History That Doesn't Suck - 213: Halloween Special VI: The ASEs & Guy de Maupassant

Episode Date: October 5, 2026

“‘What is that?' I asked. The Englishman answered calmly: 'It was my best enemy.’”This is the story of the little books that went to war, and the Frenchman whose ghosts we'll read by their light.In 1943, a consortium of American publishers began slipping pocket-sized paperbacks into the hands of GIs bound overseas: the Armed Services Editions. More than 120 million of these ASEs were printed by the war’s end, and they turned up everywhere: foxholes, troopships, field hospitals, and more. In fact, we’ll meet one colonel who fondly remembers a soldier reading aloud to their gun crew while German 88s whistled in. The Germans tried to kill them as they laughed and enjoyed good writing. And among the 1,300-odd titles the program carried to the front were the works of a certain French master of the macabre: Guy de Maupassant. The Armed Services Edition gave GIs Maupassant the realist … but we’ll encounter two tales that reflect the Frenchman’s more ghoulish side.Happy Halloween.Connect with us on HTDSpodcast.com andgo deep into episode bibliographies and book recommendationsjoin discussions in our Facebook communityget news and discounts from The HTDS Gazette come see a live showget HTDS merchor become an HTDS premium member for bonus episodes and other perks.HTDS is part of Audacy media network.Interested in advertising on the History That Doesn't Suck? Contact Audacyinc.com

It's an unspecified day, one later described only as not long ago on September 21st, 1944. We're somewhere on Western Europe's front with an unidentified American battery, currently getting shelled by the Germans firing their deadly 88s. Now, the Yinks are doing okay, as long as they stay well-intrenched in their gun pit, that is. But it's a miserable, hot, dust-filled experience. one that each man prays will soon come to an end. Finally, the guns fall silent. The Americans stand.

They stretch, get a taste of fresh air. Well, most of them do, anyway. As the rest rise, the colonel glances at one man and finds he's reading a book. What? Ah, but no, time to ask the soldier how on earth he's enjoying a good read right now. Not with the Germans' horrid 88s, start. another burst of shelling. Again, the Americans get low and do their best to endure the heat, the dust, and the misery.

Again, the shelling lets up. The colonel seizes the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity. He asks the soldier, what he's reading in between, you know, diving to the ground for dear life. The soldier answers, a tree grows in Brooklyn. It's a recently published semi-autobiographical novel by Betty Smith, told us. pulled through the eyes of a young, poverty-stricken, second-generation American girl, Francie Nolan, growing up in the early 20th century slums of Brooklyn.

And man, is it engrossing? In fact, there's this crazy part. It's just downright funny. The soldier offers to read it out loud, out loud from his impressively small paperback with a short, stout spine and pages that are longer in width than in height, each of which contains text that runs in two columns per page. In a word, this copy has been printed and bound specifically so it can fit in a soldier's pocket and survive the vicissitudes of war.

This is an armed services edition. It's a small, offbeat part of the novel, a brief self-contained story about a child named Gussie. Well, perhaps child is too kind of a word for a boy such as this. On the pages, he's described as a tough little helion, and one with a specific obstinate obsession, an unwillingness to stop drinking his mother's milk. Yes, Gussie will not wean.

Even when his mother becomes pregnant, this proves but a nine-month gap. One, this mere toddler fills not with cow's milk or any other milk, but black coffee. And the moment his little sister's born, Oh, Gussie doesn't waste a moment. Through days on end hunger strikes, accompanied by a refusal to use the toilet, and bashing his hat on the ground, he forces his mother to cave until he can return to his, well,

addiction. Indeed, so obstinate and adamant is Gussie that his sickly baby sister is fed by the bottle. That's the only way this poor Brooklyn mother can even attempt to satiate her Hellian son. The soldiers and officer are all grins, getting a great chuckle at this setup. Then, suddenly, the German guns start up once more. The Americans jump back to their cover. But this time, they do so with their minds utterly distracted in the best of ways.

Rather than focusing on the hell they're living through and the possibility of death at any moment, they're wondering where the story of this child who refuses to be weaned and drinks black coffee is going. So, naturally, when the latest round of shelling ends, everyone is eager for the story to continue. The servicemen are at the edge of their seats. They listen and learn of how the whole neighborhood is gossiping about Gussie. The child, sorry, Helian, who stands while feeding at the age of three. Then four, the Helian, who has driven his father from his shared bed, as the man claims his wife, quote-unquote, breeds monsters. And Gussie's poor mother, what can she do? Finally, a solution comes to mind.

Using stove polish and lipstick, she carries out a work of makeup wonder such that the next time Gussie demands to nurse, he will be met by what appears to be a wide-mouthed fained monster. The desperate mother heads to the kitchen. She sits in the rocker by the window. That's all it takes to catch Gussie's attention. The growing boy tosses aside his toy, marches up to her, props one elbow on her knee, then, like a man impatient for his drink at a bar, looks expectantly at his mother. Dead silence, as the men listen to their fellow narrating soldier read on. The mother bates the boy. She asks if he wants milk. Yep, the salivating child answers. And with that, she quickly opens her dress, instantly and rapidly revealing her makeup-covered fang-like and monster-esque breast to a monster of a child.

The Helium freezes with fright. Then, finding his legs, he dashes to his room and ducks under his bed, where he stays hidden in his horror for a full 24 hours. Creeping out the next day, Gussie emerges wanting nothing but his old black coffee. Yes, gussy is weaned. And his word of the mother's horror-induced success spreads across the gossipy neighborhood. Nursing mothers throughout the Brooklyn neighborhood turn to the terror tactic, one that shall forever be known as giving the baby the gussy. The men are holding their sides, gasping for breath with laughter.

I mean, forget the Nazis across the way. This is hilarious. Ah, but the Germans refuse to be ignored. The bombardment strikes back up. The Americans jump to it, taking cover once more. But as they do, the colonel isn't thinking the banging artillery threatening to kill him. No, he's still chuckling himself and thinking about how he can't wait to read more of this novel. And it's in this moment that he realizes just how grateful he is to have books on the front lines.

Thank goodness for the Council on Books in Wartime and its soldier-friendly mass market paperbacks, the Armed Services Editions. Welcome to History That Doesn't Suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and I'd like to tell you a story. Identifying himself only by the initials FME. The colonel wrote about this day of reading and laughing

between waves of German shells in a letter he sent to the Harper Brothers Publishing House. Harper Brothers had only recently published the novel, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and the officer wanted the publishing company to know what joy and solace this novel brought him that day. To quote the colonel's description of the soldier reading to the group, he started to read us a portion about giving the baby the gussy, and we laughed like hell between bursts. It sure was funny. And yes, the colonel did go on to read the book. It kept him distracted in the best of ways during the worst of moments. He shares all of this with Harper

brothers. Hence, his heartfelt desire to write, to quote him again, in sheer gratitude. But don't imagine the soldier, or Colonel FME, reading a thick, first edition hardback novel. How cumbersome. That would never do on the front. Undoubtedly, they were reading a paperback from the Armed Services editions, or the ASE. Now, you might be thinking to yourself, okay, great, paperbacks for GIs. What makes these ASEs so special? Well, indulge me for a moment as I share with you the story of how American soldiers came to read. Good stories.

While books were sent to Yanks over there during World War I, and the paperback had already made its debut before the turn of the century, World War II's Armed Services editions took these inexpensive publications to a whole new level. It started with two U.S. Army officers, one the head of the Army's library section, Ray L. Trotman. The other are graphic arts specialist, H. Staley Thompson. Between them, they dreamed up the idea of putting the rotary presses that, before the war, cranked out cheap magazines, but were now sitting largely unused,

back to work to crank out books for soldiers. And they wanted to crank out everything, the classics, mysteries, horror, poetry, even recent bestsellers. Okay, that idea would make these books cheap to mass print, which is already brilliant. But then we add the unique design, publishing with small print, on small pages,

bound on the shorter side, in brief, something that, unlike a massive leather-bound tone, a soldier can slip in any old pocket the same way you're likely carrying a smartphone right this second. Yes, this is something a soldier can carry into battle. That handles logistics.

But how do you get publishers to just send this stuff to soldiers? for free. I mean, best sellers under copyright? Crazy. Or not crazy. Not with the Council on Books in wartime here to help. Established in 1942, this nonprofit filled with figures from the whole publishing ecosystem. Authors, publishers, librarians, booksellers, you name it, loved the idea of getting books in the hands of American boys at the front. These luminaries and literaries leaned into the value of ideas. Thoughts. As W.W. Norton put it, books are weapons in the war of ideas. And this council's members embraced their role of promulgating books even as the Nazis burned them.

It was with that motivation that over 70 publishing firms gladly, shall we say, enlisted themselves in this nonprofit. Together, this lit-loving army forming this council on books in wartime, made these two U.S. Army officers' rotary press dreams or reality by publishing the Armed Services editions. Ultimately, the only thing that proved crazy about the project was the publishing world's commitment to it and its success. By the war's end, the council had published nearly 123 million copies of soldier-friendly, pocketable ASE paperbacks, comprising 1,322 titles spanning every sort of genre you can imagine. And in December, 1943, the ASE's D-Series 117 was, you guessed it, a tree grows in Brooklyn. Now, the full circle fun of all of this is that publishers actually grew their business.

Soldiers came home in love with reading, and the paperback took off in popularity after the war. But let's remember, these publishers never could have known that. At the time, Betty Smith, Harper Brothers, and everyone else involved were simply walking away from prophets to give soldiers what might have been their last smile somewhere in a foxhole. Now, perhaps you're wondering, how on earth does this connect to a Halloween episode? Well, within the vast and varied world of the Armed Services editions, May 1945's publications included U-Series 669, which featured the works of Giedemot-Mel-Pesson. Not only was this 19th century author a master of the realist short story, but he had a fantastic streak that crept toward the crypt from time to time.

In fact, some of these dark tales were written, even as his mind gave way to madness in his final years. And even more appropriately for us as we're on the cusp of storming the French beaches of Normandy in a coming episode, Guy de Montpaston wasn't only French. He was from the Norman coast. Given that connection, how could we pass on this sometimes macabre author? Now, the ASE's selected tales gave G.I.'s Mopassant the realist. That was a good call, but given our Halloween theme,

I'm taking the liberty of introducing you to two short stories that are not in U-Series 669, two stories that I find a little more haunting. First, a psychological to supernatural tale of murder called The Hand, and second, a ghoulishly honest jaunt through a French cemetery that will make you forever question the kind epitaphs on tombstones, entitled, Was It a Dream? And I'll leave it at that. After all, no spoilers.

So, if you're ready, let us enter the dark world of this ASE and now H-TDS author, The Norman Frenchman. Guy de Montpassant. The hand by Guy de Montpassant. All were crowding around Monsieur Bermutier, the judge, who was giving his opinion about the Saint-Clu mystery. For a month, this inexplicable crime had been the talk of Paris. Nobody could make head or tail of it. Monsieur Bermutier, standing with his back to the fireplace, was talking, citing the evidence,

discussing the various theories but around. arriving at no conclusion. Some women had risen in order to get nearer to him and were standing with their eyes fastened on the clean-shaven face of the judge who was saying such weighty things. They were shaking and trembling, moved by fear and curiosity and by the eager and insatiable desire for the horrible which haunts the soul of every woman. One of them paler than the others said during a pause, it's terrible. It's very terrible. It very much. on the supernatural. The truth will never be known. The judge turned to her, true, madam, it is likely that the actual facts will never be discovered. As for the word supernatural,

which you have just used, it has nothing to do with the matter. We are in the presence of a very cleverly conceived and executed crime, so well enshrouded in mystery that we cannot disentangle it from the involved circumstances which surround it. But once I had to take charge of a an affair in which the young canny seemed to play a part. In fact, the case became so confused that it had to be given up. Several women exclaimed at once, oh, tell us about it. Monsieur Bernouetier smiled in a dignified manner, as a judge should, and then went on. Do not think, however that I, for one minute, ascribe anything in the case to supernatural influences, I believe only in normal causes.

But if, instead of using the word supernatural to express what we do not understand, we were simply to make use of the word inexplicable. It would be much better. At any rate, in the affair of which I am about to tell you, it is especially the surrounding preliminary circumstances which impressed me. Here are the facts. I was at the time, a judge at Ajaxiol, a little white city on the edge of a bay, which is surrounded by high mountains.

The majority of the cases which came up before me concerned vendettas. There are some that are superb, dramatic, ferocious, heroic. We find there the most beautiful causes for revenge of which one could dream. Enmetees hundreds of years old, quieted for a time but never extinguished. Abominable stratagems, murders becoming massacres and almost deep. deeds of glory. For two years, I heard of nothing but the price of blood, and of this terrible Corsican prejudice, which compels revenge for insults, meet it out to the offending person and all his descendants and relatives. I had seen old men, children, cousins murdered. My head was

full of these stories. One day, I learned that an Englishman had just hired a little villa at the end of the bay for several years. He had brought with him a French servant, whom he had engaged on the way at Marseilles. Soon, this peculiar person, living alone, only going out to hunt and fish, aroused a widespread interest. He never spoke to anyone, never went to the town, and every morning he would practice for an hour or so with his revolver and rifle. Legends were built up around him.

It was said that he was some high personage fleeing from his fatherland for political reasons. Then it was affirmed that he wasn't hiding after having him. and committed some abominable crime. Some particularly horrible circumstances were even mentioned. In my judicial position, I thought it necessary to get some information about this man, but it was impossible to learn anything. He called himself Sir John Rowell. I therefore had to be satisfied with watching him as closely as I could,

but I could see nothing suspicious about his actions. However, as rumors about him were growing and, becoming more widespread, I decided to try to see this stranger myself, and I began to hunt regularly in the neighborhood of his grounds. For a long time, I watched without finding an opportunity. At last, it came to me in the shape of a partridge, which I shot and killed right in front of the Englishman. My dog fetched it for me, but taking the bird, I went at once to see Sir John Raoul and, begging his pardon, asked him to accept it. was a big man, with red hair and beard, very tall, very broad, a kind of calm and polite Hercules.

He had nothing of the so-called British stiffness, and in a broad English accent, he thanked me warmly for my attention. At the end of a month, we had had five or six conversations. One night, at last, as I was passing before his door, I saw him in the garden, seated astride a chair, smoking his pipe. I bowed, and he invited me to come in and have a glass of beer. I needed no urging. He received me with the most punctilious English courtesy, saying the praises of France and of Corsica, and declared that he was quite in love with this country.

Then, with great caution and under the guise of a vivid interest, I asked him a few questions about his life and his plans. He answered without embarrassment, telling me that he had traveled a great deal in Africa, in the Indies, in America. He added, laughing. Oh, I have had many adventures. Then I turned the conversation on hunting,

and he gave me the most curious details on hunting, the hippopotamus, the tiger, the elephant, and even the gorilla. I said, are all these animals dangerous? He smiled. Oh, no, man is the worst. And he laughed a good, broad laugh. the wholesome laugh of a contented Englishman. I have also frequently been man-hunting.

Then he began to talk about weapons, and he invited me to come in and see different makes of guns. His parlor was draped in black, black silk embroidered in gold, big yellow flowers, as brilliant as fire were worked on the dark material. He said, it is a Japanese material. But in the middle of the widest,

panel, a strange thing attracted my attention. A black object stood out against a square of red velvet. I went up to it. It was a hand, a human hand, not the clean white hand of a skeleton, but a dried black hand with yellow nails, the muscles exposed, and traces of old blood on the bones, which were cut off as clean as though it had been chopped off with an axe, near the the middle of the forearm. Around the wrist, an enormous iron chain riveted and soldered to this unclean member, fastened it to the wall by a ring, strong enough to hold an elephant in leash. I asked, what is that? The Englishman answered quietly, that is my best enemy. It comes from America, too. The bones were severed by a sword and a skin cut off with a sharp stone and dried in the sun for a week.

I touched these human remains, which must have belonged to a giant. The uncommonly long fingers were attached by enormous tendons, which still had pieces of skin hanging to them in places. This hand was terrible to see. It made one think of some savage vengeance. I said, this man must have been very strong. The Englishman answered quietly, Yes, but Thai was stronger than he.

I put on this chain. to hold him. I thought that he was joking. I said, the chain is useless now. The hand won't run away. Sir John Rao answered seriously, it always wants to go away. This chain is needed. I glanced at him quickly, questioning his face, and I asked myself, is he an insane man or a practical joker? But his face remained inscrutable, calm and friendly. I turned it to other. subjects and admired his rifles. However, I noticed that he kept three loaded revolvers in the room, as though constantly in fear of some attack. I paid him several calls. Then I did not go anymore. People had become used to his presence. Everybody had lost interest in him. A whole year rolled by.

One morning, toward the end of November, my servant woke me and announced that Sir John Raoul had been murdered during the night. Half an hour later, I entered the Englishman's house, together with the police commissioner and the captain of the gendarme. The servant, bewildered and in despair, was crying before the door. At first, I suspected this man, but he was innocent. The guilty party could never be found. On entering Sir John's parlor, I noticed the body stretched out on its back in the middle of the room. His vest was torn. The sleeve of his jacket had been pulled off. Everything pointed to a violent struggle.

The Englishman had been strangled. His face was black, swollen, and frightful, and seemed to express a terrible fear. He held something between his teeth, and his neck pierced by five or six holes, which looked as though they had been made by some iron instrument, was covered with blood. A physician joined us.

He examined the feeling. finger marks on the neck for a long time and then made this strange announcement. It looks as though he has been strangled by a skeleton. A cold chill seemed to run down my back, and I looked over to where I had formerly seen the terrible hand. It was no longer there. The chain was hanging down, broken. I bent over the dead man, and, in his contracted mouth, I found one of the fingers of this

vanished hand, cut, or rather sawed off by the teeth down to the second knuckle. Then the investigation began. Nothing could be discovered. No door, window, or piece of furniture had been forced. The two watchdogs had not been aroused from their sleep. Here, in a few words, is the testimony of the servant. For a month, his master had seemed excited. He had received many letters, which he would immediately burn. Often, an fit of passion which approached madness, he had taken a switch and struck wildly at this dried hand riveted to the wall

and which had disappeared. No one knows how, at the very hour of the crime. He would go to bed very late and carefully lock himself in. He always kept weapons within reach. Often at night he would talk loudly, as though he were quarreling with someone. That night, somehow, he had made no noise, and it was only ongoing to open the windows that the servant had found Sir John murdered. He suspected no one.

I communicated what I knew of the dead man to the judges and public officials. Throughout the whole island, a minute investigation was carried on. Nothing could be found out. One night, about three months after the crime, I had a terrible nightmare. I seemed to see the horrible hand running over my curtains and walls like an immense scorpion or spider. Three times I awoke. Three times I went to sleep again. Three times I saw the hideous object galloping round my room and moving its fingers like legs.

The following day, the hand was brought to me, found in the cemetery on the grave of Sir John Raoul, who had been buried there because we had been unable to find his family. The first finger was missing. Ladies, there is my story. I know nothing more. The women deeply stirred were pale and trembling. One of them exclaimed, But that is neither a climax nor an explanation.

We will be unable to sleep unless you give us your opinion of what had occurred. The judge smiled severely. Oh, ladies, I shall certainly spoil your terrible dreams. I simply believed that the legitimate owner of the hand was not dead, that he came to get it with his remaining one. But I don't know how. It was a kind of vendetta. One of the women murmured. No, it can't be that.

And the judge, still smiling, said, Didn't I tell you my explanation would not satisfy you? Was it a dream by Guy de Mopesson? I had loved her madly. Why does one love? Why does one love? How queer it is to see only one being in the world, to have only one thought in one's mind,

only one desire in the heart, and only one name on the lips, a name which comes up continually, rising, like the water in a spring, from the depths of the soul to the lips, a name which one repeats over and over again, which one whispers, ceaselessly, everywhere, like a prayer.

I am going to tell you our story, for love only has one, which is always the same. I met her and loved her. That is all. And for a whole year, I have lived on her tenderness, on her caresses, in her arms, in her dresses, on her words, so completely wrapped up, bound and absorbed in everything which came from her, that I no longer cared whether it was day or night, or whether I was dead or alive on this old earth of ours. And then she died. How?

I do not know. I no longer know anything. But one evening, she came home wet, for it was raining heavily, and the next day she coughed. And she coughed for about a week and took to her bed. What happened I do not remember now, but doctors came, wrote, and went away.

Medicines were brought, and some women made her drink them. Her hands were hot, her forehead was burning, and her eyes bright and sad. When I spoke to her, she answered me, but I do not remember what we said. I have forgotten everything, everything, everything. She died, and I very well remember her slight, feeble sigh. The nurse said, and I understood. I understood. I knew nothing more.

Nothing. I saw a priest who said, Your mistress? And it seemed to me as if you were insulting her. As she was dead, nobody had the right to say that any longer. And I turned him out. Another came who was very kind and tender,

and I shed tears when he spoke to me about her. They consulted me about the few. funeral, but I do not remember anything they said, though I recollected the coffin and the sound of the hammer when they nailed her down in it. Oh, God, God. She was buried, buried, she, in that hole. Some people came, female friends. I made my escape and ran away. I ran and then walked through the streets, went home, and the next day started on a journey. Yesterday, I returned to Paris, and when I saw my room again, our bed, our furniture, everything that remains of the life of a human being after death, I was seized by such a violent attack of fresh grief that I felt

like opening the window and throwing myself out into the street. I could not remain any longer among these things, between these walls, which had enclosed and sheltered her, which retained a thousand atoms of her, of her skin and of her breath, in their imperceptible crevices. I took up my hat to make my escape. And just as I reached the door, I passed the large glass in the hall, which she had put there so that she might look at herself every day from head to foot as she went out to see if her toilette looked well, and it was correct and pretty, from her boots to her bonnet. I stopped short in front of that looking glass in which she had so often been reflected, so often, so often, that it must have retained her reflection. I was standing there,

trembling with my eyes fixed on the glass, on that flat, profound, empty glass. which had contained her entirely and had possessed her as much as I, as my passionate looks had, I felt as if I loved that glass. I touched it. It was cold. Oh, the recollection, sorrowful mirror, burning mere, horrible mirror to make men suffer such torments. Happy is the man whose heart forgets everything that it has contained, everything that has passed before it,

everything that has looked at itself in it or has been reflected in its affection, in its love. How I suffer! I went out without knowing it, without wishing it, and toward the cemetery. I found her simple grave, a white marble cross, with these few words.

She loved, was loved, and died. She is there, below, decayed. How horrible! I sobbed with my forehead on the ground, and I stopped there for a long time, a long time. Then I saw that it was getting dark. In a strange, mad wish, the wish of a despairing lover seized me. I wished to pass the night, the last night,

in weeping on her grave. But I should have. be seen and driven out. How was I to manage? I was cunning and got up and began to roam about in that city of the dead. I walked and walked. How small this city is in comparison with the other, the city in which we live. And yet how much more numerous the dead are than the living. We want high houses, wide streets, and much room for the four generations who see the daylight at the same time, drink water from the spring, and wine from the vines, and eat bread from the plains. And for all the generations of the dead, for all that ladder of humanity that has descended

down to us, there is scarcely anything, scarcely anything. The earth takes them back, and oblivion effaces them. Adieu. At the end of the cemetery, I suddenly perceived that I was in its oldest part, where those who had been dead a long time are mingling with the soil, where the crosses themselves are decayed, where possibly newcomers will be put tomorrow. It is full of untended roses, of strong and dark cypress trees, a sad and a beautiful garden nourished on human flesh. I was alone, perfectly alone. So I crouched in a green tree and hid myself there completely, amid the thick and somber branches. I waited, clinging to the stem,

like a shipwrecked man does to a plank. When it was quite dark, I left my refuge and began to walk softly, slowly, inaudibly, through that ground full of dead people. I wandered about for a long time, but could not find her tomb again. I went on with extended arms, knocking against the tombs with my hands.

my feet, my knees, my chest, even with my head, without being able to find her. I croaked about like a blind man finding his way. I felt the stones, the crosses, the iron railings, the metal wreaths, and the wreaths of faded flowers. I read the names with my fingers by passing them over the ladders. What a night! What a night! I could not find her again! There was no moon. What a night! I was frightened, horribly. frightened in these narrow paths between two rows of graves graves graves graves nothing but graves on my right on my left in front of me around me everywhere there were graves i sat down on one of them for i could not walk any longer my knees were so weak i could hear my heart beat and i heard something else as well what a confused nameless noise was the noise in my head in the impenetrable night or beneath the mysterious earth the earth zoned with human corpses

I looked all around me but I cannot say how long I remained there I was paralyzed with terror cold with fright ready to shout out ready to die suddenly it seemed to me that the slab of marble in which I was sitting was moving certainly it was moving as if it were being raised. With a bound, I sprang onto the neighboring tomb, and I saw, yes, I distinctly saw the stone, which I had just quitted, rise upright. Then the dead person appeared, a naked skeleton push in the stone back with its bent back. I saw it quite clearly, although the night was so dark. On the cross I could read, here lies Jacques Olivon, who died at the age of 51. He loved his family, was kind and honorable, and died in the grace of the Lord.

The dead man also read what was inscribed on his tombstone. Then he picked up a stone off the path, a little pointed stone, and began to scrape the letters carefully. He slowly effaced them, and with the hollows of his eyes, he looked at the places where they had been engraved. Then, with the tip of the bone that had been his forefinger, he wrote in luminous letters, like those lines which boys trace on walls with the tip of a lucifer match. Here reposes Jacques Olivant, who died at the age of 51. He hastened his father's death by his unkindness, as he wished to inherit his fortune. He tortured his wife, tormented his children, deceived his name,

neighbors, robbed everyone he could, and died wretched. When he had finished writing, the dead man stood motionless, looking at his work. On turning round, I saw that all the graves were open, that all the dead bodies had emerged from them, and that all had effaced the lies inscribed on the gravestones by their relations, substituting the truth instead. And I saw that all had been the torment. of their neighbors. Malicious, dishonest, hypocrites, liars, rogues, calumniators, envious that they had stolen, deceived, performed every disgraceful, every abominable action. These good fathers, these faithful

wives, these devoted sons, these chaste daughters, these honest tradesmen, these men and women who were called irreproachable. They were all. all riding at the same time, on the threshold of their eternal abode, the truth, the terrible and the holy truth of which everybody was ignorant, or pretended to be ignorant, while they were alive. I thought that she also must have written something on her tombstone, and now running without any fear among the half-open coffins, among the corpses and skeletons, I went toward her Sure that I should find her immediately.

I recognized her at once without seeing her face, which was covered by the winding cheek, and on the marble cross. Or shortly before I had read, she loved, was loved, and died. I now saw, having gone out in the rain one day, in order to deceive her lover, she caught cold and died.

It appears that they found me at daybreak. lying on the grave. History that Doesn't Suck is created and hosted by me, Greg Jackson. Episode researched and written by Greg Jackson and special guest author, Guy de Montpesson, production by Airship, audio editing by Muhammad Shah Zaid, sound design by Maui Bha.

Theme music composed by Greg Jackson, arrangement and additional composition by Lindsey Graham, Bairchip. For bibliography of all primary and secondary sources consulted in writing this episode, visit htvestspodcast.com. H.TDS is supported by fans at HGDSPodcast.com slash membership. My gratitude to you kind souls providing funding to help us keep going.

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Ellen Stewart Ernesto Franco Ernie Lowmaster Ethan Lowry Ethan Thompson G23303 Jeffrey Nelson George J. Sherwood

Gareth Griffin, Gina Johnson, Gordon Garwood, Henry Brunches, Holly Hamilton, Jake Gilbert, James Bloodsoe, James Blue, James Schlender, Jarrettz Zangora, Jeffrey Moots, Jennifer Migni, Jennifer Mnjone, Jennifer Roof, Jessica Poppe, Joe Dobis, John Boobie, John Frugal Dugel, John Huber, John Miserich, John Oliverus, John Rolivich, John Schaefer, John Minchette, Joseph Curry, Joshua Steiner, Julian Wright, Justin Tolman, Karen Bartholomey, Karl Friedman, Karl Freed, Friedman, Carl Romer, Penn Culver, Kim R, Kimberly Pruitt, Kristen Pratt, Kyle Decker, L. Paul Goringer, Laura Norman, Lawrence Newbauer, Linda Cunningham, Mark D. Worrell, Mark Ellis, Marsha Smith, Mason Glenn, Matt Siegel, Michael Longest, Michael Sullivan, Nick Capprell, Nicholas Powell, Owen W. Sedlock, Paul Huggenroth, Philip May, Randy Keane, Rich Ruckel, Rick Brown, Rob Drozovich, Robert Shelton, Ryan Fogelman, Sam Holtzman, Sarah Prescott, Sarah Traywood, Scott Hurst, Shane Smith, Shannon Hoagland, Sharon Theeson,

Sean Paulds, Stacey Ritter, Steve Williams, The Creepy Girl, Thomas Churchill, Thomas Matthew Edwards, Thomas Sabbath, Tim and Sarah Turner, Todd Curran, Tom Bestofta, Travis Cox, Walter M. Ains, Wesley McKeith, William Durham, William Curry, William Thompson, and Zach Jackson. Join me in two weeks where I'd like to tell you the story.