Free Nightmare in Burgundy by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen Page B

readjusted his glasses and turned some pages of the dissertation.
    “We also know that in 1898 in La Roche-en-Brenil, a Mr. Garrie, who was a weaver by trade, saw his clock shake and fall to the floor and his lamps suddenly go out. He relit the lamps and put the clock back up. But the same thing happened. He called his neighbors over, and they watched as the furnishings tumbled over, and pictures came off the walls. Then a hammer sprang out of a drawer, broke a window, and ended up in the street.”
    “That’s disturbing,” the winemaker admitted, leaning over the document.
    “I have some press clippings from the time of the incident. See for yourself. The events occurred over the span of several days: tables knocked over, jars of pickles smashed, sideboard upside down.”
    “Was there a child involved that time?”
    “Yes, a youngster from the hospice who was raised by the family. As soon as he was sent to Saulieu, there were no more incidents. There were also several children in the home of Mr. Girard in Aubigny-la-Ronce. On the night of every Sabbath there were terrifying noises that everyone heard. One of them was a sound like collapsing logs, as if someone were knocking over entire stacks of firewood. It always happened as soon as Mr. Girard’s daughter-in-law put the grandchildren to bed.”
    “And yet there was no writing on the walls, as there was in Vougeot,” Cooker remarked, trying to look Pierre-Jean in the eye behind the Coke-bottle glasses.
    “Indeed, that may be a new element that should be indexed.”
    “So there is no historical incident, proven or imagined, that involves the Psalms of David?”
    “As far as I know, not one. We find many legends that revolve around the devil, satyrs, suspicious ceremonies and nights of debauchery. There are also quite a few tales of ghosts, such as a certain lady in white who wanders the countryside. From time to time, she is dressed in black instead of white. But is this really the same phantom? There is no dearth of shocking occurrences and bizarre apparitions—stories of tortured saints, trials, and stakes, talking crucifixes, fake Virgin Marys, bodies risen from the dead, what have you. Herders of wolves, goblins, spirits, and miraculous springs.”
    “You are talking about superstitions and rumors, whereas what we have here are not hoaxes. Your stories don’t appear to be relevant.”
    “You should consult Lucien Filongey. He’s a man who claims to be an expert in the field, and he easily invokes celestial forces. He deals with all those things that worry the common mortal.”
    “Where can I find him?”
    “Ask anyone in Gilly-lès-Cîteaux. They’ll tell you how to get to his place.”
    “Filongey, you say?”
    “Yes, Lucien Filongey: part bonesetter, part magician, part exorcist. You won’t find a more interesting man!”
    “This part of the country never ceases to surprise me,” Cooker said, nodding. “I was familiar, or so I thought, with its wine spirit, but I didn’t know about the…divine spirits.”
    “That’s amusing,” Pierre-Jean conceded soberly. “The novelist Stendhal, who knew this region extremely well, was not very fond of our countryside. But he was a great admirer of the wines of Clos de Vougeot. Incidentally, he wrote something very true: ‘As I left Dijon I stared hard at the famous Côte-d’Or, so celebrated throughout Europe. I had to recall the verse, “Are witty people ever ugly?” for without its wonderful wines, I would find nothing uglier than the Côte d’Or.’”
    “You have an excellent memory,” Cooker said with admiration. “Perhaps that is why you immediately recognized Psalm 102?”
    “Stendhal also wrote this: ‘At the table, Burgundians speak only about wines, their comparative merits, their faults, and their qualities; boring politics, so impolite in the provinces, are left aside.’”
    “I thank you for all of your valuable information, Mr. Bressel, but I must go.”
    “It was a