** Chapter 6: One year before the revelers' incident **

31st of December 1820, a time in France when the spirit of Bonaparte, though banished to the distant isle of Elba, still cast a long shadow over the nation's soul. An echo of the Emperor's ambition lingered, an attestation to the tumultuous years that had just passed. In the village of Château-Thierry, New Year's Eve unfolded with its customary merriment. A buzz of anticipation crackled through the crowd, a heady concoction of provincial gaiety and the lingering tremors of a bygone era.

The festivities were held in a grand Manor at the heart of the town. The evening's merriment spilled out into the gardens, where barbecues sizzled with succulent meats and fiddles played lively tunes under the starlit sky.

Francis found himself amidst the revelry, attempting to engage in conversation with the village lasses. But his awkward advances and poorly-aimed jests fell flat, eliciting confused glances, fleeting discomfort, and finally, polite giggles that served as a societal semaphore of disinterest. He felt the sting of shyness, a crimson bloom upon his cheeks mirroring the heat of his mounting frustration.

There was one young lady, however, who caught his eye - Bernadette, a beautiful maiden with a smile that could light up the darkest of nights. Francis mustered the courage to approach her, and to his delight, she was not as cold as the others. She offered him a small, encouraging smile and engaged in a brief conversation, causing Francis' heart to race and his cheeks to flush with excitement.

Francis, emboldened, gestured towards the countryside. "I tend a small farm just outside of town. A crew of sheep, a grumpy old goat named Ferdinand, and a pair of mischievous hens who think they're roosters, bless their souls. Keeps me busy, you see." He chuckled, hoping to land a playful quip, adding, "Though Ferdinand insists on wearing a monocle, much to my bewilderment."

Bernadette laughed softly, her eyes twinkling. "A monocle-wearing goat? That sounds quite the character. I imagine your barnyard is never dull." She paused, tilting her head thoughtfully. "Perhaps Ferdinand fancies himself quite the distinguished gentleman." Francis's blush deepened, pleased she hadn't recoiled at his feeble jest.

But fate, it seemed, had a capricious turn in store. A ripple of agitation swept through the assembly, the murmurs of awe and anticipation: Saint Nicolas had arrived, accompanied by his esteemed companions, Luc and Monsieur Henri, a trio resplendent in their merriment. Francis beheld the spectacle unfold before him, a picture of audacious revelry. Saint Nicolas, with improbable vitality, glided and swayed to the pulsating rhythm, his aged frame contorting in impromptu balletic flourishes that defied gravity - and good sense. The room filled with the shrieks of delighted maidens, their adoration like a chorus of unbridled passion, their cries of "Saint Nicolas, regard me, I am here!" echoing with the fervor usually reserved for the idols of the Parisian stage. The hallowed strains of "Ô grand Saint Nicolas patron des écoliers" rent the air, propelling the throng into a paroxysm of ecstatic abandon. Women swooned, their visages paling at the sheer intensity of the merriment.

Francis' heart sank as he watched Bernadette leap to her feet and rush towards Saint Nicholas and his friends, her eyes shining with adoration. He was left alone, sitting in the shadows, his dreams of a New Year's kiss with Bernadette fading into the background. The throng, a seething mass of animated faces, held a hollow solitude for him.

After a while, drawn by an unseen current, he gravitated towards the nucleus of revelry, where Saint Nicolas, flushed with a heady libation of beer and Burgundy, presided. A disconcerting scene unfolded before his gaze. Saint Nicolas, his portly figure imbued with a lecherous air, engaged in a peculiar dance with the village belles. Luc, like a figure of oily servility, acted as a procureur of sorts, cynically parading fair maidens before the bibulous saint.

Francis recoiled in revulsion as Saint Nicolas, a lascivious smirk twisting his countenance, brazenly fondled a blushing maiden, his hand surreptitiously ascending the folds of her skirts. A stifled moan escaped the girl's lips, a clear act of complicity in the open indecency. The scene, a grotesque perversion of festive innocence, curdled Francis's blood. His gaze, now burdened with a morbid fascination, alighted upon Bernadette being similarly presented to the saint. Saint Nicolas, consumed by a coarse carnality, appraised her lithe contours with undisguised lecherousness.

A sudden litany of carols imbued with merriment, momentarily eclipsed the depravity unfolding before them "...Je serai toujours sage, Comme une petite image, J'apprendrai mes leçons, Pour avoir des bonbons. Venez, venez, Saint Nicolas, et tra la la..." Monsieur Henri executed intricate contortions amidst the throng, his performance a spectacle that drew roars of applause. In the ensuing revelry Francis witnessed Saint Nicolas seize Bernadette's hand and drag her to the secluded rear of the manor, towards the corridors of slumber. Consumed by a venomous jealousy, Francis, a shadow amongst shadows, pursued them. But as he neared the hallowed chambers, Luc barred his path with a guttural command, a profane dismissal: "Fuck off, peasant." Francis recoiled, his spirit more desolate than ever. As he was walking back, a tormenting litany of questions welled within him: Why should this charlatan, Saint Nicolas, and his depraved coterie hold dominion over the village, their tendrils of vice ensnaring the hearts of its fair daughters? A seething resentment curdled within him, a desire to flee this charade, to abandon the entire town and its festering corruption. Let Saint Nicolas and his lechery writhe in this cage of iniquity.

Yet, fate, in its capricious dance, presented a fleeting spectacle: Monsieur Henri, consumed by base abandon, relieved himself in a corner of the manor. As he nonchalantly fastened his garment, a knowing glint flickered in his eye, "Hey, Francis, right?" Francis, with a curt nod, acknowledged the fleeting communion. "Having a treacherous time?" Henri inquired, a sardonic amusement playing upon his lips. Francis offered a wearily indifferent shrug. But a nascent cunning sparked within him, a tendril of ambition. Could he insinuate himself into Henri's circle, thus gaining proximity to the heart of the depravity, a clandestine vantage point from which to observe and perhaps, manipulate the unfolding tragedy? Tentatively, he ventured a direct appeal "Monsieur Henri, might I steal a moment of your attention?" Henri, taken aback by this audacious forthrightness, acquiesced with a patronizing air: "Certainly, come, let us partake of a libation and continue to partake in the revels." As they departed, a muffled cry of anguish, ephemeral yet undeniably laced with pain, seemed to emanate from the manor's sequestered bedrooms, a ghostly lament swallowed by the music of revelry.

Henri declared, with a theatrical sweep of his hand, "I can sound out Saint-Nicolas on your capacity as our designated driver, driving our carriage, attending to our nocturnal whims at a moment's notice. Your rural repose, I perceive, leaves ample leisure for such devoted service, should you be so inclined."

Francis bowed his head with a humble grace. "Monsieur Henri, the honour would be mine." A faint smile played upon Henri's lips as he savoured a draught of frothy ale. "I promise nothing, Francis, nothing yet," he intoned. But as a carriage, its gilded appointments a beacon in the lamplit square, disgorged a vision of feminine elegance - La Comtesse de Montmorency, Henri's world contracted, his attention fixated. A sigh of admiration escaped his lips, and with a gallantry redolent of the stage, he hastened towards her, leaving Francis's plaintive interjection, "Monsieur, when may I get the confirmation of this arrangement?" unheard and unanswered. Henri, consumed by the prospect of charming the fair Countess, already proffered a kiss to her gloved hand, a gesture met with a reluctant acceptance, shadowed by a perceptible distaste for his affectations.

Monsieur Henri having already fluttered away to engage with more scintillating conversation with the Comtesse and her entourage, left Francis once again to the solitude of the festivities. A melancholic detachment colored his observations of a world of merriment viewed through a veil of ennui. It was then that Jean, the baker, a man whose soul seemed kneaded from the very flour he dealt in, lumbered towards him. A litany of self-importance unfolded: the meticulous paving of his terrace, a Herculean feat accomplished single-handedly, the clandestine addition of rooms to his abode, all without the aid of a mason. Francis, his spirit already weary, found himself ensnared in the tedious quicksand of the baker's mundane pronouncements. A sharp and unforgiving yearning welled within him, a yearning to be possessed of the oblivion wrought by ardent spirits, to drown Jean's pronouncements in a sea of Burgundy and beer. Alas, he was a man of singular temperance, condemned to endure the baker's tedious monologue in all its sobering wretchedness. Finally, pretending someone was calling his name, Francis extricated himself from Jean's gravitational pull of banality, and slunk away, momentarily reprieved.

It was past midnight when Francis was at the precipice of departure. This wretched hamlet, this charade of revelry and its festering depravity, held no further allure. He was leaving yet clinging to the fragile hope that Monsieur Henri would indeed procure him a position as their driver. As he traversed the Manor's grounds, the imposing iron gates looming before him, a figure seemed to be fleeing the shadowed recesses of the edifice. Bernadette, her countenance painted with anguish, her eyes seemed to him to be brimming with unshed tears, vanished into the velvet embrace of the night. Francis, his voice like tremor in the frigid air, attempted to call her, but she seemed oblivious, consumed by a silent torment.

Soon after Francis was abruptly confronted with a sight of profound disturbance, leaving him shaken. Saint-Nicolas, dishevelled yet bearing a triumphant smirk, emerged from the manor's chambers. He encountered Luc and in a grotesque sign of camaraderie between them and a vulgar display of their shared baseness, they clasped hands. An icy hatred resurged within Francis's breast, a venomous conviction taking root. These two, these moral lepers, had transgressed all sacred boundaries. There would be retribution, the sombre music of vengeance played upon their wretched souls. The orchestra of his wrath had already begun to tune its infernal instruments.

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** Chapter 7: Three hours after the revelers' incident ****

A disquiet settled upon Saint Nicolas as the shriek echoed, an unease stirring within him. He surged forward out of the tavern, his senses already calculating the unfolding danger. The tortured, soul-rending shriek that had clawed its way through the air left no room for misinterpretation: his friend Monsieur Henri was in peril. He ran towards the street where the confrontation had erupted, a mere two hundred paces distant. But upon reaching it, he saw the ghastly scene of carnage: The revelers, those wretched acolytes of Luc, lay scattered upon the stones, their visages contorted in silent agony. All bore the marks of a cleaver's work: throats rent asunder and visages marred by the butcher's grim handiwork.

Saint Nicolas's gaze swept the macabre panorama: Francis and Monsieur Henri were missing. And Luc surely should have been right behind him, drawn by the echo of the tortured cry as well. Yet, he was absent. Saint Nicolas retraced his steps to the tavern, the gaping maw of its doorway met him upon his arrival. A disquieting premonition like a serpent of foreboding, coiled within Saint Nicolas's breast. He re-entered the common room, and there, slumped over the oaken table, lay Luc. A crimson fountain welled from the gash upon his throat.

Fear, a sensation seldom gracing the indomitable Saint, constricted his chest, a vise of icy terror threatening to shatter his usually impassive countenance. But a bastion of conviction, forged in the fires of countless trials and betrayals, held firm. He, a living saint, had weathered the tempestuous gales of fate, each perceived perfidy met with providential deliverance. Providence, he swore, would not abandon him now.

He hadn't noticed it at first: beside Luc's limp hand, a scrap of parchment, the ink newly bled, proclaimed: "Rendez-vous at the Manor." The manor, of course.

The icy cobblestones were slippery beneath his boots as he walked swiftly, the manor looming in the pre-dawn gloom. He marshalled his thoughts, Luc's fate searing his mind. It had to be Francis. Luc had spoken of the perfidy. A viper in the fold, preying on their trust. Looking back through the veil of the present, Saint Nicolas could now perceive the glint of greed in Francis' eyes, the deceit, a mosaic of treachery that had been there all along, unseen, yet now undeniably clear to him. He had kidnapped Monsieur Henri and taken him to the cursed manor. But why? And how had he single-handedly managed to murder all those people in a matter of minutes?

The doubt gnawed at him like a relentless beast. Could it be that Henri, himself, and Luc were all victims of the machinations of a simple-minded fool, a farmer, like Francis? Was Monsieur Henri also a traitor? No, it was impossible. He had heard Henri's cry, the sound of a man in desperate need of help. Their bond, forged in the fires of shared trials and triumphs, could not be so easily shattered. With renewed determination, he pressed on, the manor growing ever closer in the pre-dawn mist. He would save Henri, and bring Francis to justice, no matter the cost. It was his destiny, his divine purpose.

He reached the manor's wrought iron gates, and a sight stopped him cold. In the cavernous forecourt, suspended from a groaning, moss-choked rafter, dangled Monsieur Henri. His once-refined face was a grotesque masque of bloated flesh, stretched taut across a skull impossibly swollen. The coarse rope gnawed at his windpipe in synchrony with the silent, agonizing struggle etched in the slack hollowness of his once-knowing eyes. A strangled cry, born of a soul-deep agony, threatened to erupt from Saint Nicolas' chest, but he choked it back, a single imprecation escaping his lips: "Francis, come here, you filthy wretch! I will strangle you with my own hands, you treacherous scum!" But the manor held its silence.

He heaved open the massive wooden doors, and the cloying scent of Myrrh enveloped him. The grand hall, once a stage for revelry, now exuded an unnerving, almost unholy atmosphere. In the center, bound to a pillar, was Francis. His mouth was gagged, his eyes vacant, unseeing. He breathed, shallow and ragged, but the light of life seemed to have leeched from him, leaving a hollow shell. "What the bloody hell...?" Saint Nicolas muttered.

As he neared Francis, he noticed a movement in the shadows, a coalescence of darkness at the far end of the hall. A figure materialized, a vision of impossible beauty. A woman, wreathed in smoke and shadows, yet possessing a luminescence that seemed to drain the colour from the very stones. Her eyes, like twin pools of molten gold, burned with a fire that felt ancient and cruel. Her lips, full and crimson, curved in a knowing smile. Saint Nicolas felt the icy talons of dread grip his heart again, constricting his breath, stealing the strength from his limbs. He could only stare, transfixed and paralyzed, as the ghostly visage of the succubus glided towards him.

A sibilant whisper, caressing the mind like the phantom touch of a clandestine amour, slithered from her lips. "Saint Nicolas," it breathed, the chamber itself seeming to sigh in anticipation, "I have awaited your arrival." The cloying smell of incense growing even more intense, as Saint Nicolas' perception dissolved at the edges. The world, once so vibrant, bled into hues, leaving him prisoner to the ethereal luminescence of the creature before him. An unseen current, a languorous yet inexorable pull, threatened to draw his soul into hers, promising a communion beyond the mortal coil. Yet, a spark of iron within, a vestige of the indomitable spirit that had weathered countless spiritual tempests, flickered with defiant resistance.

Her ghostly hand, ephemeral tendrils of shadow trailing at its touch, reached forth. Saint Nicolas, summoning the strength of faith, convictions and the echoes of past triumphs, hardened his gaze. With a wrenching effort, he extricated his sight from the depths of her mesmerizing eyes and recoiled a pace, shattering the ensnaring spell. The succubus' painted smile fractured, and in a blink, her once-golden eyes bled into a chilling obsidian, reflecting the coiling void where her soul should have been.

He unfurled the crucifix from his mantle, a bastion of holy light against the encroaching gloom, and uttered the sacred command: "Depart, evil demon!" A guttural peal of laughter erupted from the succubus' mouth. "Evil demon, you say? A grotesque libel cast by the pot at the kettle, black itself. Thou shouldst know me, Saint, and tremble before the tempest of my wrath!" And she lunged at Francis, her nails elongated into wicked talons, a promise of rending flesh. In a tempestuous arc, she savaged the throat of Francis, blood oozing and running to the floor before the life drained from his pallid countenance. The succubus, sated with fleeting mortal agony, fixed her gaze upon Saint Nicolas, her form swelling and contorting, once-ethereal features consumed by a visage of unholy hunger. She charged, talons outstretched.

The crucifix pulsed with an incandescent light. He brought it down upon the succubus' head with the force of a tempestuous God, a profane oath escaping his lips: "I shall administer unto thee a chastisement most grievous, bitch, a reckoning that shall leave thee whimpering in eternal torment!" A searing shriek like an unholy agony, ripped through the vaulted chamber as the holy radiance seared her flesh. But with a serpent's swiftness, she seized Saint Nicolas by the throat, her grip a vice of infernal iron, and hurled him against a pillar. His lungs imploded in a silent gasp, tasted the coppery tang of his own mortality, yet refused the embrace of oblivion. He clawed at his cassock, drawing forth twin daggers, their edges kissed by the same celestial fire of the crucifix. The succubus laughed - a sound of celestial chimes imbued with infernal malice. She beckoned him closer, her voice a silken snare spun from honeyed poison: "Let's dance, Saint Nicolas."

Thus commenced a ballet of unholy fury. Steel clashed against shadow, the succubus' infernal velocity met by the saint's consecrated blade-work. Each parry, each riposte like a faith bordering on the fanatical. Saint Nicolas' daggers danced a waltz, searing the succubus anew with each holy trail of their passage. Yet, at each wound, the demon's flesh knit anew. Their infernal waltz consumed the chamber, shattering pillars and scattering dust. Saint Nicolas, consumed by a desperate crescendo of holy wrath, feigned a mortal falter, luring the succubus' attention. Despite his corpulence and distended belly, he flowed like water, a sinuous current of faith and fury, culminating in a lunging thrust behind her. The dagger plunged deep, a sliver of celestial light lancing the heart of the abyss. The succubus roared, a primal bellow of anguish that threatened to shatter the very heavens. But her fury was a tempest held in chains. She whirled, obsidian talons rending Saint Nicolas' flesh, the agony a white-hot lance piercing his soul. He reeled, the world fracturing at the edges of his vision. The succubus, her wounds already eclipsed, bore down upon him, her malevolence a living storm. Saint Nicolas, gasping for breaths, knew the precipice of oblivion loomed. One final, holy crescendo of defiance. He lunged at the heart of the succubus again. But the demon was a phantom of the night. This time, she intercepted his wrist and with a cruel arabesque, twisted the saint's own blade, driving it deep into his breast.

A searing agony consumed him, a glacial cold spreading through his veins. He gazed upon the hilt of his own dagger protruding from his flesh, a blasphemous sign of his shattered faith. The succubus released him, and he crumpled, a crimson geyser erupting from the mortal wound. As his life unraveled, Saint Nicolas beheld the succubus' true visage. It was Antoinette! It was Manon! It was Bernadette! It was all the women he had fucked in his life, a chorus of betrayals and fleeting passions, coalescing into a single, infernal visage. A ragged chuckle escaped his lips, a touch of manic bravado in the face of oblivion. "Fancy that, all of them come calling at once. Regret nothing, I say! Lived a full life, worshiped at pleasure's altar, and by damn, I worshiped it well." And as he started coughing up blood, he added in a choked voice "kiss my arse and choke on my wicked memories, you lot!" He exhaled a soul-chilling sigh, a final defiant snort and surrendered to the eternal night.

** Epilogue **

La Gazette de Reims, 31 December 1821

A chilling scene unfolded in Chateau-Thierry this week, shattering the sanctity of the once-reverent Saint Nicolas. No celestial hand, but the hand of mortal despair, extinguished his borrowed flame. The once-venerated figure, believed to have succumbed to a delirium wrought by absinthe and other earthly vices, met a tragic end, taking his own life in a macabre self-inflicted chest wound. But the darkness did not end there. Before his own suicide, in a nightmarish crescendo of violence, Saint Nicolas turned upon his thrice-dear companions: Luc Saleté, Francis Mouton, and Monsieur Henri de Plombier, extinguishing their lives in gruesome manners. A wretched throng of men, their visages inexplicably obscured by a miasma of excrement, also perished at his hand.

Bishop Clovis Rémi of Reims, in a somber decree, stripped Saint Nicolas of his hallowed title and denied him consecrated burial. Forsaken by the Church, his earthly remnants would find no hallowed sepulchre. He would be consigned to an unmarked grave, the sign of his the tragic fall from grace, buried upon unconsecrated ground, a world away from the sanctity he once embodied.