Diabolic Fiction

Dancing....Sleeping....Falling

PARIS, 18th century

1. Franz Mesmer walked out of his two-story apartment and made his way down the Rue de Bastille toward the theater. He knew there would be a line of sophisticates stretched around the block...all of them waiting like sheep to witness his power.
Yes...that was a good word for it...POWER.
“Professor Mesmer? Wait for me, professor!”
Franz turned to see one of his pupils, a well fed young man named Puysegur. “Right on time, boy. Do you have my devices?”
Puysegur patted a canvas bag slithered around his shoulder, its weight causing him to walk like a hunchback. “Everything’s in here, sir. I wouldn’t forget a thing.”
Franz smiled evilly. “I should hope not, Puysegur. I should hope not.”
They finally arrived at the stage entrance at the rear of the Cine de Diabolos. A stage manger greeted them and Mesmer strode purposefully to his dressing room. Puysegur headed in the opposite direction toward the stage to set up the devices.
Inside his room, Mesmer sat down in front of a large mirror. Red light bulbs encircled the glass and bathed his face in a bloody hue.
A knock came to the door.
“Entre,” he sighed.
The door opened and in walked Madame Eman Chudolais, wife to one of the richest men in France.
“What can I do for you, Frau Chudolais?”
Eman glided to where he sat and touched his shoulder lightly.
“It is more what I can do for you, Herr Mesmer,” she purred as she slid into a crushed velvet chaise lounge. “You see, my husband has a smoking problem. It is affecting his health. I think you may be able to help him.”
Her eyes moved over him like hundreds of tiny hands.
Mesmer smiled. “Well, if you need some tickets for tonight's show, maybe I can...”
“No, Herr Mesmer. I need you to see him right away. I can make it worth your while.”
Madame slipped two gold coins onto his make-up table. He picked them up and they glittered on his palm like two tiny suns.
“Well, I would be delighted to see Herr Chudolais. My show is over at midnight, if you care to..."
Madame Chudolais stood up. She didn’t seem very happy. “You do not understand. You must see him now. He is waiting outside the door.”
Mesmer was annoyed by the intrusion. It’s only a smoking problem, he thought.
Madame went to the door, opened it and motioned for someone to come in.
“Here is my husband, Monsieur Chudolais.”
In walked a short, overweight man who held a glass in his meaty, right fist. The contents of the glass were constantly being drained into his mouth and then refilled by a dwarf carrying a bottle of very aged wine.
“Can you help me?” asked Chudolais between gulps.
“Well, I believe I can, Monsieur. If you would be so kind as to have a seat over here.” Mesmer motioned to a chair and the two men sat facing each other a foot apart.
“Now, just concentrate on your problem, Monsieur. Think only of your problem and close your eyes. Let your mind drift...let your eyes close...your mind drift...your eyes close....your mind drift...your eyes close...your mind drift....your eyes close....your mind drift....your eyes close....your mind drift...your eyes close...your mind .drift...your eyes close...your mind drift...your ey.......
Mesmer was suddenly overwhelmed by nausea. His stomach churned and his head felt light as a feather.
“Please, excuse me for a moment. I’m not feeling too well. I’ll return in a minute to continue the hypnosis.”
Madame Chudolais was visibly concerned and offered her help but Mesmer waved her away and rushed into the adjoining bathroom.
Mesmer dipped his head in a basin of cool water and steadied himself.
Must be that cheap wine Puysegur buys, he thought.
After a minute, Mesmer’s head cleared and he returned to his dressing room. Madame and monsieur were exactly as he had left them. He sat down in front of Monsieur Chudolais and proceeded with his treatment.

SOHO, 2 a.m.

2. Chudolais awoke and found his mouth buried in the torn neck of a motionless woman. Blood caked his lips and his white silk shirt was now crimson. They were both lying in an alley.
“Oh my God. What have I done?”
A police officer walked by and noticed Messier Chudolais hunched over the lifeless1 woman and immediately blew his whistle.
“Halt, sir! Halt I say!”
Chudolais didn’t move. He seemed rooted to the spot. He wanted to run...wanted to disappear into the night. But some invisible force held on to him.
Two more officers arrived and they wrapped their arms around Chudolais.
“Mon dieu! It is Monsieur Chudolais!” The police officer couldn’t believe his eyes. The French industrialist had just been gorging on the fresh blood of a prostitute. He must be mad. Surely he must be.

RUE DE BASTILLE, 7:36 a.m.
3. Professor Mesmer opened the morning newspaper and almost choked on his coffee.
“I see you’ve read the news, sir.”
Mesmer looked up from his paper and nodded his head to Puysegur who sat down at the table. “Yes, I have. Quite out of the ordinary, wouldn’t you say?”
“Of course.”
Mesmer ran the events of the previous night through his head and came to a conclusion.
“Madame Chudolais set-up her husband.”
“How can you say such a thing?” replied Puysegur, his eyes wide with anticipation.
“Easy. She had asked me to cure her husband of a bad smoking habit. When I put him to sleep, I suddenly became sick. I left the room hastily and was in the lavatory for several minutes. The nausea quickly passed and I returned to my dressing room. I proceeded to suggest to Monsieur Chudolais that he needn’t smoke again. When he awoke, he looked absolutely normal. No sign that he would rip the throat of a young prostitute.
“But that is when I realized that there was a sticky substance on my hand. I smelled my fingers and immediately felt sick again. It passed quickly and I washed my hands.”
“So? What does that mean?”
“It means, Puysegur, after I realized the same substance was on the two gold coins, that Madame Chudolais had purposely poisoned me. I believe she wanted me out of the room for a short time...long enough for her to suggest to her husband...who was in a trance...to kill a prostitute, and to stay there until he was found.”
“But why would she want to do that?”
“Why, her freedom, of course. You see, Puysegur, even though she had all the money in the world, she was still Monsieur Chudolais’ property. She still had to answer to him. I also noticed bruises on her neck which she attempted to cover up with make-up. He was obviously beating her.”
“Mon dieu! The perfect crime. Monsieur Chudolais would have no defense. He was caught red-handed, and in his mind, he intended to commit the crime all along. And there is no way to prove that Madame Chudolais had anything to do with it.”
“Right, Puysegur. The perfect crime indeed.”
A knock came to the door. Puysegur answered it and accepted a package which he carried to Mesmer.
“It is addressed to you. It is very heavy.”
“Thank you Puysegur. You may leave now.”
“Yes, Herr Mesmer.”
Although he already knew what was in it, Mesmer opened the box and feasted his eyes on gold coin after gold coin....the box overflowed.
“The perfect crime indeed.”