Tales of the Beast of Gévaudan

Hello, everyone, and welcome to Camelot Chat! I’m your hostess, Shannon Watson; and today, I have a special treat for you: a bonus episode.

This episode, “Tales of the Beast of Gévaudan,” derived from November’s series of episodes on Sir Bedivere, Peter the Fang, and Werewolves. It provides more details of the eighteenth-century tale… and two possible answers to the question: Exactly what was the Beast of Gévaudan?

Let’s get started.

One spectacular example of a medieval "werewolf scare" is that of the Beast of Gévaudan. In 1765, Louis XV sent troops to kill a rumored loup-garou that was terrorizing France.

The story goes that, in 1764, reports from southwestern France began drifting north into the royal court of King Louis the XV. Reports of anywhere from 60 to over 200 deaths. Specifically, deaths by animal attack. Victims partially eaten. Victims with their throats ripped out. A most persistent animal, who attacked in daylight and often, in village centers.

But no one could identify the beast.

The preferred prey of the Beast of Gévaudan, as it became known, appeared to have been lone humans attending livestock. Curious, that it singled out the humans and not the livestock. Particularly, the 14-year-old, female humans.

At this point, I would have begun to suspect a two-legged beast, if it weren’t for the survivors’ descriptions of the animal.

These killings continued throughout the summer and well into September of 1764. The story was growing. Now, people were starting to ascribe supernatural abilities to the beast... including walking on its hind legs... like a human predator. There were whispers of a loup-garou, or werewolf. And now, there were two beasts. Or else, one beast, accompanied by offspring.

The Beast was growing bolder. In January, it attacked a man and seven children. After fending off its repeated attacks, the family drove it away… barely.

Now, the tale came to the King's ears. Louis XV announced that the state would pay to hunt down and destroy the Beast. But not in time.

Because in early February, the Beast struck again. It attacked and partially devoured a little 12-year-old girl. She was buried on February 11 in her local parish churchyard.

This is where it begins to sound like a passage from “Beauty and the Beast.”

It was now August, more than a year since the Beast of Gévaudan had begun its reign of terror. King Louis sent first a troop of dragoons, then two professional wolf hunters – replete with a team of eight wolf-hunting bloodhounds – south to rid his realm of the Beast. When they failed, the king directed his Chief of the Hunt to take over.

What follows reads like a comedy of errors. Several clear shots at the beast, foiled by incompetent guardsmen. A free crossing of the river by the Beast, unhampered by the same townspeople who had just lost their 12-year-old child to its depredations… and really should have been more vigilant and motivated.

On August 11, the Beast struck again. This was the date of the famous attack on the Maid of Gévaudan. Marie-Jeanne was a young girl of 20, crossing a footbridge with a group of peasant women. The Beast appeared and leapt on her. Marie-Jeanne was just able to stick her spear into the animal; whereupon it ran off into the forest.

Hurrying to the site, Louis’ Chief of the Hunt examined the tracks and declared it to be the same animal. A little over a month later, he killed a huge wolf in the area, saying it was the largest wolf he had ever seen. Marie-Jeanne, her sister, and several others identified the corpse as that of the same beast that had attacked them.

This seems like wishful thinking to me, cognate with the fishermen who went chasing after the shark that committed the Jersey Shore attacks. Not every great white shark you kill is “Jaws.”

Anyway, the Chief of the Hunt and his son reported the killing of the Beast to the Crown and had the hide mounted and stuffed and presented at Versailles, where it was displayed in the garden. Both were hailed as heroes and suitably rewarded.

And everyone exhaled, believing the terrible nightmare was over.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t. On December 2, 1765, the Beast – or something like it – struck again. It attacked two young boys and attempted to drag away the younger of the two. The older boy drove off the Beast, but it quickly followed up this failed attempt with a dozen more successful ones, rapidly killing 12 more people.

And no one felt safe. Again.

As the attacks continued, the renewed assault was reported to the king. But, having believed the matter already handled, Louis XV had grown bored with the subject and didn't want to hear any more about it.

With the spring thaw, the attacks intensified. The locals, seeing that no help would come from the royal court, determined upon handling the issue themselves.

Everything they tried failed. Hunting parties. Poisoned canine carcasses.

The Beast had changed its tack. It was operating in a smaller geographical area. It was less aggressive. More cautious.

And so, time drifted on, into the year 1767. When the attacks halted.

But, once again, with the spring thaw, they resumed. The locals, having given up on the direct approach, now resorted to prayer.

Then, on June 17, the Beast was sighted. Because it had just killed a 19-year-old girl.

And still, no one had any real idea just exactly what the Beast was. A lion. A demon. A wolf. A werewolf. Some other supernatural entity. No one knew.

Finally on June 19, 1767, relief came. A marquis organized one final hunt, and a local hunter – isn't it always a local hunter? – shot and killed the Beast on a mountain slope. The body was quickly loaded onto horseback and taken to a surgeon, whose post-mortem report described the so-called “Beast” as either a large wolf or wolfdog, although, the remains were somehow incomplete when he examined them. The Beast was exhibited for a further dozen days, before the marquis instructed his servant to transport the corpse to Versailles to show the king.

It never made it.

The corpse of the Beast, badly preserved by an apothecary who had stuffed it with straw, rapidly rotted in the July heat. So horribly did it stink that the poor servant, who faithfully carried it north to Paris, suffered for the rest of his life from an unidentified malady that he attributed to breathing in the foul odor of the rotting Beast.

Its remains were most likely buried on the grounds of the Parisian house of the nobleman to whom the marquis’ son had entrusted them. That house was torn down in 1825, so the evidence has been lost.

But the attacks had stopped.

The hunters were rewarded. The townspeople were relieved. The local authorities patted themselves on the back.

What was the Beast of Gévaudan, you ask?

Who can say? Although, as ever, theories abound. Of course, with loup-garou, or werewolf, always at the top of the list.

Some other suggestions: A large dog. A wolfdog. A wolf. A pack of wolves. Multiple wolfpacks. A young lion escaped from a local menagerie.

Let's start with what witnesses said it looked like. It was tawny. Or rust-colored.

It had streaks. Or stripes. And one long stripe down its back.

It had a tail like a wolf’s. Or a tail that was much longer than a wolf's and ended in a tuft like that of a lion.

It had a mouthful of teeth and terrible claws for ripping; and it bounded faster across the fields than any dog could run and over fences and walls higher than any dog could leap. It was larger than a regular dog or wolf, roughly the size of a cow.

It was diurnal and hunted in the middle of the day. They say it had no fear of humans and often attacked in the middle of villages.

But let's remember: some witnesses reported two beasts acting in concert. The corpse of one, the first to be killed, did make it to Versailles. And evidence of it may remain there.

They say the mystery remains unsolved to this day.

But in the nineteenth century, the preserved and stuffed body of a strange animal was discovered in the storerooms of France’s National Museum of Natural History. Tawny. Striped. With one long, black stripe down its spine. It had a long tail like a lion’s, ending in a tuft.

But it wasn't a lion. It wasn't a wolf, either. And it certainly wasn't a werewolf.

The strange animal, which would have appeared so foreign and mystifying to the simple villagers of southwestern France, was a hyena.

What was a hyena doing in Renaissance-era France?

The only answer that makes any sense is that it must have been imported from some exotic locale specifically as a pet, or more likely, the latest inhabitant of some wealthy nobleman's menagerie. If it possessed the bounding ability they say it did, it is easily believable that it escaped and started terrorizing the local villages. Being a captive wild animal had kept it near humans, so when, after its escape, they did not feed it, it may have become enraged and begun attacking.

So, perhaps, one or both of the beasts was a hyena. Hyenas do hunt in pairs.

But they tend to hunt at night. And this beast was notable for attacking during the day.

So, where does that leave us?

The appearance of another animal – different to either the hyena or the werewolf – seems to fit the bill. This beast, like the Beast of Gévaudan, has a tawny, grayish pelt which turns red in the summer, with dark striping down its back and on the tip of its tail. It has lighter colors on its belly and cheeks. And it lives in packs of from two to seven animals.

This animal is the Italian wolf, which inhabits the Alps of Italy on the border of France. It is distinctive for its unusually-shaped head and does not share mitochondrial DNA with other gray wolves or domestic dogs, but rather with a different branch of the wolf ancestry.

French peasants of the eighteenth century, unless they ventured into the Alps for some reason, would not have been familiar with this creature, identifying it as “like a wolf but somehow different from a wolf.”

This localized animal fits the bill of the mysterious Beast of Gévaudan and may well provide a resolution of the mystery.

Thank you for joining me in this detour down the rabbit- – or wolf- – hole. I have enjoyed taking this eighteenth-century Tour de France with you and look forward to seeing you all for next month’s exploration of Queen Guinevere’s Ogre Father.

See you back in Camelot!