a solemn trust. I will never show it in France.
I will keep its contents from the world until the knowledge of the
death of Voudran releases me from this, my oath; that I will then
publish it with a dedication as follows: ‘To the fools who compose
the Société d’Ethnographie of Nancy!’ So help me, God, and all the
saints.”
Almost bewildered by the strange scene and surroundings, I mechanically
repeated the oath after him, and when I had finished the strange being
looked fixedly at the corner of the mantel, where he had said the
horrid head appeared, and said:
“Does it please you, master?”
My eyes followed his, but I saw nothing.
Placing both his hands to his head, Voudran staggered to a chair,
saying to me:
“It is well! you may go, farewell!”
Hiding the precious roll under my cloak I hurried out into the pure