The B Word
That Gilles de Rais is now completely entangled with the Bluebeard myth is almost entirely the fault of the Abbé Bossard, who deliberately set out to conflate the two. His contention, based on nothing but pure conjecture, is that Gilles was linked with Bluebeard from the 15th century onwards and that Perrault's version of the story was partly inspired by him. Thus, Gilles de Rais is the real-life Bluebeard suggested by so many books.
Bossard cites three pieces of evidence in favour of his theory, a Breton complainte, a legend and a long poem. Conveniently, if improbably, two of them mention Gilles de Rais by name. The Lament of the Young Women of Pléeur, in which an old man interrogates a group of girls on the reason for their misery, is oft-quoted -
Old Man: (In terror) Bluebeard lives here! Ah! Fly quickly, my children. The ravening wolf is not more terrible than the wild Baron; the bear is more gentle than the accursed Baron de Rais.
Young Girls: We are not able to fly: we are bound to the Barony of Rais, and we belong, body and soul, to my Lord Bluebeard.
Old Man: I will deliver you, for I am Jean de Malestroit, Bishop of Nantes, and I have sworn to defend my flock.
Young Girls: Gilles de Laval does not believe in God!
Old Man: He shall come to a bad end! I swear it by the living God!
Bossard claims that he found this lament in the works of a writer named d'Amézueil, without specifying in which book it appears. The splendid E A Vizetelly remarks that he was unable to find this particular piece anywhere in d'Amézueil's published writings, that bears and serfs would be unlikely to make an appearance in a complainte of that period, and that this is probably a "modern confection".
The second allegedly old tradition is a story where Bluebeard, also known as Gilles de Laval, attempts to marry a young woman by force and is thus tricked into pledging himself body and soul to the Devil, who turns his red beard blue as a token of their pact. (One should remark here that Bossard accepts the Bibliophile Jacob's dubious and lurid account of Gilles' trial, including the physical descriptions of the accused with his blue-black beard.) Bossard makes no attempt to source this story to any particular folklorist or historian.
Bossard then cites a long poem in which a nameless poet reflects on his blighted childhood, spent in the haunted shadow of Bluebeard's castle, which, as this is supposedly a local poet, is clearly Machecoul or Tiffauges or Champtocé. The poem is anonymous, undated, unsourced and has been rightly ignored by later commentators. It cannot have been written much earlier than the eighteenth century, since by Bossard's own admission the name of Bluebeard was never mentioned by a French writer before Perrault and the refrain - "Anne, ma soeur, ne vois-tu rien venir?" - refers to a character, a situation and a dialogue invented by him in his influential conte .
It is interesting that Bossard is so lax about supplying a provenance for these "old, traditional" tales and rhymes, as throughout his long biography he has hitherto been scrupulous about footnoting the exact page of every work quoted. Even when he mentions oral tradition he insists that it comes from "old people" and once from a particular old lady who showed him round the ruins of Tiffauges. That what appears to be his strongest evidence is unsourced is suspicious in the extreme.
There is no doubt that there is a modern tendency to regard Gilles de Rais as the real-life prototype of Bluebeard; I have some 1973 postcards from Champtocé and Machecoul and they all refer to "la château de Barbe-Bleue". What is in dispute is whether the tradition goes back beyond the French Revolution - and, indeed, whether it might not have been influenced by Bossard's own writing.
All the indications are that when Gilles de Rais died, his death was greeted with tears and mourning. One contemporary claimed that the noble ladies who prepared his body for burial took some of his bones as quasi relics.We have seen that his expiatory monument was a place of pilgrimage and there is some indication that his tomb was similarly venerated. Up until the French Revolution, when his tomb was destroyed along with the church in which he lay, he seems to have been regarded as a Breton saint. It seems highly unlikely that a Bluebeard myth could exist alongside this memory of a paragon of Christian repentance; it could only have begun after 1789, when the tomb and the monument had gone and the pilgrimages and prayers came to a forced halt. Such a tradition could not have influenced Perrault, who died in 1703 and whose highly popular version of the story was published in 1697.
Gilles de Rais was not Bluebeard. And Bossard's determination to twist the evidence to make it confirm his own prejudices is indicative of his approach throughout his notionally authoritative biography.
[In this old newspaper report, firmly based on Bossard's account but written in English, you can read The Lament of the Young Women of Pléeur, the legend in which Bluebeard marries the Devil, and much other Bluebeard-related lore. Click here for Perrault's tale, English language version. The full text of Bossard's biography is available here, French only.]
The Bibliophile Jacob
Anybody who has read about Gilles de Rais in a biography or on a website and later gone on to read the trial records will have wondered why the latter seem so pallid in comparison. The small details that so enliven other accounts are simply absent. In particular, anybody who has read The Bloody Countess by Valentine Penrose, with its counterpointed story of Gilles de Rais, will have marvelled at the first person quotes and the colourful anecdotes and descriptions.
The reason is that Penrose and other biographers leaned heavily upon a "more circumstantial" record of the trial, penned by Paul Lacroix, The Bibliophile Jacob, in the mid-nineteenth century. It is a very strange document, entirely bogus. M. Lacroix claimed to have had access to a far more detailed copy of the record than the one kept in the archive at Nantes. Instead of being written in a distancing third person, he uses first person speech throughout. Henriet and Poitou come out best in this account, they are clearly distinguished as personalities and their motives for confessing are explained. These do not include torture, the Bibliophile is far from a revisionist. On the down side, we do lose Prelati's testimony as he has unfortunately died before coming to trial. There is a prototype for the veiling of the cross, but it is done by Pierre de l'Hôpital before Henriet gives his evidence; J-K Huymans much improved upon and dramatised the scene.
It is, in short, a piece of fantasy loosely based on Gilles' trial. But it is highly entertaining and of interest, so a link to the full text is given here. Only in French, unfortunately, but not difficult to decipher if you have a little French from school days. If not, you can get the flavour of it from Penrose's book (which deals mainly with Elisabeth Bathory) or from the extracts from that book in Dark Star: the Satanic Rites of Gilles de Rais, edited by Candice Black.
And is the Bibliophile Jacob's work of fiction relevant to our theme? Yes, because it is so obviously and consistently in error throughout that anybody reading it in parallel with a genuine account of the trial would immediately realise that it is unreliable. Yet several reputable biographers, including Bossard, borrow from it to add a bit of colour to their story; and that is how Gilles de Rais has come to be surrounded by myths and untruths, and why a truly authoritative biography does not exist.
Gilles as werewolf: the Bibliophile Jacob anglicised
It is a given that all biographies of Gilles de Rais have been influenced by Paul Lacroix, the Bibliophile Jacob, either directly or indirectly. However, since there is no English translation of Lacroix's febrile prose, it is not easy for an English language blogger to underline the point.
Enter, with a roll of drums and clash of cymbals, the Reverend Sabine Baring-Gould. Writing his Book of Werewolves in 1865, he was clearly short of a few pages, and had the ingenious idea of padding it out with three lengthy chapters about Gilles de Rais. Of course, Gilles was no werewolf and Baring-Gould makes no attempt to show that he was; the only vaguely lycanthropic element is the extreme savagery of the alleged murders and the odd description of his features, which at certain moments become inhuman -
No one at a first glance would have thought the Sire de Retz to be by nature so cruel and vicious as he was supposed to be. On the contrary, his physiognomy was calm and phlegmatic, somewhat pale, and expressive of melancholy. His hair and moustache were light brown, and his beard was clipped to a point. This beard, which resembled no other beard, was black, but under certain lights it assumed a blue hue, and it was this peculiarity which obtained for the Sire de Retz the surname of Blue-beard, a name which has attached to him in popular romance, at the same time that his story has undergone strange metamorphoses.
But on closer examination of the countenance of Gilles de Retz, contraction in the muscles of the face, nervous quivering of the mouth, spasmodic twitchings of the brows, and above all, the sinister expression of the eyes, showed that there was something strange and frightful in the man. At intervals he ground his teeth like a wild beast preparing to dash upon his prey, and then his lips became so contracted, as they were drawn in and glued, as it were, to his teeth, that their very colour was indiscernible.
At times also his eyes became fixed, and the pupils dilated to such an extent, with a sombre fire quivering in them, that the iris seemed to fill the whole orbit, which became circular, and sank back into the head. At these moments his complexion became livid and cadaverous; his brow, especially just over the nose, was covered with deep wrinkles, and his beard appeared to bristle, and to assume its bluish hues. But, after a few moments, his features became again serene, with a sweet smile reposing upon them, and his expression relaxed into a vague and tender melancholy.
For Baring-Gould's purposes, this is sufficient proof of Gilles' wolfish nature. Without it, the book would have been some fifty pages shorter, which must have been a consideration.
Now, in 1858 Lacroix had printed his Grand Guignol version of Gilles' trial, which Baring-Gould mentions as an influence; the description of those lycanthropic facial contortions comes direct from the Frenchman's overheated imagination. On closer examination, the whole text is a condensed translation of the Bibliophile into English. In what would now be regarded as flagrant copyright theft, the Reverend merely stole his content from the earlier writer.
For Gilles de Rais it was a posthumous public relations disaster that a sensationalist hack like Lacroix was the first to pen a detailed account of his life, influencing both his first true biographer, the Abbé Bossard, and the scandalously popular novelist J-K Huysmans. The misfortune was compounded when Baring-Gould, one of the earliest English writers to address his case, swallowed the Bibliophile's fantasies piecemeal, including (as we see in the extract) the controversial identification with Bluebeard. Every contentious myth that makes the study of his life so fraught with difficulties can be found in this 19th century text: the description of his clothes, the prototype veiling of the cross, the characterisation of Poitou and Henriet, the Barbe Bleue connection...
The one consolation is that all this mythologising has left a clear trail, both in French and English, for anybody who wants to know the truth. The chapters in The Book of Werewolves are a useful aid for those who are interested in finding the truth about Gilles de Rais but whose French is not up to reading the Bibliophile in his entirety.
Read chapters X-XII in The Book of Werewolves
Or read the whole text of Paul Lacroix, the Bibliophile Jacob in French
Whichever you choose, it will be a revelation; those myth-ridden biographies, from Bossard to Bataille, will never be the same again.
Mr Fox - the English Bluebeard
Lady Mary was young, and Lady Mary was fair. She had two brothers, and more lovers than she could count. But of them all, the bravest and most gallant, was a Mr. Fox, whom she met when she was down at her father’s country-house. No one knew who Mr. Fox was; but he was certainly brave, and surely rich, and of all her lovers, Lady Mary cared for him alone. At last it was agreed upon between them that they should be married. Lady Mary asked Mr. Fox where they should live, and he described to her his castle, and where it was; but, strange to say, did not ask her, or her brothers to come and see it.
So one day, near the wedding-day, when her brothers were out, and Mr. Fox was away for a day or two on business, as he said, Lady Mary set out for Mr. Fox’s castle. And after many searchings, she came at last to it, and a fine strong house it was, with high walls and a deep moat. And when she came up to the gateway she saw written on it:
Be Bold, Be Bold.
But as the gate was open, she went through it, and found no one there. So she went up to the doorway, and over it she found written:
Be Bold, Be Bold, But Not Too Bold.
Still she went on, till she came into the hall, and went up the broad stairs till she came to a door in the gallery, over which was written:
Be Bold, Be Bold, But Not Too Bold, Lest That Your Heart’s Blood Should Run Cold.
But Lady Mary was a brave one, she was, and she opened the door, and what do you think she saw? Why, bodies and skeletons of beautiful young ladies all stained with blood. So Lady Mary thought it was high time to get out of that horrid place, and she closed the door, went through the gallery, and was just going down the stairs, and out of the hall, when who should she see through the window, but Mr. Fox dragging a beautiful young lady along from the gateway to the door. Lady Mary rushed downstairs, and hid herself behind a cask, just in time, as Mr. Fox came in with the poor young lady who seemed to have fainted. Just as he got near Lady Mary, Mr. Fox saw a diamond ring glittering on the finger of the young lady he was dragging, and he tried to pull it off. But it was tightly fixed, and would not come off, so Mr. Fox cursed and swore, and drew his sword, raised it, and brought it down upon the hand of the poor lady. The sword cut off the hand, which jumped up into the air, and fell of all places in the world into Lady Mary’s lap. Mr. Fox looked about a bit, but did not think of looking behind the cask, so at last he went on dragging the young lady up the stairs into the Bloody Chamber.
As soon as she heard him pass through the gallery, Lady Mary crept out of the door, down through the gateway, and ran home as fast as she could.
Now it happened that the very next day the marriage contract of Lady Mary and Mr. Fox was to be signed, and there was a splendid breakfast before that. And when Mr. Fox was seated at table opposite Lady Mary, he looked at her. “How pale you are this morning, my dear.” “Yes," said she, “I had a bad night’s rest last night. I had horrible dreams.” “Dreams go by contraries,” said Mr. Fox; “but tell us your dream, and your sweet voice will make the time pass till the happy hour comes.”
“I dreamed,” said Lady Mary, “that I went yestermorn to your castle, and I found it in the woods, with high walls, and a deep moat, and over the gateway was written:
Be Bold, Be Bold.
“But it is not so, nor it was not so,” said Mr. Fox.
“And when I came to the doorway over it was written:
Be Bold, Be Bold, But Not Too Bold.
“It is not so, nor it was not so,” said Mr. Fox.
“And then I went upstairs, and came to a gallery, at the end of which was a door, on which was written:
Be Bold, Be Bold, But Not Too Bold, Lest That Your Heart’s Blood Should Run Cold.
“It is not so, nor it was not so,” said Mr. Fox.
“And then–and then I opened the door, and the room was filled with bodies and skeletons of poor dead women, all stained with their blood.”
“It is not so, nor it was not so. And God forbid it should be so," said Mr. Fox.
“I then dreamed that I rushed down the gallery, and just as I was going down the stairs, I saw you, Mr. Fox, coming up to the hall door, dragging after you a poor young lady, rich and beautiful.”
“It is not so, nor it was not so. And God forbid it should be so," said Mr. Fox.
“I rushed downstairs, just in time to hide myself behind a cask, when you, Mr. Fox, came in dragging the young lady by the arm. And, as you passed me, Mr. Fox, I thought I saw you try and get off her diamond ring, and when you could not, Mr. Fox, it seemed to me in my dream, that you out with your sword and hacked off the poor lady’s hand to get the ring.”
“It is not so, nor it was not so. And God forbid it should be so," said Mr. Fox, and was going to say something else as he rose from his seat, when Lady Mary cried out:
“But it is so, and it was so. Here’s hand and ring I have to show," and pulled out the lady’s hand from her dress, and pointed it straight at Mr. Fox.
At once her brothers and her friends drew their swords and cut Mr. Fox into a thousand pieces.
As part of my campaign to break the spurious link between Gilles de Rais and Bluebeard, here is the story of Mr Fox, the English Bluebeard. There are many, many other tales with similar elements - the forbidden room, the murderous husband or fiancé - but this happens to be a personal favourite of mine. From the delicious sing-song opening - "Lady Mary was young and Lady Mary was fair"- to the final call and response dialogue leading to the abrupt ending, it maintains a perfect tension.
The significant point about this old folktale is that it is alluded to by Shakespeare in Much Ado About Nothing - Like the old tale, my lord: 'it is not so, nor 'twas not so, but, indeed, God forbid it should be so'. The play was written around 1598 or 1599, and even then Mr Fox was an "old tale".
Perrault's Bluebeard was written in 1697, almost a century later. It can hardly be said that the uxoricidal spouse trope was invented by him, or indeed that the unknown English author of Mr Fox was inspired by Gilles de Rais.
The truth is that the Abbé Bossard, who was writing a thesis in the discipline of French Literature, knew even less about folklore than he did about history. Gilles de Rais had never been compared to Bluebeard until the mid-nineteenth century, when the idea first emerged and was seized on by Paul Lacroix, the Bibliophile Jacob. Bossard accepted Lacroix's clearly forged account of the trial and with it his assertion that Gilles had a literal blue beard and was nicknamed for it. Thus he had an entirely original (because false) topic for his thesis, which was his sole aim. The absolutely bogus link between the folktale ogre and the alleged child-murderer came into being solely because subsequent biographers simply could not be bothered to do their own research, but were content to lean on Bossard's dubious assertions.
Gilles de Rais was not the original of Bluebeard.It is not so, nor 'twas not so, but, indeed,
God forbid it should be so...
Here is a useful list of folk tales similar to Bluebeard, compiled by the excellent Sur La Lune site. They are categorised as types ATU 312, ATU 310, and ATU 955 in the Aarne-Thompson-Uther index.
https://www.surlalunefairytales.com/a-g/bluebeard/bluebeard-related.html
Comorre the Cursed: the original Bluebeard?
Gilles de Rais was not Bluebeard. A previous post has already examined how desperately the Abbé Bossard tried to make the connection, arguably to the point of falsifying evidence to support his case. In fact, Bossard was completely ignorant about folklore: these tales seldom have one single source, and the Bluebeard motifs appear in myths from all over the world. If Perrault had been minded to take his inspiration from close to home, however, there was a tale of a Breton nobleman who was a serial uxoricide, Comorre (the name is variously spelt). Many have argued that he was a far more likely Bluebeard than Gilles. Bossard was aware of this theory, but rejected Comorre completely; he insisted that the story bore no resemblance at all to the Bluebeard legend. Here is the story: judge for yourself.
The Flight of Tryphina
Long ago, in the low, sunny, treeless land of the Morbihan,
there lived a certain Count of Vannes whose wife, after
bearing him four stalwart sons, at last gave birth to a little
daughter. Great was the rejoicing at this happy event, for
the Count had long wished for a daughter. But his
happiness was short-lived, for soon afterwards his wife died,
leaving the little girl motherless at the tender age of three
years.
The child, who had been named Tryphina, grew into a
beautiful young maiden, resembling her mother in looks
and in the goodness and piety of her nature, and this
resemblance endeared her especially to her father, who
never ceased to mourn the loss of his beloved Countess.
Now, it happened one day that a rich and powerful
lord named Comorre, who was known throughout the
land for his wickedness and cruelty, visited Vannes and
chanced to see Tryphina as she set out with her attendants
to carry alms to the poor. Straightway he fell in love with
her and resolved to marry her at any cost.
Comorre's lands adjoined those of the Count of Vannes,
but of the two Comorre was much the more powerful,
by reason of his having gained the favour of Childebert,
King of the Franks, who had loaded him with riches and
raised him to his present status. He was a great giant of a
man and nearly twice Tryphina's age besides, and his
dark, cruel looks were enough to frighten any girl.
Moreover, Comorre had been -married four times already and
every one of his previous wives had met a violent death;
indeed it was widely rumoured that Comorre himself had
murdered them.
On his return to his own domain, Comorre lost no time
in sending two of his most trusted servants to wait upon
the Count of Vannes and to ask for the hand of Tryphina.
They brought with them gifts of valuable cattle, wine and
honey, but they also carried swords and their request was
couched more in tones of coercion than of pleading.
The Count, who knew Comorre's reputation only too
well, refused the gifts as courteously as possible and,
making the excuse that Tryphina was as yet far too young to
think of marriage, bade the messengers be gone. But the
servants were not to be put off so easily.
"You had best reconsider your words, Lord ofVannes,"
replied one. "Our master's instructions were that, in the
event of your refusing him your daughter, we were to
declare war upon you."
Then the second servant seized a bundle of straw and
set it ablaze, declaring that the anger of Comorre should
pass over the country of Vannes in like manner and all be
put to fire and sword.
"If your master sees fit to make war upon us, so be it,"
answered the Count. "I will not give him my daughter."
So the servants departed and the armies of the two
countries prepared for war.
Now when Tryphina went forth to visit the poor and
the sick, she saw everywhere blacksmiths forging weapons,
the flash of steel and glint of armour, stern-faced men and
weeping women. She was filled with distress at the thought
of the bloodshed and suffering that was to come, and
passed her days in weeping and praying. She could get no
comfort from her father or any of her four brothers, who
were busy drilling troops and making ready for war, and
mother she had none.
At last, in her loneliness and trouble, she sent for the
only one she felt might help her. This was Saint Gildas, a
holy man for whom her father had built a monastery on
the peninsula of Rhuys, and who had been her friend and
teacher when she was a child. To him she unburdened her
troubled heart and begged for advice as to what she ought
to do.
The holy man listened sympathetically, then, laying a
hand compassionately on her little, drooping head, he
said, "My child, God has given you a great opportunity
for showing your love to your people of Vannes. By becom-
ing the wife of this Lord Comorre, you may gain much
influence over him and make him a blessing instead of a
curse to the countryside. You will, besides, save your own
people from all the horrors of war."
"Alas!" cried the poor young girl. "Must I then sacrifice
all joy and happiness for the sake of my people? Oh, why
was I not born a beggar? I might then at least have mar-
ried another beggar of my own choosing. Surely there
must be some other way to avert this terrible war that is
being thrust upon us?"
"There is no other way," replied the saint gravely.
"Then, if I am to marry this giant who terrifies me so,
say over me the service of the dead, holy Gildas," sobbed
Tryphina, "for I will surely die as his other wives have
died."
"No, my child, you will not die," said Gildas firmly.
"I give you my promise that if you make this sacrifice for
the people of Vannes, I will bring you back one day safe
and sound to your father."
Tryphina buried her face in her hands and a bitter
struggle raged in her breast.
At last she looked up and, drying her tears, said bravely,
"If you promise me that, holy Gildas, then I will make
this sacrifice for the sake of my people. I will go at once to
my father and make known to him my decision."
At first the Count of Vannes was aghast and refused to
listen to his daughter. But Tryphina pleaded so fervently,
emphasizing the horror and destruction that Comorre and
his armies would bring upon them, adding that she feared
for the lives of her own dear brothers, and telling him,
moreover, that he need have no fear for her, since she had
Saint Gildas's promise that she would return safely one
day. And at length, unwillingly, her father gave way.
So the people of Vannes were saved from war and there
was much rejoicing among the womenfolk, who blessed
Tryphina for giving back to them their husbands and sons.
Comorre lost no time in sending for his bride, and after
taking tender leave of her father and brothers, Tryphina
set forth, accompanied by a fierce band of her lord's
retainers. .
As they journeyed, the country through which they
travelled became more and more forbidding. Trackless
forests shut out the sky, rivers of black, swirling waters ran
deep and strong, and paths grew ever more rocky and
precipitous. Small wonder if Tryphina found it daunting,
after her own sunny, treeless country of Morbihan! And
when at last they came to the Castle of Comorre - a
frowning fortress perched high on a mountain top- the
poor girl shuddered to think that this was to be her future
home.
At first, Comorre was kind to his new little bride. In his
own fierce way he loved her, and although his caresses
caused her more fear than pleasure, she submitted cheer-
fully, hoping she might gain influence over him, as Saint
Gildas had suggested, and gradually win him to better
ways. But after a time Comorre had to leave her, to attend
a meeting of the states at Rennes, and she was left alone in
the grim, forbidding castle, to amuse herself as best she
might. She employed herself by getting to know her
servants and dependants, who soon grew to love her for her
sweet disposition. And she spent many hours, too, in the
chapel of the castle, praying on the tombs of Comorre's
former wives.
Presently she began stitching at dainty little garments
and jewelled caps for the baby that was soon to come to
her. Then the days passed pleasantly for Tryphina and she
smiled and sang at her needlework, for the future looked
bright and full of hope.
One day, as she sat in her little turret-room, she heard
the noise of horses entering the courtyard at the back of
the castle, and looking out, saw that her lord had returned.
As he burst in, she raised a smiling face to welcome him
and he, radiant, stretched out his arms towards her. But
all at once, as he looked at her, and his gaze fell on the
piece of needlework she held, his face changed. A murder-
ous light came into his eyes, and uttering a terrible oath,
he rushed from the room.
Now Tryphina was frightened indeed. She could not
understand the cause of her lord's anger, for she was not
aware of having committed any offence. She passed the
rest of the day in fear and trembling, and when darkness
fell she made her way into the chapel and, falling on her
knees, began to pray.
When, somewhere in the castle, a clock struck the hour
of midnight, she raised her head, to see four ghostly
phantoms approaching. Transfixed by terror, she watched
them take the shape of four beautiful young women, each
holding something in her hand—the first a cup, the second
a rope, the third a stick and the fourth a flaming torch.
"Do not fear us, Tryphina," said the first. "We are
Comorre's former wives, whom he murdered, and we have
come to help you in your hour of need."
"You are in great danger," warned the second.
"You must flee the castle at once," urged the third.
"Fly back to your father, as swiftly as you can."
"There is not a moment to lose," echoed the fourth.
"Fly! But how?" cried poor Tryphina, in an agony of
fear. "If I should try to leave the castle, Comorre's great
dog will tear me limb from limb."
Then the first ghost wife handed her the cup she held,
saying, "Here is poison. It killed me, it will do the same
for the dog."
"And how am I to cross the wall?" asked Tryphina.
"Take this cord," whispered the second wife, handing
her the rope she held. "It was used to strangle me, it will
help you across the wall."
"But the way is so long, so long, and I am so weak,"
cried Tryphina piteously.
"This stick with which Comorre struck me shall help
you on your road," said the third wife, handing it to her.
"And who is to guide me through the darkness of the
forest?" asked Tryphina, shuddering.
"The light with which Comorre kindled the fire to
burn me," said the fourth wife, handing her the torch.
Tryphina thanked them and then they told her the
reason for Comorre's cruelty—how there was an ancient
prophecy that he should die at the hands of his son, and
how, to prevent its fulfilment, he killed his wives as soon
as there was a prospect of their becoming mothers. And
they urged Tryphina once more to flee at once, if she would
escape the fate which had overtaken them.
Then the phantoms vanished as suddenly as they had
appeared, and Tryphina was left alone in the darkness.
But now she knew what she must do and she did not
hesitate. Wrapping her cloak about her, she stole swiftly
and silently from the chapel.
When she came to the gate where the great dog lay, she
gave him the cup of poison to drink. With the aid of the
rope she scaled the wall that was so fearfully high. When
her feet slipped on the steep and treacherous path, the
stick prevented her from falling. And when she came to the
black, swirling waters of the river she ran hither and thith-
er flashing her torch, and its light showed her where there
were stepping-stones. She struggled across, sometimes
knee-deep in the water, sometimes almost swept away by
the current. At last she stood safely on the opposite side
and sought to find the long, long road that would lead her
back to her own dear country.
"Once upon the road," thought she, "there will be
bridges by which to cross the rivers; I shall be able to
travel more quickly."
But first there was a great, dark forest through which
she must pass. Bravely she pressed on through the world of
trees, her only light the flickering torch. Often she
stumbled and would have fallen but for the aid of the
stick. Her clothes were torn almost to rags, her little white
feet were cut and bleeding, but fear drove her onwards.
At dawn she found a woodman's hut and, entering, laid
herself down in utter exhaustion. By and by she fell into an
uneasy sleep in which she unconsciously bemoaned her
sad plight, crying, "Tryphina! Ah, poor little Tryphina!
Who will help her?"
While she slept, an old magpie flew down and perched
on the door of the hut. Hearing her cries, the bird repeated
them, calling, "Tryphina! Ah, poor little Tryphina!" He
was very proud of his achievement.
It was sunset when Tryphina awakened and, starting
up, set out once more on her perilous way.
Towards the second evening, she found herself at last
upon the great, white, glistening road that led in a straight
and ever-narrowing line uphill and down, away to the
west.
"Now I shall soon find my way home," she thought.
Suddenly she stopped to listen. Was it the sound of
hoofbeats that she heard? She knelt down and laid her ear
to the ground. She was not mistaken. Quite distinctly she
heard the regular thud, thud of galloping hooves, coming
nearer and nearer.
Her eyes wild with terror, she turned swiftly from the
road and hid herself in a hawthorn bush, praying that
Comorre would not find her—for that it was he who was
following her she did not doubt.
Presently she saw through the thicket a cloud of dust
and in a few moments Comorre came thundering by on his
big black horse, a couple of fierce bloodhounds at his side.
As he passed through the forest in his search for Tryphina,
the old magpie had called her name and thus betrayed the
direction in which she had gone
The two bloodhounds ran hither and thither trying to
pick up the scent and baying horribly. The big, black horse
reared and plunged as Comorre struck vicious spurs into
him. They were so close that Tryphina could see the
murderous look on Comorre's dark face and could almost
feel the hot breath from the flaring nostrils of his charger.
Even then she might have escaped discovery, but at that
instant the old magpie came flying from the forest and
perched on the very hawthorn bush where she hid, calling,
"Tryphina! Ah, poor little Tryphina !"
With a yell of triumph, Comorre burst through the
thicket and fell upon Tryphina. With savage blows he
beat her until he was sure that she was dead. Then mount-
ing his big black horse, he galloped away, leaving her
there under the hawthorn bush, with only the old magpie
as witness of his cruel deed.
All that night Tryphina lay there, white and motion-
less. Yet, although grievously wounded, she was not dead;
a feeble pulse still beat in her temple.
At daybreak, a poor charcoal burner and his son,
making their way to the forest, found-her.
"Why, it is the sweet lady of Comorre !" exclaimed the
son. "What villain can have committed such a dastardly
deed?"
"None other than Comorre himself," replied the father
sternly. "His cruelty and wickedness are a byword
throughout the country. It is well known that he killed all
four of his former wives and now he has murdered this
sweet lady."
But when they examined her more closely, they saw that
she still breathed.
"We will take her to the hermitage of La Roche-sur-
Blavet" said the father. "There is a holy man there who,
they say, has wonderful powers of healing. Perhaps he can
revive her."
So they lifted her tenderly and carried her to the
hermitage not far away.
Now it so happened that this holy man of whom they
spoke was none other than the good Saint Gildas, who was
staying at the hermitage with his friend Saint Bieuzi.
Saint Gildas had studied medicine under a great Welsh
Druid and knew of herbs that, gathered by moonlight and
distilled in a certain manner, would sometimes bring the
dead to life; and Tryphina, he saw, was not yet dead. He
dressed her wounds and for many weeks he nursed and
tended her with all his skill. And slowly, very slowly,
Tryphina came back to life again.
At last there came a day when Saint Gildas fixed his
wonderful grey eyes upon her and said, "Tryphina, I
command you to rise and follow me !"
Tryphina arose and walked and Saint Gildas led her
back to her own country, to the castle at Vannes, where
he delivered her to her father, thus fulfilling his promise.
There, shortly afterwards, Tryphina's son was born and
grew up to be a handsome and valiant young prince,
resembling his mother in the sweetness of his disposition
and being not in the least like his father, Comorre.
In course of time, Tryphina entered a convent and
devoted the remainder of her life to religious works.
As for Comorre, he continued for many years in his
wicked course. But the ancient prophecy concerning him
was destined to be fulfilled, for it happened one day that
his young son, casting a handful of stones against the old
walls of his castle, caused them to crumble and fall,
burying Comorre in the ruins. And so he died by the act
of his own son, as had long been foretold.
Agnes Ashton from Saints And Changelings - Folk Tales Of Brittany
Although Ms Ashton's version of the tale is atmospheric, she has bowdlerised it slightly, disguising the miraculous nature of Saint Gildas' healing. In most accounts Comorre cuts off Tryphina's head, as in this version
The Flight of Tryphina
Long ago, in the low, sunny, treeless land of the Morbihan,
there lived a certain Count of Vannes whose wife, after
bearing him four stalwart sons, at last gave birth to a little
daughter. Great was the rejoicing at this happy event, for
the Count had long wished for a daughter. But his
happiness was short-lived, for soon afterwards his wife died,
leaving the little girl motherless at the tender age of three
years.
The child, who had been named Tryphina, grew into a
beautiful young maiden, resembling her mother in looks
and in the goodness and piety of her nature, and this
resemblance endeared her especially to her father, who
never ceased to mourn the loss of his beloved Countess.
Now, it happened one day that a rich and powerful
lord named Comorre, who was known throughout the
land for his wickedness and cruelty, visited Vannes and
chanced to see Tryphina as she set out with her attendants
to carry alms to the poor. Straightway he fell in love with
her and resolved to marry her at any cost.
Comorre's lands adjoined those of the Count of Vannes,
but of the two Comorre was much the more powerful,
by reason of his having gained the favour of Childebert,
King of the Franks, who had loaded him with riches and
raised him to his present status. He was a great giant of a
man and nearly twice Tryphina's age besides, and his
dark, cruel looks were enough to frighten any girl.
Moreover, Comorre had been -married four times already and
every one of his previous wives had met a violent death;
indeed it was widely rumoured that Comorre himself had
murdered them.
On his return to his own domain, Comorre lost no time
in sending two of his most trusted servants to wait upon
the Count of Vannes and to ask for the hand of Tryphina.
They brought with them gifts of valuable cattle, wine and
honey, but they also carried swords and their request was
couched more in tones of coercion than of pleading.
The Count, who knew Comorre's reputation only too
well, refused the gifts as courteously as possible and,
making the excuse that Tryphina was as yet far too young to
think of marriage, bade the messengers be gone. But the
servants were not to be put off so easily.
"You had best reconsider your words, Lord ofVannes,"
replied one. "Our master's instructions were that, in the
event of your refusing him your daughter, we were to
declare war upon you."
Then the second servant seized a bundle of straw and
set it ablaze, declaring that the anger of Comorre should
pass over the country of Vannes in like manner and all be
put to fire and sword.
"If your master sees fit to make war upon us, so be it,"
answered the Count. "I will not give him my daughter."
So the servants departed and the armies of the two
countries prepared for war.
Now when Tryphina went forth to visit the poor and
the sick, she saw everywhere blacksmiths forging weapons,
the flash of steel and glint of armour, stern-faced men and
weeping women. She was filled with distress at the thought
of the bloodshed and suffering that was to come, and
passed her days in weeping and praying. She could get no
comfort from her father or any of her four brothers, who
were busy drilling troops and making ready for war, and
mother she had none.
At last, in her loneliness and trouble, she sent for the
only one she felt might help her. This was Saint Gildas, a
holy man for whom her father had built a monastery on
the peninsula of Rhuys, and who had been her friend and
teacher when she was a child. To him she unburdened her
troubled heart and begged for advice as to what she ought
to do.
The holy man listened sympathetically, then, laying a
hand compassionately on her little, drooping head, he
said, "My child, God has given you a great opportunity
for showing your love to your people of Vannes. By becom-
ing the wife of this Lord Comorre, you may gain much
influence over him and make him a blessing instead of a
curse to the countryside. You will, besides, save your own
people from all the horrors of war."
"Alas!" cried the poor young girl. "Must I then sacrifice
all joy and happiness for the sake of my people? Oh, why
was I not born a beggar? I might then at least have mar-
ried another beggar of my own choosing. Surely there
must be some other way to avert this terrible war that is
being thrust upon us?"
"There is no other way," replied the saint gravely.
"Then, if I am to marry this giant who terrifies me so,
say over me the service of the dead, holy Gildas," sobbed
Tryphina, "for I will surely die as his other wives have
died."
"No, my child, you will not die," said Gildas firmly.
"I give you my promise that if you make this sacrifice for
the people of Vannes, I will bring you back one day safe
and sound to your father."
Tryphina buried her face in her hands and a bitter
struggle raged in her breast.
At last she looked up and, drying her tears, said bravely,
"If you promise me that, holy Gildas, then I will make
this sacrifice for the sake of my people. I will go at once to
my father and make known to him my decision."
At first the Count of Vannes was aghast and refused to
listen to his daughter. But Tryphina pleaded so fervently,
emphasizing the horror and destruction that Comorre and
his armies would bring upon them, adding that she feared
for the lives of her own dear brothers, and telling him,
moreover, that he need have no fear for her, since she had
Saint Gildas's promise that she would return safely one
day. And at length, unwillingly, her father gave way.
So the people of Vannes were saved from war and there
was much rejoicing among the womenfolk, who blessed
Tryphina for giving back to them their husbands and sons.
Comorre lost no time in sending for his bride, and after
taking tender leave of her father and brothers, Tryphina
set forth, accompanied by a fierce band of her lord's
retainers. .
As they journeyed, the country through which they
travelled became more and more forbidding. Trackless
forests shut out the sky, rivers of black, swirling waters ran
deep and strong, and paths grew ever more rocky and
precipitous. Small wonder if Tryphina found it daunting,
after her own sunny, treeless country of Morbihan! And
when at last they came to the Castle of Comorre - a
frowning fortress perched high on a mountain top- the
poor girl shuddered to think that this was to be her future
home.
At first, Comorre was kind to his new little bride. In his
own fierce way he loved her, and although his caresses
caused her more fear than pleasure, she submitted cheer-
fully, hoping she might gain influence over him, as Saint
Gildas had suggested, and gradually win him to better
ways. But after a time Comorre had to leave her, to attend
a meeting of the states at Rennes, and she was left alone in
the grim, forbidding castle, to amuse herself as best she
might. She employed herself by getting to know her
servants and dependants, who soon grew to love her for her
sweet disposition. And she spent many hours, too, in the
chapel of the castle, praying on the tombs of Comorre's
former wives.
Presently she began stitching at dainty little garments
and jewelled caps for the baby that was soon to come to
her. Then the days passed pleasantly for Tryphina and she
smiled and sang at her needlework, for the future looked
bright and full of hope.
One day, as she sat in her little turret-room, she heard
the noise of horses entering the courtyard at the back of
the castle, and looking out, saw that her lord had returned.
As he burst in, she raised a smiling face to welcome him
and he, radiant, stretched out his arms towards her. But
all at once, as he looked at her, and his gaze fell on the
piece of needlework she held, his face changed. A murder-
ous light came into his eyes, and uttering a terrible oath,
he rushed from the room.
Now Tryphina was frightened indeed. She could not
understand the cause of her lord's anger, for she was not
aware of having committed any offence. She passed the
rest of the day in fear and trembling, and when darkness
fell she made her way into the chapel and, falling on her
knees, began to pray.
When, somewhere in the castle, a clock struck the hour
of midnight, she raised her head, to see four ghostly
phantoms approaching. Transfixed by terror, she watched
them take the shape of four beautiful young women, each
holding something in her hand—the first a cup, the second
a rope, the third a stick and the fourth a flaming torch.
"Do not fear us, Tryphina," said the first. "We are
Comorre's former wives, whom he murdered, and we have
come to help you in your hour of need."
"You are in great danger," warned the second.
"You must flee the castle at once," urged the third.
"Fly back to your father, as swiftly as you can."
"There is not a moment to lose," echoed the fourth.
"Fly! But how?" cried poor Tryphina, in an agony of
fear. "If I should try to leave the castle, Comorre's great
dog will tear me limb from limb."
Then the first ghost wife handed her the cup she held,
saying, "Here is poison. It killed me, it will do the same
for the dog."
"And how am I to cross the wall?" asked Tryphina.
"Take this cord," whispered the second wife, handing
her the rope she held. "It was used to strangle me, it will
help you across the wall."
"But the way is so long, so long, and I am so weak,"
cried Tryphina piteously.
"This stick with which Comorre struck me shall help
you on your road," said the third wife, handing it to her.
"And who is to guide me through the darkness of the
forest?" asked Tryphina, shuddering.
"The light with which Comorre kindled the fire to
burn me," said the fourth wife, handing her the torch.
Tryphina thanked them and then they told her the
reason for Comorre's cruelty—how there was an ancient
prophecy that he should die at the hands of his son, and
how, to prevent its fulfilment, he killed his wives as soon
as there was a prospect of their becoming mothers. And
they urged Tryphina once more to flee at once, if she would
escape the fate which had overtaken them.
Then the phantoms vanished as suddenly as they had
appeared, and Tryphina was left alone in the darkness.
But now she knew what she must do and she did not
hesitate. Wrapping her cloak about her, she stole swiftly
and silently from the chapel.
When she came to the gate where the great dog lay, she
gave him the cup of poison to drink. With the aid of the
rope she scaled the wall that was so fearfully high. When
her feet slipped on the steep and treacherous path, the
stick prevented her from falling. And when she came to the
black, swirling waters of the river she ran hither and thith-
er flashing her torch, and its light showed her where there
were stepping-stones. She struggled across, sometimes
knee-deep in the water, sometimes almost swept away by
the current. At last she stood safely on the opposite side
and sought to find the long, long road that would lead her
back to her own dear country.
"Once upon the road," thought she, "there will be
bridges by which to cross the rivers; I shall be able to
travel more quickly."
But first there was a great, dark forest through which
she must pass. Bravely she pressed on through the world of
trees, her only light the flickering torch. Often she
stumbled and would have fallen but for the aid of the
stick. Her clothes were torn almost to rags, her little white
feet were cut and bleeding, but fear drove her onwards.
At dawn she found a woodman's hut and, entering, laid
herself down in utter exhaustion. By and by she fell into an
uneasy sleep in which she unconsciously bemoaned her
sad plight, crying, "Tryphina! Ah, poor little Tryphina!
Who will help her?"
While she slept, an old magpie flew down and perched
on the door of the hut. Hearing her cries, the bird repeated
them, calling, "Tryphina! Ah, poor little Tryphina!" He
was very proud of his achievement.
It was sunset when Tryphina awakened and, starting
up, set out once more on her perilous way.
Towards the second evening, she found herself at last
upon the great, white, glistening road that led in a straight
and ever-narrowing line uphill and down, away to the
west.
"Now I shall soon find my way home," she thought.
Suddenly she stopped to listen. Was it the sound of
hoofbeats that she heard? She knelt down and laid her ear
to the ground. She was not mistaken. Quite distinctly she
heard the regular thud, thud of galloping hooves, coming
nearer and nearer.
Her eyes wild with terror, she turned swiftly from the
road and hid herself in a hawthorn bush, praying that
Comorre would not find her—for that it was he who was
following her she did not doubt.
Presently she saw through the thicket a cloud of dust
and in a few moments Comorre came thundering by on his
big black horse, a couple of fierce bloodhounds at his side.
As he passed through the forest in his search for Tryphina,
the old magpie had called her name and thus betrayed the
direction in which she had gone
The two bloodhounds ran hither and thither trying to
pick up the scent and baying horribly. The big, black horse
reared and plunged as Comorre struck vicious spurs into
him. They were so close that Tryphina could see the
murderous look on Comorre's dark face and could almost
feel the hot breath from the flaring nostrils of his charger.
Even then she might have escaped discovery, but at that
instant the old magpie came flying from the forest and
perched on the very hawthorn bush where she hid, calling,
"Tryphina! Ah, poor little Tryphina !"
With a yell of triumph, Comorre burst through the
thicket and fell upon Tryphina. With savage blows he
beat her until he was sure that she was dead. Then mount-
ing his big black horse, he galloped away, leaving her
there under the hawthorn bush, with only the old magpie
as witness of his cruel deed.
All that night Tryphina lay there, white and motion-
less. Yet, although grievously wounded, she was not dead;
a feeble pulse still beat in her temple.
At daybreak, a poor charcoal burner and his son,
making their way to the forest, found-her.
"Why, it is the sweet lady of Comorre !" exclaimed the
son. "What villain can have committed such a dastardly
deed?"
"None other than Comorre himself," replied the father
sternly. "His cruelty and wickedness are a byword
throughout the country. It is well known that he killed all
four of his former wives and now he has murdered this
sweet lady."
But when they examined her more closely, they saw that
she still breathed.
"We will take her to the hermitage of La Roche-sur-
Blavet" said the father. "There is a holy man there who,
they say, has wonderful powers of healing. Perhaps he can
revive her."
So they lifted her tenderly and carried her to the
hermitage not far away.
Now it so happened that this holy man of whom they
spoke was none other than the good Saint Gildas, who was
staying at the hermitage with his friend Saint Bieuzi.
Saint Gildas had studied medicine under a great Welsh
Druid and knew of herbs that, gathered by moonlight and
distilled in a certain manner, would sometimes bring the
dead to life; and Tryphina, he saw, was not yet dead. He
dressed her wounds and for many weeks he nursed and
tended her with all his skill. And slowly, very slowly,
Tryphina came back to life again.
At last there came a day when Saint Gildas fixed his
wonderful grey eyes upon her and said, "Tryphina, I
command you to rise and follow me !"
Tryphina arose and walked and Saint Gildas led her
back to her own country, to the castle at Vannes, where
he delivered her to her father, thus fulfilling his promise.
There, shortly afterwards, Tryphina's son was born and
grew up to be a handsome and valiant young prince,
resembling his mother in the sweetness of his disposition
and being not in the least like his father, Comorre.
In course of time, Tryphina entered a convent and
devoted the remainder of her life to religious works.
As for Comorre, he continued for many years in his
wicked course. But the ancient prophecy concerning him
was destined to be fulfilled, for it happened one day that
his young son, casting a handful of stones against the old
walls of his castle, caused them to crumble and fall,
burying Comorre in the ruins. And so he died by the act
of his own son, as had long been foretold.
Agnes Ashton from Saints And Changelings - Folk Tales Of Brittany
Although Ms Ashton's version of the tale is atmospheric, she has bowdlerised it slightly, disguising the miraculous nature of Saint Gildas' healing. In most accounts Comorre cuts off Tryphina's head, as in this version
Chinese whispers
In the year 1440, all France was shocked to learn that one
of the greatest nobles in the land, Gilles de Rais, had
participated in the rites of devil worship, in the course of which
he had sacrificed no less than a hundred and fifty victims in
homage to Satan.
De Rais was one of the élite of the Breton nobility, a man
in whom ritualism had developed into an obsession. He
never ventured abroad unless preceded by a great cross and
banner, and his retinue was invariably dressed in raiment
richly ornamented with gold. As was customary in feudal
days, he possessed a number of pages and these children began
to disappear one by one and were never heard of again. De
Rais forbade any mention of the subject, and so great was the
fear that he inspired that none cared to investigate the mystery.
His own wife was aware that something dreadful was
taking place but was too terrified to question her husband,
and it was only when he was absent from the castle, that she,
together with her sister, dared explore for themselves. Their
curiosity was soon, terribly satisfied, for they discovered a
room in the castle entirely dedicated to the Satanic Mass, and
containing copper kettles filled with human blood. Unfortunately
de Rais returned to the castle without warning and
entering the 'chapel' surprised the two women in the very act
of penetrating his darkest secrets. Overwhelmed with terror,
one sister fled to the roof of the tower and in desperation
signalled for help to a small party of horsemen who could be
seen approaching the castle. By a stroke of fortune the two
leaders happened to be her own brothers, who had decided to
visit their sisters during the absence of de Rais.
The horsemen entered the castle and soon learned the terrible
secrets of the satanic chapel. De Rais's own men turned
against him and the matter was reported to the authorities.
This was an age when there was virtually no limit to the
power of the feudal lords, who might torture or kill their
subordinates as the mood took them, without fear of
intervention by the State. It was a situation tolerated by the
Church just so long as heresy was not involved, for this
constituted a threat to its own power, and had therefore to be
opposed with all the force at its command.
To the disgust of the nobles of Brittany, Gilles de Rais was
brought to trial before the Parliament where the whole horrid
business was brought into the light of day. It appeared that
the chapel had been used as a torture chamber, where young
children were decapitated or beaten to death to the
accompaniment of incredible sexual perversions by de Rais, who
had liked nothing better than to sit upon the stomachs of his
victims and watch them die. The severed heads of over forty
children were discovered in the castle, together with more
than two hundred small skeletons. De Rais admitted his guilt,
under torture, and was put on trial accused of apostasy, heresy
and the invocation of demons, and sentenced to death. He was
granted the privilege of strangulation before his body was
committed to the flames on October 26th, I440.
Later historians have detected signs of some sinister
conspiracy in the trial, torture and death of Gilles de Rais, for
this occurred at a time when new forces were developing in
the state led by new men of humbler birth to whom the
unchecked power of the great nobility presented something of an
obstacle. The Noble Order with its vast wealth was largely
a law unto itself and this excited the jealousy of the emerging
political state, which was both impecunious and hungry for
real authority, which could only be secured by inroads into
the vested interests of the Nobility.
A Victorian illustration of Gilles de Rais,
showing a completely imaginary scene.
No text about Gilles de Rais is one hundred percent reliable. Before Bossard partially reclaimed him for history, while retaining certain favourite myths and adding the unwarranted Bluebeard connection, Gilles was the subject of many fictionalised biographies which extemporised loosely on the known facts, such as they are. After Bossard, other writers copied extensively from his book, believing it to be authoritative, and therefore drank in the errors that the good Abbé had adopted from the bogus historian Paul Lacroix, "The Bibliophile Jacob". A process of Chinese whispers ensured that such myths as the veiling of the cross and the corrupting influence of an illustrated Suetonius are cited as fact in the most surprising places: even the meticulous scholar Emile Gabory claims that "it has been said" that the Bishop of Nantes covered the cross, without for a moment questioning why such a dramatic moment would go unmentioned in the record of the trial. Although this story originates with Lacroix, his version is a pale prototype: Pierre de l'Hôpital
performs the symbolic gesture so that Henriet can speak without inhibition. It was a novelist, J-K Huysmans, who improved on the Bibliophile's version and gave us the dramatic account we are familiar with today. Huysmans muddied the waters by publishing the Gilles de Rais sections of his work of fiction, Là-Bas, as a factual book, which it most certainly is not, and thus introduced a few myths of his own. He was more influential in the English-speaking world than Bossard, since his succès de scandale was widely translated whereas Bossard, for some reason, never has been.
Another misleading influence is The Bloody Countess by Valentine Penrose, which employs Gilles de Rais as a counterpoint to the story of Erzsébet Báthory. This rather trashy opus had the good fortune to be translated from the French by cult author Alexander Trocchi, and so became popular in the 1970s. The original author had merely plagiarised the most lurid and homoerotic anecdotes from the Bibliophile Jacob and generously given them a whole new audience. Not only individual incidents but the atmosphere created by Lacroix/Penrose permeated later accounts and every writer who quotes the imaginary exchange where Pierre de l'Hôpital compares the burning of bodies to the fat from a Sunday roast dripping onto the fire, or depicts Poitou as Gilles' lover and Henriet as his librarian, is in their debt.
Given that even serious biographers have been led astray and made grave factual errors, the writers who deal with Gilles de Rais as a small part of a larger theme or as an encyclopedia entry have no chance of avoiding inaccuracy. They do not research individual topics in depth, but depend on the accuracy or otherwise of existing texts. A case in point is this passage from The Domain of Devils by the esteemed folklorist Eric Maple, where we can see the process of Chinese whispers in action. He begins well, but at a certain point in the narrative he segues quite bizarrely into the Bluebeard story, complete with plucky sister. This is a fairly common trope for the period, and betrays the author's source - Eliphas Lévi's fantasy account, which follows the exact same trajectory, from Gilles to Bluebeard and back to Gilles again. Lévi also included the Gothic detail that Gilles was planning to sacrifice his unborn son, which comes straight from an 1830's novel by Hippolyte Bonnelier and has no basis whatsoever in contemporary documents. Maple omits this &, sweetly, ends with a small gesture towards revisionism. Clearly, he was aware of the événements of the 1920s and of Reinach and Fleuret/Hernandez; it is a shame that he did not actually read them. But why would he? He had read Lévi, and Lévi was a popular author in his day: surely he would not mislead his readers...
(The History of Magic by Eliphas Lévi was originally written in French: original version here.)
Your site is way too short, because *vraiment passionnant* !
ReplyDeleteI wish you make it available in French.
What do you think about this argument, that 70 went to be witnesses against Gilles to the trial, and that was impossible that so many people came if he was really innocent ? It's the main "proof" I read everywhere and that convinces people.
https://www.lhistoire.fr/gilles-de-rais-ogre-ou-serial-killer
Thank you. I only wish my French was up to doing that.
ReplyDeleteThere is actually NO evidence that Gilles WORE a beard.
ReplyDeleteNONE of the "portraits" of him are contemporary and in fact are LONG POSThumous, so UNlike his protege Jean de Arc, we have NO idea what he looked like from an eyewitness source. It was NOT the European custom of the time for men to wear beards anyway since they tended to conflict with the wearing of face-covering helmets.