Free Werewolf of Paris by Guy Endore

of walking over to Mère Kardec’s, Aymar declared that he would go along. He had wild visions of himself tearing in ahead of the women on one excuse or another, and warning Mère Kardec not to say a word of his visit on the previous night, for it was plain that the only reason she had not sent the messenger was because she figured that he would bring the news to the ladies.
    But no opportunity of “tearing in ahead” of the women afforded itself, and as for a plausible excuse, his mind, no matter how he tortured it, would not yield a single idea of value. So he walked along through the mildly wintry day and tried his best to appear nonchalant while he journeyed to his doom. For his visit last night was bound to come out and with it all his secret relationship, that relationship he was burning to resume, and which yet he could not acknowledge to himself without revulsion.
    Mère Kardec greeted the ladies in her usual stern manner, unbending only sufficiently to say: “You will see Madame nursing her baby for the first time.”
    In unison, Françoise and Mme Didier exclaimed: “What?! Her baby?! When did she have her baby? Why did you not send a messenger as you promised?”
    Aymar looked on calmly, as if the matter did not interest him, though he would have welcomed the proverbial yawning of the earth beneath his feet, to swallow him whole.
    Mère Kardec uttered no more than a “But I thought Monsieur…” Even before she had finished the word Monsieur she had checked herself and instead of explaining herself, she excused herself. Years of experience had taught her that one apology is worth a dozen explanations.
    The ladies, however, did not wait for much apology but hastened upstairs, followed by the perspiring but happy Aymar. He had been saved on the brink of the precipice. Nevertheless, he was to go home that afternoon a much disappointed man. Two rude experiences awaited him.
    He did not mind that Josephine should not give him a second glance. He accounted readily for that as being due to the presence of Mme Didier and Françoise. But he had not been prepared for that baby. Brought up with the belief that new-born babies were such as one sees borne by Madonnas in Italian paintings, or such as are depicted in the canvases of Greuze, he was shocked by the scrawny, spidery, fuzzy and wizened little monster that Josephine was gently hugging to her breast. As for the ladies, they went into ecstasies.
    When the three had said good-bye and had gone down one flight of stairs, Aymar suddenly bethought himself of a handkerchief he claimed to have forgotten—though it still reposed in his pocket. And before Françoise could say that she would fetch it for him, he had dashed up the stairs and reëntered the room. The little baby had been placed back in its basket and Josephine was certainly free to give him one rapid passionate embrace, which was what he expected. Or at the very least, seeing that she might still claim to be an invalid, a look of tenderness and promise.
    All he received was a quiet question as to the reason for his return. And her eyes, which formerly had blazed with ardor, were now quiet pools of maternal affection, entirely meaningless to him. He could not leave her thus. He stopped and said: “Well…”
    â€œQuoi, monsieur?” she said. She had not meant the monsieur. It had returned to her naturally, along with her changed attitude. But to him it was suddenly revelatory of the fact that she was no longer his mistress, but his servant. Thoughtfully he closed the door and followed his aunt down the stairs.
    At home Aymar had the courage to twit his aunt about the terrible fate of children born on Christmas eve. Actually, he was himself half willing to believe that there was something magical in all he had been through. No doubt about it, he had been bewitched. How else could he have let himself in for such a relationship, right on the