Histoires extraordinaires à faire peur ou à faire rire... (1949)

[bunniefuu]

God Almighty, creator of nature,

Master of Heaven and Earth and of Kings,

see down here Man, your creature,

criminally destroying your laws.

A man, seeing your adorable image,

but disregarding your goodness,

had conceived, in his perfidious fury,

the project of slaughtering the Shepherdess of Ivry.

In the meadow by the river

Young Aimée was leading her flock,

when the child who was following her

saw her horrible executioner coming.

Seeing the object of his guilty passion

paying him with a well-deserved contempt,

the hideous monster decided in his soul

to m*rder the Maid of Ivry.

When she saw him, the heart of the Shepherdess

tightened and her eyes shed tears,

and her hand dropped on the fern

her holy book and her bunch of flowers.

"Come, fear not," he said,

"Grant my love its prize.”

As she refused, the monster with a knife

m*rder*d the Shepherdess of Ivry.

When the victim fell,

struck with four inhuman stab wounds,

from Heaven the Magnanimous Master

frightened the m*rder*r with his thunder.

Near her dog, the dying Maid,

getting the sweet price of her virtue,

let out of her mouth, in a last breath:

"God, protect the Shepherdess of Ivry."

Since the day of this hideous m*rder,

on the meadow where her flock grazed,

a whole nation, cursing the culprit,

raised a tomb for the Shepherdess.

Don't look for bronze or marble.

There's just a cross, all the more precious.

And you can read on the bark of a tree:

"Passer-by, pray for the Maid of Ivry."

He's going to scare our rookie

to death with all those crime stories.

On his first day here!

Well! He's bound to see much more!

Sing another one. You've got plenty of time.

I'm finished, Captain.

Stop kidding me, will you?

Don't tell me you're tired!

You keep singing your

laments from dawn to dusk.

- Yes, to sell them!

- Sell them?

And what's that, tell me?

Last year, you lost your license because

you were carrying political pamphlets against tyrants.

Six months ago, you were carrying

matches. Tomorrow it will be bombs!

I can explain, Captain.

You'll explain to the Peace Officer.

You didn't sing this one. Sing!

Close that window, young man,

or we'll get a chest infection!

They take just anybody now.

Excuse me.

It would be hard finding anybody more stupid than you.

I'll have a word with the prefect.

When you're breathless, maybe you'll let

your delinquent sing the last one!

So?

"A remarkable report on hideous acts

committed by bandits in disguise.”

Long live the Emperor!

How clever!

It's too much honor, gentlemen.

Doesn't he look like him?

Aren't you relatives?

You already said that last time you

visited us. You want to flatter me?

What the heck are you

here for this time?

This scoundrel now sells

engravings... of a special kind.

Dugelay, come on! You're calling

Fragonard a pornographer?

Ill have to teach you

a few things. You go away!

And don't hang around here or Mr. Dugelay

will end up booking a bed for you in jail.

Goodbye!

So, here's our new colleague. You look nervous.

How do you like your new condition?

It's so sad, sir.

What a job you have!

Starting today, it's your job too.

We've tried to tell him

what's in store for him.

It will be difficult for him to get started.

He's the sensitive type.

The story of the Shepherdess

of Ivry upset him!

What if he had heard the story of

Guillaume the Cutthroat?

Dear old Guillaume!

It's a pity you won't meet this

frightful m*rder*r, a k*ller by taste,

for whom m*rder was one of the fine arts.

How can you speak like that about that scum?

A m*rder*r is a m*rder*r!

My dear Dugelay, no one is more

attached to morality than I am.

And a m*rder*r can by

no means be an honest man.

The principles of a m*rder*r

are always twisted.

People are beginning to understand that a

beautiful m*rder is more than two morons,

the m*rder*r and the victim,

a knife, a purse, and a dark alley.

If the prefect should hear you, you seem to

say that we would be partners in crime!

Not you, Dugelay, not you.

Yours is definitely a victim's face.

He's like any newspaper reader;

as long as there's blood, he'll be pleased.

An intelligent man asks for more.

Yes, you once said the future victim

must be in good health!

It would be a useless and

barbaric act to k*ll a sick person!

Exactly! A true amateur must

behave humanely!

You kidding? To be k*lled, whether

humanely or not, is to be k*lled!

No, Dugelay. It all depends on how.

And Guillaume knew how.

He wasn't your usual k*ller.

Newspapers called him “The Bloody Hound.'

Headlines like that!

'Ruthless criminal terrifies the city.'

His victims were always young women,

and they all had the same wounds.

Throat cut, belly ripped!

How to summarize the population's

feelings... Indignation here, horror there—

Yes, some women were literally

scared to death by tramps-

Who were but petty thieves.

Upset by the stories they had read in all those newspapers,

they believed any of those poor guys could be the Ladykiller.

There was a pause after the fifth m*rder.

Rumor had it that the m*rder*r had left Paris.

He was in fact resting in the heart of the city,

preparing a sensational response to the newspapers

that had made him a countryside lover.

There it is. Miss Léontine's statement,

the day before Christmas Eve.

A very courageous young lady.

The other residents had left Mesdemoiselle

Fontenay's boarding house in the morning.

My sister and I could only leave

the day after to go back home,

as the connection between the coach

and the train only worked twice a week.

Miss Josephine Fontenay, too,

had gone to accompany young boarders.

So we spent the day with poor Miss Aglaé.

After dinner, to occupy us,

she had us practice our piano.

Well into the night, Miss Aglaé said:

Enough for tonight, young ladies.

We are past bedtime.

If my sister Joséphine were here—

She would scold you!

Yes, she would.

Shall we close the shutters, Miss?

My goodness, you're right! But I told

Augustine to close them before leaving!

She must have forgotten!

With this monster at large...

Didn't the police catch him?

Come on, little Eugénie,

close the shutters.

A young lady like you shouldn't be allowed

to know such abominable monsters exist.

Alas! Times have changed!

While closing the shutters, I noticed

a man standing under the lamppost.

But as soon as he saw me,

he slowly walked away.

I guess he didn't want to expose his face.

- Goodnight, Miss Aglaé.

- Goodnight, young ladies.

My young sister Eugénie is very sensitive.

I hadn't told her about the fears

I had experienced the day before.

I thought I had heard footsteps

on the staircase.

I had fallen asleep very late,

assailed by undefined fears.

But Eugenie seemed to be carefree

and she was about to go to bed.

While I was finishing braiding my hair,

a great shiver ran through me.

I could hear the same noise, but less

distinctly than the night before.

It's freezing cold tonight, Léontine.

We don't have enough blankets.

You're right. I'll get our coats

from the wardrobe.

No, I'll do it, Léontine.

No, I'll get them while you

get undressed.

Be careful.

Are you going downstairs in

your nightdress?

What if you bump into Miss Aglaé?

"Miss Léontine, you'll get a zero in

behavior at the end of the term."

You go then. But careful with your

candle and be quick!

I, too, was worried, thinking about that

criminal everybody was talking about.

But, as I didn't want my sister to share

my fears, I got out and listened.

The house was silent. To give myself

courage, I decided to sing.

But in order not to wake up Miss Aglaé,

I just hummed the Weber tune

that we had studied a few days before.

I felt it would be like a shield for me.

My sister Léontine was coming down.

What was I to do? Wave at her?

Shout in terror?

Let the man in the wardrobe know

he'd been discovered?

How could we escape?

Have you found my coat? I thought

I'd left it in the vestibule.

- No, it's in there.

- I'll take it.

No, here we are.

The younger one is always smarter,

as Miss Joséphine would say.

Funny being here in the middle of the night.

How quiet our dance room is!

We won't dance again with our

friends for many weeks.

Léontine, do you remember

the steps we studied?

You're

crazy!

Eugénie!

Eugénie!

Eugénie! Answer me!

He is going to k*ll us!

The lock won't hold.

Keep quiet! Don't shout!

There's no rush, sweethearts.

Guillaume will wait.

Guillaume is as patient as the Devil.

You don't know me yet.

Don't try to cry for help, sweethearts.

Such recklessness would be fatal.

You won't escape. I'll be back.

I've got plenty of time.

Rushing is detrimental to pleasure.

Let's shout, Léontine!

Let's run away!

By the time somebody comes

to help us, we'll be dead!

You crazy? We are going to k*ll ourselves!

We're more than twenty feet high.

The small trunk.

Against the door.

Eugénie!

If Guillaume had been capable of k*lling

without inflicting a slow moral agony on his victims,

the situation would have been hopeless.

But he wants to derive as much pleasure as

possible from every single step of his crimes,

starting with refined torment, and this ultra-diabolical

wickedness may give the girls a chance to escape.

By playing the piano, he indicates where he is in the house,

which offers the girls some kind of safety.

We can't see well enough.

The rope is too short. Get another sheet, Eugénie.

Our artist has a hunch there may be,

apart from the two girls,

somebody in the house

who could get in his way.

The piano will be like the song of the sirens.

He's sure that his music will attract the appealing throat

which must be upstairs, or maybe on the ground floor.

I can't believe it! Someone is playing

the piano at this time of night!

Girls, you must be out of your minds!

You're playing the piano now!

- You first, Eugénie!

- No, you're the better sister.

If you were in trouble while I ran off—

Eugénie, you're the smarter one, the lighter one.

While I get down, you'll seek help.

Think of Miss Aglaé.

My goodness me!

She's going to fall!

Gentlemen, please come and save my sister.

The k*ller is up there!

Just because you're on holiday doesn't

mean you can do anything you want.

Won't you go to bed?

You don't know how exhausting it is to spend a whole day

on a train and in a stagecoach, on soggy roads!

You're not serious!

You've turned on the gas!

No use hiding!

Léontine! Eugénie!

Oh! My Lord!

- He must still be inside.

- He'll pay for it! What a monster!

Léontine! Get down!

The sheet goes down to the

first floor window. Get down!

Guillaume has enough time left to run

away and save his abominable life.

Let his good angel guide him

and his prosperity is assured.

But there are still very appealing throats

on the second floor... No! Not possible.

Well, that's what he believes.

You must stick to your principles.

Never ignore a good throat.

How could he leave their throats to these

treacherous girls? Business is business.

And this is why Mr. Guillaume, the bloodthirsty wolf,

puts at stake all the profit of his night.

The vampire is still inside!

Wait! Wait, Miss!

Don't go upstairs alone!

Stop it, all of you! Wait, Miss!

Help! Help!

My little Léontine!

Feeling better now, aren't you?

Léontine! My dear little sister!

- Come now, Dugelay!

- Yes, brigadier.

- He won't make it!

- Quiet, for God's sake!

Don't speak all at once!

The k*ller is trapped.

He is going to try to escape,

but we'll hear him. Search each room.

How awful!

Hard luck! He had to cut a throat,

but the only one he could find today was his!

What a pain in the neck!

Have you ever heard such a

frightening story, dear rookie?

But not all criminals look frightening.

That would be too easy!

Any new Guillaume with a blatant criminal face

could be arrested by any policeman!

Dugelay!

- The new Rocambole episode.

- Thanks, little man!

You didn't pay for your paper, Dugelay.

Did you? Conduct unbecoming.

This gentleman can be bought!

- Oh! For a penny!

- A penny is a penny.

- I'm not Scottish!

- Let him read his serial, Lafarge!

You must admit Guillaume had a strange face.

But some murderers look like you or me.

- Yes.

- No, not you, Dugelay. You're an exception.

No one could suspect you.

You'd never have guessed a monster was

hidden in a very respectable young man.

Not the slightest hint.

And he certainly didn't have this ideal of

m*rder which our poets claim Guillaume had.

He wasn't of that league.

A defect ruled him out of the

legion of demons.

You could see nothing but this defect in his eyes.

True, I am nervous. I've always been. Dreadfully nervous.

But why will you say I am mad?

My disease has sharpened my senses-

not destroyed- not dulled them.

Observe how healthily and how

calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how

the idea entered my brain.

But once conceived, it haunted me day and night.

Thanks, dear.

Have you got the medal?

Object there was none.

Passion there was none.

I loved the old man.

He had never given me an insult.

For his gold, I had no desire.

I think it was his eye.

Look! This medal is unique.

Yes, a pale blue eye, with a film over it.

Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold.

And so by degrees, very gradually, I made

up my mind to take the life of the old man,

and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad.

Madmen know nothing.

You should have seen how wisely I proceeded, with what caution,

with what foresight, with what dissimulation I went to work!

I was never kinder to the old man than

during the whole week before I k*lled him.

Every morning, when the day broke,

when the old man was about to have some breakfast,

I went boldly into his room.

And every night, about midnight, very gently,

I turned the latch of his door and opened it.

You would have laughed to see how cunningly

I would cross the threshold, so slowly.

Then I would open the lantern, very cautiously,

so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep.

I did know where his bed was, but I had the ray follow

a familiar path so that it landed right on the vulture eye.

And I would wait till the dawn's glow

drowned the light of the lantern.

Ha! Would a madman have been as wise as this?

And this I did for seven long nights.

But I found the eye always closed.

And so it was impossible to do the work, for it was

not the old man who vexed me, but his evil eye.

Upon the eighth night... Never before that night had

I felt the extent of my powers, of my sagacity.

I scarcely contained my feelings of triumph.

To think there I was opening the door, little by little,

and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts.

I fairly chuckled at the idea.

Who's there?

I knew what the old man felt and

pitied him, although I chuckled at heart.

I knew that he had been lying awake since

the first slight noise and, for all his efforts,

he hadn't be able to convince himself

his fear was unfounded.

He'd been trying to comfort himself. "It's only a

mouse crossing the floor." To no avail.

Death, in approaching him, had stalked with

his black shadow upon him, and enveloped his victim.

When I had waited a long time,

I slightly opened the lantern.

The pale ray fell upon the vulture eye.

It was open. Wide open.

And I grew furious. I saw it with perfect distinctness.

All a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it

that chilled the very marrow in my bones.

A thumping noise reached my ears.

The beating of his heart.

Yet I refrained and kept still.

But now a new anxiety seized me,

the sound would be heard by a neighbor!

I thought his heart must burst.

His hour had come.

Help! Help! Help me!

I had completed the first part of my task.

I put my ear on his chest. No heartbeat.

The old man was dead. Stone dead.

I smiled, happy that his eye would

trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer

when I describe the wise precautions

I took for the concealment of the body.

The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence.

I cut off the head, then the arms, then the legs.

There was nothing to wash out.

No stain of any kind or blood spot whatsoever.

A tub had caught all!

I took up three planks from the flooring,

and I concealed all underneath,

so cleverly, so cunningly no human eye, not even his,

could have detected any thing wrong.

Is this the house of Monsieur Pelletan?

Yes, but he won't be able to receive you,

as he is absent in the country.

Can I help you?

We are sorry to bother you,

but we must visit your house.

Why?

Your neighbors heard a shriek

during the night and suspect foul play.

- You sure it was in this house?

- That's what they told us.

How strange! I am alone here.

Maybe the shriek was my own in a dream.

Well, please come in.

Here are all the treasures of my old friend.

Undisturbed?

No wonder. No one has come

into this room since he left.

- So, Nicolas?

- Nothing.

Did you have a close look at everything?

I'll be hanged if a crime was committed

inside these walls. Don't you agree, Lafarge?

Gentlemen, I am pleased that

I have allayed your suspicions.

Thanks for your courtesy.

One moment, please. My old friend has

received a sherry I'd like you to taste.

Thank you.

Cheers!

- Velvety!

- Excellent!

I am happy you like it.

Please take a seat.

Water! Who wants fresh water?

Lafarge, you'll summon the author

of this preposterous statement.

Never mind. That chap was

certainly acting in good faith.

True enough. Since the murders

in the Rue Morgue,

people are very nervous.

See, the other night, an old spinster shows up—

Mr. Lafarge would have paid much more

attention if it had been a nice young lady.

Suddenly, I realized I wasn't hearing

the officers anymore, though they were talking.

So, although I had a very sharp ear, I found

myself in the midst of a frightening silence.

I felt I was growing very pale.

And I wanted them to leave. My head was aching.

My ears were ringing.

But they remained seated and kept talking.

But I couldn't hear them.

And my ears were ringing more,

except it wasn't my ears.

It was a thud, repeated, like the noise a watch

wrapped in cotton wool would make.

Louder, louder. The officers were not hearing it yet.

Why wouldn't they leave?

I couldn't believe it when the fattest of them all

came back, sat down, and froze like an automaton.

What were they hoping for,

smiling stupidly like wax figures?

Nothing could be more intolerable

than those smiles.

I was exasperated.

Why would they not be gone?

And the noise was getting louder and louder.

Oh God! What could I do?

I paced the floor to and fro, with great strides,

annoyed by those people watching me, furious.

And the noise steadily increased.

I swung the chair.

I grated it on the boards.

But the noise grew louder, louder, louder...

Was it possible they heard not?

They heard, but they were

making a mockery of my horror.

And they kept smiling, with those

hypocritical smiles I could bear no longer.

I felt I must scream or die.

Villains! Dissemble no more!

I admit the deed! Tear up the planks!

Here, here! It is the

beating of his hideous heart!

That's how it all happened.

You see, I am not crazy.

You can hear it yourself, in fact.

Don't you hear it?

Louder, louder yet...

Can't you hear it now?

It won't ever stop. Never ever.

Even in the police station, this demon kept

hearing his victim's heart.

You can visit him at the Charenton madhouse

on Sunday, between one and three PM.

Pay him a visit.

He's still in the same state.

He won't shut up!

- Look at yourself. Aren't you ashamed?

- Blame it on Mexico.

I enrolled. I couldn't go to w*r,

so far away, with a dry throat!

It's so far, Mexico...

So, I drank a flagon, maybe

a couple of flagons. Your Majesty!

I'll go around the world.

And I'll come back with a savage in a cage.

I am leaving a wife and two kids behind me.

That's enough!

He's a soldier now.

He can sleep at the military prison!

Right now, come and sleep in our lounge!

Hey! How energetic, our little soldier!

A savage. In a cage.

Don't you feel tired? Come here.

I want to go to Mexico. I am going!

Leave me alone.

I won't bring you a savage.

I'll complain to the prefect.

b*stards!

Won't you shut up, for God's sake?

Where were we? Ah!

The story of our merry madman made me think of another

crazy story, with a guy in a jester's attire.

And he was the victim.

The unknown man in the catacombs?

We would never have found his

skeleton without the m*rder*r's concern!

One morning, in his mail, the commissioner found

a few odd sheets with a bloody cross as a signature.

- Red ink.

- How meticulous you are!

It said: "Go to the catacombs."

"If you go into the underground cemetery

through the cellar of abandoned house #1086,

see enclosed map, you'll find

the remains of my friend Fortunato."

We had a good laugh

hearing this funny name!

He had written this letter before dying so that his

victim could have a proper Christian burial.

- A good man!

- Come on, Dugelay!

The rest of his confession indicated he wanted his

delicate work of art not to remain unknown.

Of course! He hadn't had the pleasure of hearing

newspaper readers shout, "Good! Excellent! Charming!"

Remember, the first words of his confession were:

"I had to take revenge."

"But my decision was so perfect

it had to rule out any danger.

I had to take revenge, but with impunity.”

What a good memory you have!

It depends how much you like your job!

Don't forget the wine!

True. He insisted that this guy Fortunato

claimed to be a wine connoisseur.

It's about dusk, one evening during the

supreme madness of the carnival season,

when square dances become frantic.

A domino seems to pay a very intense attention to the

circle of masques surrounding a man disguised as a jester.

Parti-striped dress, with small bells.

This man is Fortunato.

Faithful to his reputation, he is drunk

and he is lurching merrily.

But while masques are fooling around innocently,

the heart of the domino,

a former friend of Fortunato, is full of devilish feeling.

The time has come to execute his hellish plan.

He's about to accost the Jester

with excessive warmth.

My dear Fortunato!

Fortunato!

Gaston!

You are luckily met. How remarkably

well you are looking today.

I am fine.

But I have received a pipe of what

passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts.

How? Amontillado, a pipe? In the

middle of the carnival!

I have my doubts. I was silly enough to pay the full

Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter.

You were not to be found, and I

was fearful of losing a bargain.

- Amontillado!

- I have my doubts.

- Amontillado!

- And I must satisfy them.

- Amontillado!

- I perceive you have an engagement. I'll find Lucas—

Lucas can't tell

Amontillado from Sherry.

And yet some fools will have it that

his taste is a match for your own.

- Come, let us go.

- Whither?

- To your vaults.

- My friend, no. I will not impose upon your good nature.

I perceive you have an engagement. Lucas-

- I have no engagement!

It is not the engagement, but the severe cold

with which I perceive you are afflicted.

The vaults are insufferably damp.

They are encrusted with nitre.

The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado!

You have been imposed upon. And as for Lucas,

he cannot distinguish Amontillado from Sherry.

Well, since you are kind enough to-

Let's take my coach.

I didn't know you had this.

It's a cab, my friend. I came out incognito.

Keep the change.

I had never entered your house via the

back door. It's funny. Incognito!

Your attendants?

I gave them leave so they can

make merry in honor of the time.

Be cautious. The staircase is slippery.

The cask of Amontillado?

It is farther on. But observe the white web-work

which gleams from these cavern walls. The nitre.

Nitre?

Nitre!

Saltpetre, if you prefer.

How long have you had that cough?

It is nothing.

Come, we will go back.

Your health is precious.

You are rich, respected, admired,

beloved. You are happy, as once I was.

You are a man to be missed.

For me it is no matter.

We will go back. You will be ill.

Besides, there is Lucas-

Enough! The cough's a mere nothing.

I shall not die of a cough.

True, true. I had no intention of alarming you

unnecessarily, but you should use all proper caution.

A draught of this Médoc will

defend us from the damps.

I drink to the buried that repose around us.

And I, to your long life.

These vaults are extensive.

The Montresors were a great

and numerous family.

I forget your arms.

A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure;

the foot crushes a serpent rampant

whose fangs are imbedded in the heel.

And the motto?

No one provokes me with impunity.

The nitre! See, it increases.

It hangs like moss upon the vaults.

The drops of moisture trickle among the bones.

Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough-

It is nothing, let us go on. But first,

another draught of the Médoc.

Bravo!

- You do not comprehend?

- Not I.

- Then you are not of the brotherhood.

- How?

- You are not of the masons.

- Yes, yes, yes, yes.

-You? A mason?

- A mason.

- A sign!

- It is this.

You jest! But let us proceed

to the Amontillado.

Be it so!

The Montresors were a very big family.

You mean a huge family, dear Fortunato.

Please, step forward.

Proceed. Herein is the Amontillado.

As for Lucas—

Lucas is an ignoramus!

It's here, isn't it?

Where is it?

Pass your hand over the wall.

You cannot help feeling the nitre.

Indeed, it is very damp.

Once more let me implore

you to return.

No? Then I must positively leave you.

But I must first render you all

the little attentions in my power.

Excuse me, I thought you were drunk.

I think we've just hit

the proverbial brick wall...

Ha! ha! ha! A very good joke,

indeed an excellent jest.

We will have many a rich laugh about it

at the palazzo- Ha! Ha! Ha! Over our wine!

The Amontillado!

Yes, the Amontillado. But is it not

getting late? Let us be gone.

Yes, let us be gone.

But first, I'd like you to meditate on my motto:

No one provokes me with impunity.

He that sews thistles shall reap prickles.

For the love of God, Montresor!

Yes, for the love of God!

Fortunato!

Fortunato!

"I then examined my work, satisfied. For such an amateur

and hastened work, the masonry was very suitable.

Fortunato could rest in peace.

My heart grew sick, but it was the dampness of the

catacombs that made it so." Thus ended the confession.

The only unpleasant incident of that evening!

A well-conceived plan!

To achieve this fine result, the artist

had left no stone unturned!

Well, dampness was particularly bad for his friend!

He knew how to use his foible!

The bottle can be the honest

man's worst enemy.

Honest? Fortunato may well

have been a scoundrel!

We'll never know.

Of course! A skeleton. A jester's outfit.

Fake names. No hint. No one was

ever able to identify the victim.

As for the m*rder*r, dream on...

I wonder what that Fortunato guy

could have done to him.

Maybe he couldn't accept the idea

someone knew wines better than he did.

Foreign wines, like those our friend at

the Charenton madhouse was so fond of!

Speaking of drinks, do you like good wines?

Like any honest man.

Chateau-Margaux?

We will drink a good bottle of that one.

What's the time, Dugelay?

A quarter past seven.

So, before we go out on night rounds,

I can reveal the secret of the enginery

that effected the Précy miracle.

The one, the true miracle, which put a definite

end to infidelity among the inhabitants of Précy.

You mean the case of the

old Englishman?

The m*rder*r was never judged, and yet

you were in Précy. For special parties, I guess.

I was there on holiday, at my aunt Héloise's.

You kept a very low profile. But I am sure

you must have helped the gendarmes.

Won't you let him tell us his story?

Thanks, Lafarge. Dugelay's sulking.

We're at ease.

Yes, it is the case of the old Englishman.

For quite a few years he'd

been living in a large house,

with a good fortune and a good reputation.

I seem to remember his name

was Barnabas Shuttleworthy.

He only had one servant, but stylish, distinguished

and quiet— the kind you only find in England.

Barnabas had a friend, an “old friend', he said, whom he'd got to

know a little while after settling in the village, Charles Truffaulit.

As he lived nearby, Charles would

very often visit Barnabas

and they would celebrate life

with good food.

Truffault's manners, those of a bon vivant

with no malice, justified his title of 'old friend.'

His ingenuous face was the very

'best letter of recommendation.'

Dear old Charley, I never had a friend like you,

capable of laughing and drinking like you do.

Follow his example, Arnold. I'd like your ever so

gloomy face to turn into a friend's face too.

Look at him, Charley. He's got the mark of

all his dirty tricks, of all his sins upon his face.

Good old Charley, since you like Chateau-Margaux

so much, I'll offer you a big box of bottles.

As if your cellar wasn't enough

to get this hanger-on drunk?

You rogue, will you take back-

You'd have to cut my tongue off to stop me from saying

what I think of a parasite like you. Yes, parasite.

Everything here is yours- the table, the cellar, your garments,

your pants. He would take the walls away if he could.

Shut up, you rascal! This is my house.

And it'll never be yours, even when I am dead.

I am sorry, Truffault. I'll disinherit him.

I'll go and see my solicitor in Creil tomorrow

to cross him out of my will.

How could you?

Excuse me, Charley, but you don't choose your son.

And this scoundrel is just my nephew, so...

But this house will always be open to you, Charley.

See you tomorrow, my good friend.

See you tomorrow, dear Barnabas.

The morning after, Francois, the devoted servant,

had saddled his master's pony very early.

It was a shady pony, but Barnabas

liked it a lot because of its small size.

Mr. Shuttleworthy left the village after letting

Francois know he would come back in the evening.

But only five hours after he'd left,

the horse came back alone,

and without the saddlebags which contained

the money he was supposed to deposit in Crelil.

The pony moved like a sick or wounded animal.

Anxiety in Truffault's heart, as painful

as if he'd been torn by a cannonball.

Francois, Francois, come out! Quick!

What's the matter, Mr. Truffault?

Something must have happened to Barnabas!

Look at his pony, covered with mud.

Foul play!

The saddlebags are missing.

And look at this wound, Francois.

It's deep. I'll take him back to the stable.

What's happening?

Barnabas, poor Barnabas...

What happened to Mr. Shuttleworthy?

I don't know. His horse is wounded.

I saw Mr. Shuttleworthy leave on horseback,

and the animal has come back alone.

We must go in search of him.

Maybe he's sick.

He's bleeding!

Cut off the strap. It's the easiest way.

Gentlemen, let's go and look for my uncle.

Didn't he take the St. Nicolas shortcut?

No, I'm sure he took the main road.

No need to panic, my friends.

The animal is restive.

Let the seekers distribute themselves in parties

for a thorough examination of the region.

This animal is so capricious. Maybe Barnabas beat it,

after a fall, and is now just walking back home.

Let's go! Hurry!

Listen, my friends! Keep hope.

Listen to reason, like I do.

You don't have to join us!

You know that nobody would be

happier than me to find Barnabas!

Of course; no Barnabas, no bottle! Come on!

Every minute wasted reduces the chances of finding him alive.

What makes you think your

uncle is in mortal danger?

Stop it, you parasite!

A corpse! That's what this rogue

would like to find!

- Will you shut up?

- Look at this scoundrel who won't hear the truth.

Pull them apart!

Well done! I can't follow you now.

m*rder*r! Yes, you m*rder*r!

I can't walk anymore.

Maybe my leg is broken.

The people of Précy would not have made a stir

in the business, but for the interference of Arnold.

Like Truffault, they would have followed this disposition to temporize

you find in people who are laboring under any very poignant sorrow.

Didn't you find him?

No, we lost his track at the St. Nicolas pool.

The seekers had found the horseshoe marks on a muddy by-path,

a short-cut Barnabas would always take,

but, where they stopped, it seemed something rather big and pretty heavy

had been dragged up to the pool, half-hidden by brambles.

He can't possibly have drowned in the pool.

No, it's less than three feet deep.

There is a hole, but only if you

do it on purpose can you fall into it.

So you didn't find him.

Poor Barnabas!

Tomorrow at daybreak we'll resume our search.

We'll go beyond St. Nicolas.

For all my sorrow, I must say you're right.

After all, you're the heir of Barnabas.

Stop it! You don't miss my uncle.

He was the master here.

You are going to replace him.

But you won't make us forget your

bad behavior just by looking for his corpse!

Shut up, old rascal!

Ah! If he were still among us...

The horse is dead. The wound was

caused by a p*stol-shot.

Search the body. We can find the b*llet.

Here come the gendarmes.

Come, Francois, give me a hand.

He was such a good man!

Yes, this was his house.

Beautiful house!

I'll show you around.

This is Monsieur Arnold.

So you're the nephew.

What can you tell us?

Not much, gentlemen. My uncle left around 8 AM.

He's an Englishman?

Yes, he settled in France after the Crimean w*r.

So he was a soldier!

Look, Francois! I can't believe it!

Look at the calibre.

Indeed, only Monsieur Arnold's r*fle—

I don't want to make unfounded

accusations, but nearby...

Nobody but him has any weapon of this calibre.

Only Monsieur Arnold hunts big game.

So, it would...

No, I won't believe it!

The b*llet.

We looked for him until nightfall.

Except for the horseshoe tracks

I mentioned, not a clue.

Gentlemen, we found this in the horse's corpse.

The animal was k*lled by this b*llet.

A very unusual calibre.

Let me see.

You look surprised.

No. Well, I don't understand;

it's the calibre of my r*fle.

No wonder you're surprised.

See, he told us a thousand times the calibre

of his r*fle was unique in this region.

Which doesn't prove-

You live here, don't you?

Where's your room?

Upstairs. Francois, please show this

gentleman to my room.

You'll find my r*fle there.

You didn't tell us, young man, what you

did while your uncle was away.

Take him to jail. He'll speak to the judge!

I went out. I had been told there was a

boar wallow by the St. Nicolas pool.

And it's near this pool that the tracks of

your uncle's horse disappear!

How strange!

What nerve! Confess!

I swear I am not guilty!

That's the first thing the

accused says to the judge!

Look at the mould. This little ridge

perfectly matches the b*llet's fault.

Chain.

I repeat, I am innocent!

You'll explain to the judge what you did with the b*llet

and the hunting knife you didn't clean properly.

Gentlemen, friends, please.

We may be making a terrible mistake.

Everything seems to accuse Arnold.

But I can't believe that, however disreputable

his way of life, he could commit such a crime.

Alas, I know things you don't know.

My heart is bleeding, but my conscience and my duties

to God and the deceased force me to tell you that

this morning my friend set out for Creil, not only

to deposit a large sum of money at the bank,

but also to meet his solicitor, in order

to disinherit this poor young man.

Yesterday, they had a terrible argument-

An argument you created!

What an ingrate you are!

But I'll make every exertion in my power to

soften down the worst features of this piece of business.

Won't you confess?

So be it.

It's none of our business, after all.

Let's go!

- What a despicable rogue!

- He looked so honest!

The village didn't forget this sinister event,

but soon regained its usual calm.

The culprit was in jail and was

bound to be sentenced to death.

The noble behavior of Charles Truffault had doubly

endeared him to the honest citizens of the village.

He had a small reunion at his house. Small and saddened

by the memory of the deceased, but cheerful altogether.

But, four or five days after Barnabas'

disappearance, he received a letter.

Francois! Francois! Come down!

It's incredible!

Look! Look ! A blessing! Ah! Barnabas!

"Dear Sir - In conformity with an order transmitted

to our firm by our esteemed correspondent,

Mr. Barnabas Shuttleworthy, we have the honor of

forwarding this morning, to your address,

a double box of Chateau-Margaux

of the antelope brand, violet seal.

We're happy, etc."

Would you believe it, Francois?

This wine is a dispensation of Providence.

I wish he were here!

We'll celebrate our missing friend

with a few bottles, all together.

Because, after all, Barnabas is just missing.

Imagine him showing up to drink

with us this famous Chéateau-Margaux,

back from a trip to England. How funny!

I doubt Monsieur Arnold would find it funny.

You'll be our MC, as it will be a ceremony.

There's no better way to pay

homage to his memory.

I want a great, beautiful ceremony.

I"d give everything to honor my friend,

my beloved brother.

But with all due respect, you own very little,

not to say nothing. How...

My beloved brother... Francois, don't disappoint me.

Who shall we invite? Friends, sharecroppers

(not those in debt, of course), Mr. Cloche, the solicitor-

Monsieur de Rocquigny?

Yes, Monsieur de Rocquigny, in memory of our

endless games of whist. Dear Barnabas...

The veterinarian of St. Nicolas?

And Mr. Stanislas, the painter?

Yes. Barnabas always thought this

painting was untrue to life.

He would call it 'Portrait of a Chimpanzee.'

Well, add him in.

Ah! The canon.

Don't you think the canon must spend all

his time praying for my master's rest?

You're right!

- The Baroness?

- That gloomy lady? She doesn't drink.

Chateau-Margaux doesn't mean anything to her.

Well, you decide. You have carte blanche.

Despite his reluctance, Francois

carried out his task perfectly.

At the appointed time, everything was ready.

Everything all right? It's late, Francois.

Well, "m happy. Can I say I am happy?

Barnabas, if he is dead, didn't have a proper burial.

We couldn't pay tribute to him

with a solemn funeral.

But tonight we'll honor him as he deserved.

Welcome. Welcome to this party

devoted to the memory of our friend.

Thank you for coming,

Monsieur de Rocquigny.

Congratulations for your

initiative, Truffault.

We'll drink this wine as if he

were drinking it with us.

You'd think he was going to talk.

To talk and drink with us.

Drink is better. Sometimes his damned accent

made it difficult to understand what he meant.

Are you forgetting where you are, Mr. Stanislas?

This is not a funeral wake, as the

body hasn't been found!

You heretic!

Death is like love. Both are unavoidable. And you're

closer to death than to love, Baroness.

You two-bit dauber!

If I were to paint your portrait,

the dead layer would be enough!

Here's to Barnabas!

To think that without that Crimean w*r,

we'd never have known Mr. Shuttleworthy!

Nor drunk to his health!

- Victor!

- All his life he has been such a fine host!

And afterwards too!

We're just waiting for Chateau-Margaux,

which he was so fond of!

How is it it hasn't arrived yet?

- Two days for twenty-five miles!

- Crazy!

The blessings of heaven always

take some time.

I never liked the English, but

Mr. Barnabas was a good Englishman.

Talk about speedy delivery!

I'm just on time, lady!

- Goodbye, sweetheart!

- Goodnight, Mr. Coachman!

- Straight up, a few yards on the left after the houses!

- Thank you!

- Wine! Bring us some wine!

- Yes, red wine!

Savages! Unbelievers!

Mr. Charles Truffault?

I have a box for you, but it's

so heavy I need a helping hand.

That's our Chateau-Margaux!

Come on, friends, go and help this poor guy.

Here's your wine!

Order, order, my friends!

Before being torn from our friendship,

like our heart from our chest,

our dear Barnabas left us another

evidence of his friendship.

We had to honor him, and that's the reason why

I invited you to the ceremony of disinterring the treasure.

Because it's a treasure Barn—

Barna-

This wine... It's as if he were drinking it with us!

Thou art the man!

Francois, what's this?

Yes, thou art the man. Come, all of you.

Finish your speech, good old Charley!

Fear not, you all. Come on, Charles Truffault,

your ghastly face betrays you.

Confess! Tell us how you k*lled your old friend.

Barnabas! Barnabas... I caught up with him.

I followed him to the pool.

I wanted to go with him.

I shot the horse with a p*stol.

Barnabas fought, shouted.

So I knocked him dead with the butt end.

I took his purse, the money in the bags.

I dragged the wounded horse to the brambles.

This horse was the Devil. He was dead and he came back!

The b*llet in the body... it was me. The knife-

- He's dead.

- Dead?

Yes, he's dead.

That old scoundrel was very dead.

An incorrigible liar, he ended his life giving his betrayed

and m*rder*d friend a last and fraternal embrace.

Embrace! That's a good'un!

You never told us this story before!

I needed a witnhess, gentlemen.

The man who exposed the m*rder*r after

discovering the corpse in a dry well was none other than-

The faithful servant, we know!

Your m*rder*r must have been most fragile,

if emotion made him... just like that.

Have you ever seen the condition of a corpse, springing out of a box of

good wine, after staying four days in the bottom of a well?

And he was already dead drunk.

The coup de grace came from his dear friend!

But how did the servant...

It must be very simple!

When he found the b*llet in the pony's corpse,

he noticed there was a wound

where the b*llet had entered, but another one-

- Where it had come out.

So it was obvious that the b*llet had been put back inside the corpse

by the fellow who was to discover it soon afterwards.

And only Truffault could do so while the whole village,

including the nephew, had set out to look for Barnabas.

He could forge a culprit, place the b*llet, and so on.

His plans were upset by the return of the wounded horse.

This was the evidence Barnabas had been m*rder*d.

What better means did he have to divert suspicions?

Indeed, it's simple!

As for the resurrection of the little corpse on the dinner table,

it was just as simple, Dugelay. The servant-

Sent the letter to Truffault.

After sending the letter, he procured from a

Paris naturalist a stiff piece of whalebone.

He respectfully thrust it down his master's throat

and doubled up the corpse in an empty box

of Chateau-Margaux he'd found in the cellar.

As soon as the nails of the lid were removed, the whalebone

would act as a spring and the body would fly from its surrogate coffin.

I can imagine Truffault's face!

How to resuscitate the dead with whalebones!

What if I told you the cunning servant is among us?

You mean him?

Remember the sentence delivered by the

corpse during the macabre joke.

- Come on, discreet Cotin.

- Thou art the man.

Our man is also a ventriloquist.

Take off his mustache and sideburns,

and here he is: Mr. Cotin Francois.

And you are a gendarme now! What a nerve!

If you imagine you can keep on clowning here, you're wrong.

There's no fooling around here. The prefect—

We just found a corpse. A man in his forties. Near the wine market.

We need your help to lock up the area.

Gentlemen, duty-

No clue whatsoever, of course.

However, some people said they saw, near the crime scene,

a man looking like our Emperor Napoleon.

- A dead ringer. My goodness me—

- What?

You do look like our Emperor!

Feel free! Say I look like a m*rder*r!

Well, like the prowler in the wine market area.

Don't worry, I didn't mean our Emperor.

With Dugelay, you have to dot

the I's and cross the U's.

Otherwise he could report what you said to the prefect,

and you could well end up in jail tonight.

Cotin, wait here till the patrol comes back.

Tell me one thing, chief. Are you sure

you're not the prowler?

How could I be?

I can't even dream of being such a man.

I am a crime expert, but I couldn't even

wring the neck of a poultry!

Stop, gentlemen, stop!

Stop? You stop it, joker, or you may well

end up singing in our local Sing Sing.

Let this gentleman speak, Dugelay.

Maybe he has something to tell us.

I just have to tell you you won't go to the wine market,

as what you see here is trompe-I'oeil.

With these fake streets, you wouldn't even

reach Boulevard du Crime.

This musician is right. You already served me five corpses.

That's enough for one day. No more frights, please.

Impostor!

You could have your throats cut. Keep in shape

to arrest crooks, punish drunkards-

Protect damsels in distress.

And watch over the sleep of honorable citizens.

That's our business.

And since we need a happy ending, music, Maestro!

Who needs a sad ending?

This guy is dead right.

Crime needs darkness.

it'll flee at daybreak.

If we die, what will be left of the police?

Who will watch over women and children?

In the interest of justice

let's go back, gentlemen.

We better be careful.

Go back, gentlemen, and be very careful.