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.

Eric Maple, The Domain of Devils (1966)

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.)

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

Qui veut innocenter Barbe-Bleue?

 Jean Kerhervé

vs

Gilbert Prouteau

Not everybody was delighted by Gilles de Rais ou la gueule du loup, Gilbert Prouteau's mischievous propaganda victory for the revisionists. Jean Kerhervé, a Breton and a professional historian, seems to have been genuinely shocked by the way in which the media so predictably fastened on to this outrage against historical process. Prouteau, he protested, was a novelist! And one writing to a commission, moreover, which apparently compounded the felony, although Prouteau makes it plain that he went beyond his brief and that the tourist authorities had not intended to open this particular can of worms.

Having sketched out a brief introduction to Gilles de Rais, in which he admits that Jean V behaved reprehensibly and offers more than a little justification for the revisionist position - Quoi qu'on en pense, on ne saurait donc dissumuler que le dossier d'accusation est chargé dans le double proces de 1440 et que Gilles, désargenté et privé de l'appui du roi, ait donné des armes pour le perdre à ceux qui avait intérêt à le voir disparaître – Kerhervé goes on to pick at historical errors in La Gueule du Loup. The most damaging of these is that he casts doubt on Prouteau's claim that Pierre de l'Hôpital signed every page of the trial transcript except the ones bearing Gilles' confession. Even this is only a minor problem, however, since l'Hôpital's ambivalence towards Gilles is transparent. Kerhervé does not, surprisingly, mention Prouteau's startling allegation that Gilles was an alcoholic and that Malestroit used this weakness to force him into confessing. This is pure speculation and anybody with a serious interest in Gilles de Rais would realise that it is unsupported by even a scrap of evidence.

The truth is that Prouteau was writing a novel, not a biography. Why would he do anything else? He was a novelist. He does not conceal the fact, from the fantasy childhood (shamelessly stolen from Jacques Bressler's Gilles de Rais ou la passion de défi) to Gilles' journal apocryphe. Kerhervé complains that Prouteau has Gilles born at Machecoul and damaged by the remarriage of his widowed mother, whereas modern scholarship has him born at Champtocé and his mother predeceasing her husband. Both these misapprehensions come direct from Bossard; the good abbot was no historian. Very few of Gilles' biographers are: apparently this only becomes a problem when they fail to follow the official line. I feel sure that Prouteau's intentions in printing the Bossardian legend were not innocent; he began by giving his employers exactly the book they wanted, which would chime perfectly with their plans for a Gilles de Rais tourist trail, and then undermined it by giving it an abrupt revisionist slant.

Kerhervé is perfectly correct when he asserts that, as a piece of original research into history, Prouteau's book is worthless. But then, Prouteau hardly pretends otherwise: his revisionist argument consists, for the most part, in rehashing the claims of Fleuret/Hernandez and Reinach. It is a magpie's nest of a book, crammed full of stolen trinkets, and it seems more than a little odd that  his antagonist fails to remark on this. What is valuable about it is that it was a splendid provocation and coup de théâtre, capturing the attention of the media world far beyond France and making front page news in the UK Guardian, for example. He flung a gauntlet and started a discussion, even in that pre-internet world of 1992. It is no longer possible to ignore the pressing questions concerning Gilles' guilt or innocence. For that, we owe Gilbert Prouteau a debt of gratitude.

It is notable that in quite a lengthy peroration, Kerhervé does not once address the issue of how compelling the evidence against Gilles was and whether or not confessions were extracted under torture, matters which are more significant than the date of Montezuma's death or a few misspelled Breton town names. He accuses Prouteau of cherry-picking the trial record for passages that support him, failing to note the irony that all Gilles' biographers have done exactly the same. He wilfully pretends that Prouteau misunderstood Jean V's politique de bascule; he did not, he merely emphasised the role of Malestroit, who was an Anglophile all his life and constantly sought to influence his cousin, the Duke. Anyway, Jean V signed an important treaty with the English on 13th October 1440, a strong indication of which way the pendulum was swinging while Gilles was on trial for his life. Matters of guilt and innocence do not greatly concern M. Kerhervé. It is sufficient, in his mind, merely to destroy the credibility of this pesky revisionist without making the case for accepting the verdict of 1440. And this speaks volumes about him.

Click here to read Jean Kerhervé's article (French language)

The Ostrich Position

Bluebeard: Brave Warrior, Brutal Psychopath by Valerie Ogden: a review

It is a red-letter day when a new English language biography of Gilles de Rais appears; the last was Leonard Wolf's serious and largely accurate, but entirely soulless, effort over a third of a century ago. Valerie Ogden's book promised so much, notably a sympathetic fresh interpretation of Gilles' life, but it is a sad disappointment. Like so many biographers before her, she has been led down the primrose path that leads to the ubiquitous Bibliophile Jacob and his “more circumstantial” copy of the trial record. Ogden does not list him among her sources, but it is not necessary to read the Bibliophile, Paul Lacroix, to be seduced by him. Bossard, for his own transparent reasons, accepted this obvious forgery as a genuine text; most biographers and novelists since have been strongly influenced by the Bibliophile, either by reading him directly or via Bossard and his imitators.

Ironically, the fatal flaw of this Bluebeard book is a lack of curiosity, specifically about sources. Ms Ogden dismisses Prouteau's radical biography as a “novel”, which indeed it is in parts, but is happy to cite Huysmans' novel Là-Bas and even Tragedy in Blue by Richard Thoma, which is nothing but a short story. Huysmans, like the Bibliophile, has much to answer for when it comes to muddying the waters of Raisian studies. The life of Gilles de Rais has long been obscured by myths, mostly created by these two writers and retailed unthinkingly by almost all subsequent biographers. Ms Ogden is no exception. So Gilles is arrested by Labbé and makes his witty pun, as invented by Lacroix; only here the joke is botched because “abbé ” is mistranslated as “priest”. And of course the Bishop of Nantes veils the crucifix, just as Huysmans had him do in an elaboration of a less dramatic moment in Lacroix.

Really, this is a book out of its time. It would be wrong to criticise it for failing in something it never set out to do, and I am fully aware that I come at it from an opposing camp. However, it must be said that slowly public opinion has shifted in favour of a revisionist stance, and it seems impossibly quaint in the 21st century to read a text that fully accepts the validity of an Inquisition trial with the use of torture. Ogden never fully faces the twentieth century movement towards rehabilitating Gilles de Rais; the only revisionist writer she addresses is Reinach, who is easy to discredit. Fleuret, Bayard and Prouteau, who make a more detailed case, are ignored. In particular, she cannot bring herself to mention the 1992 retrial that resulted in his unofficial acquittal. The ostrich position is never a good look; a writer can accept the verdict of the modern tribunal or argue against it, but to simply pretend it never happened is a wilful denial of reality.

Gilles is a difficult topic for a modern writer in any case. Roland Villeneuve could happily wallow in sodomy and black magic in the Satanism-obsessed 1970s; in the 21st century, sodomy is a taboo word and nobody believes in magic. Leaving only murder, repositioned as a response to that fashionable diagnosis Post Traumatic Shock Disorder. “Somehow he became a homicidal sexual psychopath”. There is a world of evasion in that word “somehow”. The psychology is vague and fails to gel. Because Ogden has fallen for some rather bizarre, novelettish fantasies about Gilles' childhood and youth, he is presented as a latent psychopath from his earliest days. He is then traumatised by some unknown event, possibly the death of Jehanne d'Arc, resulting in PTSD. However, since the primary trait of a psychopath is lack of human feelings, it seems unlikely that this could happen. The PTSD theory is a good one, but it remains a theory; there is no evidence at all to back it up. It is one more author attempting to explain away the complete transformation of Gilles' character which supposedly took place in 1432.

The errors are manifold. At one point we are told, wrongly, that brother René de la Suze was born the year before his parents died, in 1414. In the chronology, the date is correctly given as 1407; but this is said to be the same year as Jehanne, who was famously not yet twenty when she died in 1431. She was actually born in 1412. At another point, a horrible mistranslation has Henriet suggesting the idea of killing children by cutting their throats, as if this would never have occurred to a serial killer in the five years or so before his valet was initiated. This is not merely a mistranslation; it is a strong indication, and not the only one,  that Ogden is not at all familiar with the trial record, which is her only primary source, either in French or in English. She also conflates the two exhumations that allegedly took place at Champtocé and Machecoul; in her account, Roger de Bricqueville arranges his peep-show at the former and the latter never takes place. This is simply sloppy reading of the text, or possibly an ill-judged attempt to simplify the story by removing a confusing duplication. What it is not is a serious attempt at writing history.

A thread that runs through the book is Gilles' apparent obsession with the “black planet” that ruled his destiny. Several times Ms Ogden stresses that he mentioned it more than once, that both his valets heard him talk about it, that Gilles himself hinted at it in his out-of-court confession. Not so. It is mentioned once only, by Henriet at the ecclesiastical tribunal; this is one of the few points on which his and Poitou's evidence differs. Neither is there any implication that this was a regular theme with his master; he said it once. Allegedly.

This biography occupies an uneasy no-man's-land between genuine history and novel. There are impossible descriptions that seem to come from works of fiction and at every turn we are told what Gilles is wearing – at one point, “rose-pink tights”. Some of this comes from the Bibliophile Jacob, who has Gilles wearing first white and then black before the court at symbolic moments; though  here the details are elaborated upon, Gilles is seen in five different shades of white and later in three shades of black, including “corbeau-damask”. There is a lurid and completely uncanonical description of Poitou's initiation, involving hanging from a hook and a “serrated” dagger, and also one of Ms Ogden's not-infrequent lapses of tone which has this young boy described as “sinewy and stunning” and “this loopy young man”.  Almost all of the missing boys have a couple of words of description, which would be perfectly justifiable in a novel but has no place in a historical work. It also makes this section of the book conspicuously formulaic and adjective-heavy. More worryingly, the murders are dealt with in a manner that is gleefully gruesome (“slashing and bashing”) and not wholly accurate – that Gilles squatted in the entrails of his victims was an exaggeration by Huysmans, and there is no mention of “violated anuses” in the trial record; sodomy is not necessarily buggery. On a lighter note, the poor people are said to decorate their hovels with henbane flowers – of all the flowers they could have chosen, this is possibly the least likely, as henbane is poisonous in all parts and even its scent is intoxicating. A sceptic might remark that this is one explanation for some of the more outré testimony.

It would be tedious to continue. Inaccuracy, minimal grasp of the facts as related in the trial documents, a fatal weakness for a well-turned myth, poor translations from the French (Memory of the Heirs is clunking as well as incorrect) numerous verbal infelicities (“ominous omens” should never have made it past the first draft), and most of the accents missing from the names, which does not add to the authority of the book. At the end, Valerie Ogden explains how she came to be interested in Gilles de Rais; she is related by marriage to a family who claim descent from him, although they “run away” when she tries to question them. One can hardly blame them at this point. It is tempting to wonder if her in-laws were playing a joke on her, since de Rais had only one daughter, who was childless, and the family died out completely in 1502. As she would have known if she had read Bossard attentively. Although Ms Ogden has dutifully parroted the Abbé's official myth that Gilles was named “Bluebeard” because of his war-horse, or barbe, which was bluish-black, she clearly clings mutinously to the Bibliophile's description of him as literally blue-bearded, since these self-styled descendants have “cobalt-blue hair”...

Read a sample of the book here
Not just me - another bad review here

A thought for Gilles de Rais Day

Select bibliography: books in French

The English reader, exasperated by the poor biographies available in their own language, might imagine that Gilles de Rais is better served by French writers. Sadly, this is far from the case.

1 Eugène Bossard  The Abbé Bossard was Gilles' first real biographer - previous writers had more or less fictionalised him. Bossard did not entirely reverse this trend. His biography is often called authoritative or comprehensive; it is certainly long. One tends to imagine the abbot as an elderly, bearded man bringing  the knowledge garnered in a long life to bear on his subject. In fact, the book began life as a thesis, written over six years by a relatively young man - he was in his early thirties when it was published. As a thesis, it had to make a new, striking, possibly contentious point, hence the connection between Gilles de Rais and Bluebeard, which had never been mooted before and which Bossard invented single-handed. This is a major flaw in the book. Other weaknesses are the virtual canonisation of the Bishop of Nantes, the mealy-mouthed refusal to print the more lurid accusations even in the original Latin and a certain lack of academic rigour in accepting the lively account by the Bibliophile Jacob to add colour to the dry court proceedings, although it is self evidently a forgery. Gilbert Prouteau rightly regarded Bossard as a myth-monger and fabulist, but his tome did at least revive interest in Gilles.

2 Georges Bataille  Pauvert should be applauded for publishing Klossowski's modern French language translation of the trial record and for keeping it in print. It is truly invaluable as the only translation of the mostly Latin original manuscripts without any obvious bias or agenda. The chronology, too, is extremely helpful. Bataille's introductory essay, however, is a disaster; a chaotic, rambling piece of anti-revisionist propaganda, at times aspiring to the state of utter meaninglessness. Discerning scholars will read the trial record and the chronology only.

3 Gilbert Prouteau, LudovicoHernandez/Fernand Fleuret, Jean-Pierre Bayard  Of the revisionist biographies, Prouteau's is by far the most influential - I have reviewed it in full here. However, he drew heavily on his predecessors for his best-selling book. "Dr Ludovico Hernandez", the pseudonym of Fernand Fleuret, is witty and urbane and an entertaining read. His book was written in 1921, part of an astonishing wave of affection for Gilles that culminated in an attempt to have him canonised.  It consists of a long essay and a full translation of the trial, the first to include the passages Bossard censored. Bayard's 

biography was written in 1985, although reissued in 1992, and it seems a pity that his considered work was overshadowed by the somewhat less substantial opus of the great showman Prouteau. Any of these books is worth reading as an insight into the revisionist argument: as we have seen, nothing similar is available in English. However, I do feel that they only scratch at the surface of the case for Gilles' innocence. If this blog is less regular than it might be, that is because there is a book to be written...

4 Paul Lacroix, "The Bibliophile Jacob"  True obsessives might like to look up the Bibliophile for entertainment value. Again, I have dealt with him in more detail elsewhere. His colourful elaboration on the trial is well worth reading, if only for the light it sheds on the origin of so many of the myths that cling to Gilles. Lacroix was, for instance, the first to describe him as having a blue beard, hence the attraction for Bossard. Since so many writers who should know better cite the Bibliophile as a legitimate source, it is helpful to read him at first hand and see exactly why he really is nothing of the kind.

[Several of these books are out of copyright, so links will lead to FREE e-books. Jean-Pierre Bayard is sadly out of print and may be difficult to find, but secondhand copies are usually available.]

Michel Tournier: révisionniste malgré lui

There are few revisionists among the biographers and novelists who have taken Gilles for their subject. Nonetheless, it is difficult to find a book that ignores the near certainty of a conspiracy against him and next to impossible to find one with a good word to say about Jean V. This extract is from a novella by Michel Tournier. He is in no way a revisionist. And yet for some reason, in his necessarily telescoped account of the trial, he felt the need to put an eloquent, concise summary of the case for the defence into the accused's own mouth. One is left feeling that perhaps the truth is too powerful to be suppressed...

From the first day, at the hearing of the forty-nine articles of the indictment, Gilles charged at the prosecutor, Jean de Blouyn, and Bishop Jean de Malestroit like an angry bull. To Malestroit's question, 'Have you anything to say regarding these charges?' he replied: 'I have nothing to say regarding these charges, because I have too much to say regarding the mouths that have pronounced them. Seigneur Malestroit, Bishop of Nantes, and your brother Jean de Blouyn, and your brother Guillaume Mérici, and you others sitting on the right and left of those eminent persons, like so many birds of ill omen on the same perch, I shall say this: I am as good a Christian as you and have as much right to divine justice as you and I declare, before God, that you are not judges. You are butchers! What is in question here is not my crime, nor even my person, but my fortune and it alone — my lands, my castles, my forests, my farms, my coffers and the gold that you suspect they contain. If I were poor, do you think that I would be here to answer charges of supposed murders and other heresies? No, if I were poor, I would now be as free as the air, because all of you here present care not a fig for crimes and heresies. What is at stake is something else — something much more serious than crimes and heresies. What is at stake is the immense loot that your quivering nostrils can scent. All of you have already stooped to sordid manoeuvres intended to bring about my ruin. Behind transparently false names, you have negotiated the buying of this or that parcel of my goods on fabulously profitable terms. No, you are not judges: you are debtors. I am not a defendant: I am a creditor. When I have gone, you will fight over my remains, as dogs after the death of the deer tear out its guts and entrails. Well, I say no! I reject your presence. I appeal to a higher authority. Get out! Leave this place!' 

This furious attack coming from so prestigious a lord as Rais disconcerted the judges. A movement of hesitation ran through their ranks. In the end, one of them rose, soon imitated by the others. Downcast, they left pitifully, one after another ... 

Michel Tournier, Gilles & Jeanne
(English translation by Alan Sheridan)