Way before somebody thought Abraham Lincoln should be a vampire hunter, Paul Féval thought of doing so with Ann Radcliffe, by inserting her into a vampire version of her legendary masterpiece, The Mysteries of Udolpho. And he managed to do the same with the Duke of Wellington, somehow. All in a novel that came after the Byron-inspired The Vampyre of Polidori, but before Carmilla and Dracula were a thing. Neil Gaiman and Alan Moore could only wish to have conceived a story like this.
Féval’s La Ville-Vampire (1867) is not merely a vampire tale—it is a kaleidoscope of parody, Gothic homage, and metafictional experiment. The text begins by breaking the fourth wall: Féval admits he will shamelessly steal from English authors, then proceeds to do exactly that, inserting Radcliffe herself, Dickens, Byron’s shadow, and assorted pseudo-historical acquaintances into a tale of abductions, conspiracies, and supernatural menace. The result feels strangely modern, a mash-up before mash-ups were fashionable.
Genre Positioning
To understand La Ville-Vampire, one has to place it at the crossroads of several traditions:
Gothic Inheritance: The novel openly parodies Udolpho’s structure. Cornelia de Witt and Ned stand in for Radcliffe’s Emily and Valancourt, while Tiberio di Montefalcone plays the Montoni role. Féval both celebrates and mocks the Gothic by making its most famous author, Radcliffe, a protagonist forced to live through her own narrative clichés.
Vampire Tradition: In 1867, vampire fiction was still thin: Polidori’s Ruthven and Rymer’s Varney were the key precedents. Féval expanded the geography of vampirism eastward, to Dalmatia and Montefalcone, anticipating the Balkan settings that Le Fanu and Stoker would make canonical. Yet Goétzi, the central menace, is not quite a vampire—he is more demonic trickster, part Mephistopheles, part criminal mastermind. He commands a city of vampires rather than embodying the archetype himself, simultaneously raising the stakes and undermining the premise.
Parody and Satire: The novel relentlessly lampoons Gothic devices. That Ann alone goes on a rescue mission that would logically require Ned and his friends echoes how Dracula would later stage a coordinated group assault, but here Féval inverts it into absurdity. The villains are melodramatic, the perils excessive, the coincidences outrageous. If Radcliffe’s heroines trembled, Féval’s Ann blunders boldly forward. The effect is half-comedy, half-horror, and entirely destabilizing.
Reception and Influence
Contemporary audiences received the novel as a curiosity rather than a masterpiece. Serialized fiction of this kind was abundant, and La Ville-Vampire stood out more for its eccentricity than for literary quality. It did not become a foundational text like Carmilla or Dracula.
Modern critics, however, have reclaimed it as a precursor of metafiction and intertextual play. Today it is often admired less as “serious horror” and more as a surreal Gothic parody that foreshadowed later literary games. Its geographic innovation—placing vampirism in the Balkans—was especially important, paving the way for Le Fanu’s Styria and Stoker’s Transylvania. Its grotesque comedy also anticipates the pulp excesses of twentieth-century horror and comics, and its narrative framing would not be out of place in Borges or Gaiman.
La Ville-Vampire is both messy and remarkable. It does not succeed on the level of narrative coherence or emotional terror, but it dazzles with invention. Féval created a bizarre hybrid—part parody, part Gothic echo, part proto-modernist experiment—that was ignored by most of his contemporaries but now feels prophetic. Long before postmodernism, Féval was already blending fiction with biography, parody with homage, horror with burlesque.
If it is not remembered as a “great” vampire novel, it nevertheless occupies a fascinating position: the Gothic mocking itself, the vampire myth stretching eastward, and a French feuilletonist proving, against all odds, that the genre could still surprise.