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She may have been Antoinette at birth, but to most people today, she's Madame Cherie. Born in Paris in 1878, Antoinette had a humble upbringing, working as a seamstress and a nightclub dancer. In 1909, she got married. A normal choice for a normal girl. Or, well, so she thought. But she soon discovered that her new husband wasn't quite who he seemed to be. No, the man that she knew as Andre was was actually Anthony Macaluso, a fugitive from the law. But Antoinette didn't run the other way. No. Instead she figured, hey, if he can fake an identity, why can't I? And so, with imagination and the art of the con on her side, the couple left Paris and moved to the best location on earth for starting fresh. New York City. And so, goodbye, Antoinette and hello, Madame cherie of the 1920s. Most infamous socialites. Spinning backstories of glitz and glamour, these lovebirds wriggled among the city's elites. And it worked. Soon, that humble seamstress was designing costumes on Broadway. But as we all know, nothing gold can stay. And when her beloved Anthony died in 1924, Madame Cherie was bereft. She ditched New York city, vanishing into 600 acres of new Hampshire woodlands. And there, in deep in mourning and far from society, she built a castle. Half Roman ruin, half French chalet. This place was lavish, festooned with furs and scarlet draperies, with a massive stone staircase winding up the side. It was like a real life fairy tale. But don't get me wrong here. Just because she moved into the woods didn't mean that she quit being a socialite. On the contrary, Madame Cherie became famous for her opulent and drunken parties thrown right there in her forest palace. All the biggest names in the New York theater scene came to drink their way through prohibition, while Madame Cherie reigned over it all from a cobra backed chair she called the Queen's throne. Now, what did the rural New Hampshire townies think of her? Nothing flattering, that's for sure. But she didn't care. Flaunting her boa clad, bejeweled self wherever she could. Eventually, though, the money ran dry and the madam's reign ended. She. She spent her final days in a nursing home, surviving on welfare until passing away in 1965 at the age of 87. But while it lasted, that mysterious party girl and her forest castle had been one of New England's most glamorous secrets. And well, if the stories are to be believed, maybe it still is. Because you see, it's said that if you hike the public trails in the part of Chesterfield, New Hampshire, now known as the Madame Cherie forest, you might just hear the sounds of a phantom party wafting through the trees, while a shadowy costumed woman hovers just out of sight. How will you know you're in the right spot? Oh, that's easy. Just look for a crumbling grand staircase curving upward toward the sky. That's right, the ruins of her castle are still there. It just goes to show, some parties linger on long after the final guest has left. I'm Aaron Manke and this is lore. It was a time that was known as the Reign of Terror, and it certainly lived up to that name as the most notorious stage of the French Revolution. The Reign of Terror was a nearly year long stretch between 1793 and 1799 that would go down in history as one of the bloodiest times the world has ever seen. And it was all thanks to a rather ironically titled group called the Committee of Public Safety. Yeah, suffice to say, Public Safety may not have been the most accurate title for these guys. Essentially, this revolutionary committee put itself in charge of France running the government as a dictatorship and their favorite pastime, killing any and all opposition to the revolution. And sure, that included executing rival political leaders as well as the ruling aristocracy, like Marie Antoinette's famous beheading. But the Committee of Public Safety murdered plenty of ordinary citizens too. Basically, if they decided that you weren't supporting the cause loudly and proudly enough, well, that was it. Off with your head. In June of 1794, the committee ramped it up a notch, announcing that people were no longer entitled to a public trial. No, the committee could kill with impunity. And that's exactly what they did. In the next month alone, 1,400 people were guillotined just in the city of Paris. Now, understandably, even other revolutionaries were starting to become a teensy bit uncomfortable with all of this unfettered head chopping. And so the head of the Committee, Robespierre, was finally toppled, literally. And thus the Reign of Terror came to an end. By the time the smoke cleared and the dead were counted, 16,564 people had been guillotined in France over less than a year. Another 10,000 had died in prison, while thousands more were drowned in the river at Nantes. Add to that another 2,000 human lives subjected to mass execution in Lyon via cannons loaded with grapeshot. And, well, the Reign of Terror had certainly taken its toll. People weren't too stoked on all that bloodshed. And in the final stages of the Revolution, the cultural pendulum swung the other way. Soon enough, the aristocrats who fled during the Reign of Terror started to feel safe returning to France. And so how, you might ask, do a bunch of rich people who narrowly escaped beheading celebrate their homecoming? Why, by truly horrendous parties, of course. They were called belles de victimes or victims balls. And don't expect an invite in your mailbox anytime soon, because these high society guest lists were elite. Allegedly, to garner a coveted invitation, you had to either have escaped the guillotine yourself or had a family die beneath the falling silver blade. Imagine this, though. A room of twirling dancers, all dressed in morning wear and crepe paper armbands symbolizing death. A young man asks you to dance, but instead of a customary bow, he jerks his head sharply to the side. Looking around, you realize all the dancers are performing the same eerie greeting, an imitation of a neck being severed. Meanwhile, pin de guest gowns are mementos of lost loved ones. And I don't mean roses or brooches. No, they've affixed blood soaked scraps of the clothing their families had been executed in, purchased back from the executioner. Writing to his wife back in England, British diplomat Henry Swinborne said after attending one such soiree, that it was as fine a ball as ever was given. In days of yore, 300 of the company had lost near relations by the guillotine. Some of the men there danced with their hats on and with red heels. Now, to be honest, due to the extreme exclusivity of these victims balls, we don't know for sure whether all the rumors of what went down behind closed doors are true or not. Some historians think reports of the balls may have been satirical exaggerations. But honestly, given what the aristocracy was visibly doing in public during that time, I wouldn't be surprised if things were indeed even more ghastly in private. It, and I know what you're wondering, what were they doing in public? Why, what any high society always does, flaunting the latest fashions. For example, there was a hairstyle known as, I kid you not, the guillotine cut that was all the rage among wealthy ladies. It was a short, choppy do meant to mimic the neck exposing haircut that execution victims were given before beheading. And if you think that's in poor taste, wait until you hear about some of their outfits. You see, a blood red color known as amaranth had become the official color of high society. To quote fashion historian Anne Hegen, women wore amouranth victim ribbons around their necks to commemorate the cut of the guillotine's blade. Ghoulish amaranth victim ribbons were also worn crossed over bodices or sleeves down the sides of dresses, or twined into hairdos. And yes, you heard that right, folks. Rich women tied blood red ribbons around their necks to look like they had been guillotined as a fashion statement. And if that sounds familiar to you, it may be because the fashion went on to influence a number of prominent ghost stories. Washington Irving, the author of the Legend of Sleepy Hollow, wrote a piece called the Adventure of the German Students in which a young man visits France during the revolution and has a fling with a French girl wearing a thick ribbon necklace, only to later learn that she'd been dead the whole time. The victim of the guillotine. Alexandre Dumas novel the Woman with the Velvet Necklace follows a similar plot about a beheaded mistress with her head attached by a ribbon. But you may probably know a different, more modern version of this tale. In fact, you may have read it as a kid. That's right, from Alvin Schwartz's In a Dark, Dark Room. It's a little story called the Green Ribbon. The French victims balls may have been ghoulish, but at least all the guests were alive. Which is more than I can say for this next party that we'll be attending. An ocean and a century later, Ms. Betty Hun lived her summers in Delaware. For the 24 year old, it was a chance to escape the noise and bustle of Philippines Philadelphia and enjoy a slower pace of life. There were her summer friends to catch up with, cocktails to drink, swimming to be had. She spent her days lazing around her family's summer home near Dover. An old house called Wildcat Manor, which had belonged to the Huns for generations. But the real star of the summer, why, that would have to be the ghost hunting party. Now, we've talked in the past about things like comet watching parties, events hosted on the specific date a comet was supposed to appear so that you and your guests could all taken the celestial site together. And, well, Betty's annual ghost parties were a similar idea. They too, took place on a specific day, September 26th of every year to be exact, and also involved getting a bunch of folks together to watch a strange glowing object manifest against the night sky. But the big difference here, Ms. Hun and her guests weren't gathering to watch a comet. They were there to watch a ghost. Or rather, two ghosts. You see, according to local lore, September 26th marked the date when two women had drowned in the river right near Wildcat Manor. Ever since then, it was said that the victim's ghosts would appear in full phantasmic glory right at midnight and remain visible for nearly an hour. In fact, belief in the story was so prevalent, one newspaper claimed older residents in the area refused to leave their houses at night for fear of the ghosts. But hey, Betty wasn't afraid of no ghosts. And so she figured what better way to spend an evening than by getting all her best friends together once a year, sneaking down to the river and trying to see a good old fashioned haunting? And this one, that is the Ghost Party of 1901, would be the biggest one yet. Now, sure, rumors are one thing, but did two women actually drown near Wildcat Manor? Well, my researchers couldn't find any record of it, but then again, plenty of life or death events took place at Wildcat Manor that never made the papers. Because the thing is, while that sprawling house may have seemed like little more than a summer playground for a wealthy family, it was actually anything but. Wildcat Manor apparently had a double life. Long before Betty's time there, it had been a vital stop on the Underground Railroad. You see, purchased by the family in 1758, the property would go on to remain with the Huns for nine generations. And during one of those generations, it was stewarded by an ancestor of Betty's named John Hun. Now, John, like the rest of the Huns, was a devout Quaker. As such, he was also a staunch abolitionist. And let's just say he put his money where his mouth was. This guy was known for getting into full on physical fights with slaveholders and even spent time in the south teaching formerly enslaved people how to read. But his Greatest contribution to the cause. Well, that would be his unofficial title to as the architect of the Delaware Underground Railroad. It went a little something like, john paid a black boat captain to help smuggle enslave people to Delaware. Then they would find respite and safety at Wildcat Manor before continuing on their journey. Heck, local historians believe that Harriet Tubman herself passed through the manor's doors. All of which is to say, given the countless dangers the Huns and their visitors faced, it's certainly not impossible that some unreported casualties may have taken place in the shadow of that looming Delaware mansion. Casualties like the drowning of two unnamed women. Which brings us back to September 26th of 1901, where, with that true darker history watered down by time, Betty Hun donned her finery and prepared for a ghost hunt. And slowly, her guests trickled in. 20 girls, all dressed in phantom white, along with just enough men to, as the newspaper put it, protect them from the real goblins up at the house. I imagine there was laughter and teasing. Maybe the young people even shared ghost stories of their own over dancing and drinks. But as the hours ticked by and the light began to dim, the tone changed. In Wildcat Manor, what had been a light, playful affair began to grow serious. Nerves kicked in, as the newspapers would later report. Although some of the girls began the adventure out of a spirit of fun, they became alarmed until their teeth chattered in hopeless confusion. The party may have been all fun and games at first, but deep down, the guests really believed in those ghosts. Finally, though, just before the bell tolled midnight, the entire party crept down to the river. And then, well, honestly, I wish I could tell you. Because when reporters asked the partygoers later whether they had in fact managed to catch a glimpse of those two dripping apparitions while every single guest flat out refused to answer the question, sadly, Betty Hun became a spirit herself, only 15 years later, dying of tuberculosis in 1916. And I can't help but wonder, if one were to visit that riverside spot some cool September evening just as midnight neared, would they find a third ghost shimmering on the water after all? Maybe some parties never have to end at all. And then again, if the next soiree we'll attend today teaches us anything, it's that certain shindigs should never have been hosted in the first place. It was May of 1896, and Russia was buzzing with excitement. A new tsar was about to be crowned. And to celebrate, Moscow had promised to throw the greatest party the country had ever seen. And this wouldn't just Be for the well to dos. No, the festivities would be fully open to the public and all of Russia was invited. There would be circus performers and music and games, not to mention plenty of beer. A grand orchestra would play a cantata composed specifically for the occasion, followed by an open air liturgy from the Orthodox Church. And to top it all off, there would be a speech given by none other than the new Tsar himself. But the real star of the show. Well, that would be the party favors. Because you see, in thanks for showing up, every single attendee was promised a free, incredibly swanky souvenir bundle. And to be honest, I get the appeal. The swag bag consisted of bread baked by famous Moscow baker Filipov, half a pound of sausage, sweets and walnuts, and gingerbread imprinted with the royal couple's initials, all wrapped up in a headscarf featuring images of the Kremlin and the new royal couple. But there was one item in that bundle that outshone all the rest. It was a cup. And not just any cup. No. This ornate coronation trinket was entwined with red, blue and gold enamel and emblazoned with the year the Tsar and the Tsarina's initials and a double headed eagle. And rumor had it that every single cup was supposed to contain none other than a gold coin. Now, was this coin rumor true? Definitely not. But the whisper spread anyway. And even without that, the actual bundle was more than enough to entice visitors from well outside Moscow to make the trip into the city. After all, the gifts had been advertised far and wide, including in rural provinces where the citizens lived in poverty. This kind of offering wasn't just symbolic, it was of real, tangible value. And so, yes, why not leave the farm for a day? The cows can milk themselves right now. The government had planned for large crowds, but even so, let's just say that their estimates fell a little short. Okay, more than a little. You see, they were expecting around 200,000 attendees, but their advertising had been too good. And more than twice that number showed up, flooding in from all over the country. Although the festivities weren't supposed to kick off until 10am on May 30, people lined up for this thing a full day early, like they were vying for Tick to the Eras tour. They slept on the ground and woke up before dawn, everyone hoping to beat the crowd and snag those sweet, sweet souvenirs. By 4am the crowd was restless. The 150 odd booths that were set up to distribute goodies had hardly finished getting organized. But already the mass had begun to Surge forward. New rumors had begun to circulate as well. You see, people were saying that despite the promises, there wouldn't be enough of the bundles for everyone. And, well, for thousands of Russians who had traveled miles and miles just to snag one of these things, that was going to be a problem. People were getting antsy. It was clear that 10 o' clock start time wasn't going to work out. And so at 6am orders were given to open the booths and begin handing out the souvenirs. And I bet you can guess what happened next. All hell broke loose. The 500,000 person crowd became a stampede. People climbed over one another, crushing each other. Underfoot, human bodies were trampled beyond recognition. Bones protruded through flesh, and eyeballs dangled from sockets. But still, the mob continued to storm the fairgrounds. And speaking of those fairgrounds, the event took place on a 1.5 square mile plot called Kodinka Field. And it wasn't traditionally used for festivals. Quite the opposite, actually. Kodinka Field was a training ground for the Russian military, complete with over 150 training obstacles. In other words, this wasn't just an open meadow. It was filled with ditches, ravines and wells, all of which the panicked mass was tumbling into. Heck, just one of those wells ended up drowning two dozen people. It seemed a place designed to practice for war had become an actual battlefield. Oh, and by the way, to make matters worse, the organizers didn't think to have any medics on site. And by the time the ambulances did get there, it was far, far too late. The Kodinka tragedy, as it came to be known, had taken its toll. The official death count, 1,389, but some estimates claim it may have been up to 3000 human lives. Countless more were injured, many never fully healing. And in the wake of the bloodshed, survivors went right back to standing in line. But not for souvenirs this time. No. They were queuing outside the morgues, desperately hoping to find their missing loved ones bodies. Eventually, many of the victims were buried in a mass grave. Countless limbs tangled eternally together, just as they had been in those terrible final moments. A single monument stands atop the site. It bears no names, no elegies, not even an acknowledgment of the awful events of that day. No, all the monument says is the date. And if you're wondering what became of the tens of thousands of commemorative cups, well, they're still out there. Apparently. While working on this episode, my writer, Jenna Rose, had to talk herself down from bidding $800 for one on eBay. Hazards of the job, right? Heck, Leo Tolstoy used to keep a coronation cup on his desk to hold loose pens. Only they are no longer called coronation cups. No, it didn't take long for these doomed party favors to be known by a different the Kodinka cup of Sorrows. When the world shows us its darkest parts, the best antidote is to join together, to gather in community and remember that there are always things worth celebrating. But what happens when the celebrations themselves bring the darkness? When festivities meant to bring mirth end in calamity? Well, the horror feels even worse then. Because to be promised fun and given death isn't only a tragedy, it's a betrayal. Of course, the very act of partying can be a betrayal in itself. Sometimes an eerie let them eat cake frivolity while others are suffering. Whether it's the French aristocracy throwing macabre balls while the working class struggled to cobble their lives back together, or teenage girls playing Ghostbusters on the spot where two women drowned. It's a delicate line. Sure, a party can be an act of resistance, fighting for joy despite the world's cruelties. But it can also be an insult. The elite and protected putting up blinders while the world burns around them. Speaking of which, you might be wondering how the new tsar reacted to the disaster that was supposed to be his coronation. Well, the answer is not great. In the hours after the stampede, rather than help in the rescue efforts, he flounced off to attend a lavish ball thrown by the French ambassador. All night he was seen glad, handling and dancing, delighting at the 100,000 fresh roses and illuminated fountains decorating the venue. Talk about adding insult to injury, right? And the people of Russia sure thought so. After the Kodinka tragedy, major distrust fell upon not only the tsar, but the entire system. And I will be honest, if I didn't know any better, I might say the stampede had been an ill omen of things to come. Because that tsar, by his reign, would not only end with his own death, but the toppling of the entire monarchy. That's right. The man coronated in that field of blood was none other than Nicholas ii, the final tsar of Russia. And just like those doomed revelers in Kodinka, he didn't die alone. No, he was executed alongside his wife, Alexandra, and their five, Olga, Tatiana, Maria, Alexei, and Anastasia, or, as they're better known today, the Romanovski. Thank you for being my plus one to some of the most dreadful social events of the season. But the festivities aren't over just yet. You see, while some parties devolve into chaos by accident for others that madness and mayhem is no mistake. And and I have one more tale that should explain exactly what I mean. Stick around through this brief sponsor break to hear all about it.
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At first you think the chateau is on fire, but moving closer, you realize it's merely illuminated by flickering orange floodlights. An illusion, and, as it turns out, the first of many. Your costume makes getting through the doorway a bit of a chore, but once you're inside, the bulkiness of your outfits is the last thing on your mind. Ahead of you, a grand staircase lined with butlers. But these aren't regular butlers. No, they're dressed and acting as cats. One butler naps against the banister while another playfully bats at a third one's tail. You climb past a butler, licking a dainty paw and reaching the top of the stairs, finally join the other guests. But you aren't in any old cocktail lounge. No, you seem to have been thrust into a strange, dark maze decorated with cobwebs made of lace and ribbon. Ribbons. To your left, a man with countless hands springing from his skull is trying to keep from tangling on the draperies. To your right, a woman coated in gold leaf hands a drink to a man painted to resemble a cloud filled sky. All around you are more cat butlers bearing torches to help the guests who get lost in the maze. And finally, there, ahead of you, you spot your host, Marie Helene, the queen of the ball. At least you think it's her. It's hard to tell for sure, because in place of Marie Helene's head is a massive glistening stag's head with diamond tears dripping from its eyes. Welcome to the Surrealist Ball of 1972. It may sound like a cross between a fairy tale and a fever dream, but this very real unreal party took place on December 12th of 1972 just outside of Paris. It was hosted by Marie Helene Rothschild, who, having married into the famous banking dynasty, had access to certain perks. Perks like free reign of The Rothschild's opulent 19th century castle called Chateau de Ferrier. And hey, if we've learned anything from Madame Cherie at the beginning of this episode, when you have a castle on your hands, it's downright irresponsible to not throw the most elaborate themed party the world has ever seen. Luckily, Marie Helene knew exactly what to do. The guest list included one hundred and fifty members of Hollywood fashion and literary royalty. Everyone from Brigitte Bardot and Grace Kelly to Yves St. Laurent were on attendance. And they all dressed the part too. The invitations called for an I quote, black tie, long dresses and surrealist heads. And if ever a group of people committed to the bit, this was the crew. Perfume designer Helene Rochache wore an entire gramophone atop her head. Several guests referenced famous works of art, with one wearing a green apple a la Marguerite in front of her face and another sporting a mask made of a collage of Mona Lisa. Audrey Hepburn arrived with her face encircled by a wicker birdcage dotted with miniature birds. And to eat dinner, she had to open a tiny door in the front. Speaking of which, up there in the ribbon maze full of cat butlers, the guests were starting to get hungry. So when the time came for dinner, those butlers escorted everyone to a room of tables where a whole new bizarre world awaited them. There were fur covered plates, taxidermied tortoises and broken baby dolls served as the centerpieces, while dead fish lay next to the forks. And as for the seating, well, that was a whole new puzzle to solve. Guests were handed cards indicating the name of their table, but the cards weren't much help. Help? It said things like dethroned queen, erection machine, soluble fish, and shoes fit to be tied. Eventually, though, everyone did arrive at their proper places, which was good, because trust me, the meal was not to be missed. Offerings included dishes like and here I'm just gonna list the names of some of the meals, Lady N Sirloin, the dripping things, crazy tubers, and my personal favorite, peaches and goat cheese, howling in sadness. And I hope you saved room for dessert, because the final course consisted of a nude female mannequin made entirely of sugar reclining on a bed of roses. Now I'll admit, if time machines existed, I might use my ticket to visit the Surrealist Ball of 1972. And I like to think that I would do a better job of keeping my costume on than some of the other men in attendance. While the women kept their headdresses on throughout the night, a few of the men had given up and shed their surrealist heads by the time dinner arrived. As one female guest sniffed, men are simply not accustomed to suffer to be beautiful. And for those who are curious, there seemed to be one guest who arrived without a costume at all. Which was ironic, given that this same guest had actually designed several of the other attendees outfits himself. I don't need a mask mask, he's reported to have said. My face is my mask. So who was this wet blanket of a party guest, you might ask? Why, none other than legendary surrealist painter Salvador Dali. This episode of Lore was produced by me, Aaron Manke, with writing by Jenna Rose Nethercott, research by Cassandra d', Alba, and music by Chad Lawson. Just a reminder folks, I have a brand new history book that's coming out in a little over a month on August 4th. It's called Exhumed and it explores the roots of the New England Vampire Panic and the story of Mercy Brown through the lens of centuries of folklore, medical advancements and pseudoscience. And it's available for pre order right now. And if you pre order the hardcover, my publisher has a webpage set up where you can submit your receip seat and get a gorgeous tote bag that has artwork from the book on it. Head over to aaronmanke.comexhumed to lock in your copy today. Don't like hearing ads on this podcast? Well, there's a paid version of Lore on Apple Podcasts and patreon that is 100% ad free. Subscribers there also get weekly mini bonus episodes called Lore Bytes and Patreon. Members get discounts on Lore Merch. Learn more about how to support the show over@lorepodcast.com support.
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You can also follow this show on
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places like YouTube, Threads, Blue sky and Instagram. Just search for Lore Podcast all one word and then click that follow button. And when you do, say hi. I like it when people say hi. And as always, thanks for listening.
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