The Ghost of Gilles de Rais

As soon as the moon got up, I walked once

more down into the beautiful valley. to enjoy

the scenery by that peculiar light. All three

of my landladies joined in entreating me not to

think of going into or near the castle, assuring

me that it was extremely dangerous; that nobody

in Tiffauges would dream of going near

the ruins after dark, for that "il était impossible

de dire ce qu'il pouvait y arriver." lt is

curious that, of all the various names attached

to this old castle, and all the motley records

of its eventful history, the only name which

yet lives in the memory of the people, and the

only historical facts which have made a lasting

impression on the popular mind, are that

of Gilles de Laval, the wicked Marechal de

Retz, and the atrocities committed there by

him — so prone is the uncultivated mind to

the contemplation of horrors.

Throughout the neighbourhood a thousand

superstitions are current about the ruins of

the dwelling of the murderer and necromancer.

The hideous half-burnt body of the monster

himself, circled with flames, pale, indeed, and

faint in colour, but more lasting than those

the hangman kindled around his mortal form

in the meadow under the walls of Nantes, is

seen, on bright moonlight nights, standing

now on one topmost point of craggy wall, and

now on another, and is heard mingling his

moan with the sough of the night-wind. Pale,

bloodless forms, too, of youthful growth and

mien, the restless, unsepulchred ghosts of the

unfortunates who perished in these dungeons.

unassoiled, with lingering agony, as their

lifeblood flowed from their veins for the

impure purposes of' the tyrant's demon-worship

— these, too, may at similar times be seen

flitting backwards and forwards, in numerous

groups, across the space enclosed by the

ruined wall, with more than mortal speed, or

glancing hurriedly from window to window of

the fabric, as still seeking to escape from its

hateful confinement.

Despite these terrors, with which their old

tyrant still contrives to torment the descendants

of his former vassals, I enjoyed my

moonlight stroll exceedingly. The dancing

stream, the grey rocks on the side of the hill,

lying half in shade, half silvered by the cold

pale rays, ghosts of the departed sunbeams,

the ruins of the castle, exhibiting a thousand

capricious changes of light and shade, are all

well calculated to form a lovely moonlight

scene. And though possibly I might have

seen —nay, am rather inclined to think I did

see—some of the appearances of whose existence

 l had been warned, as the fitful light,

changing with every passing cloud that flitted

across the sky, brought now one part and now

another of the fantastically-shaped fragments

into relief, yet I had the comfort of knowing

that the Sévre's running stream was at

the time between me and them; and, thus

secured from their doing me a mischief, I

returned to my bed, and, I believe, to my good

hostesses' surprise, safe and sound from my

ramble.

Thomas Adolphus Trollope

from A Summer In Western France

A little treat for the Hallowe'en season. This account of supposed hauntings at Tiffauges is occasionally quoted but never given in full. It is the only reference to Gilles or his victims walking as ghosts, and whether it owes more to the imagination of Mr Trollope or his mischievous landladies is difficult to tell. At any rate, it is at least as reliable as much of Bossard.