A Monster's Coming of Age Story

by G. D. Falksen

  “Do you think Father will approve?” Babette asked.

  “No,” Grandfather said, “but leave him to me.” He took a sip of tea and added, “In fact, if it would be of any use to you, I would be most happy to speak to the faculty as well, to give clear demonstration of my approval. Perhaps a financial incentive as well.”

  “Thank you, Grandfather!” Babette exclaimed. “Words cannot describe how grateful I am!”

  Grandfather smiled warmly at her. He set down his teacup and took her hand in both of his.

  “Babette,” he said, “you are the dearest thing in the world to me. You are the daughter I never had. Your happiness is paramount, and it makes perfect sense to me that you would prefer a life of scholarship. If you wish to become a doctor, I shall do everything in my power to ensure it.”

  “Thank you, Grandfather,” Babette said, squeezing his hand.

  “Now,” Grandfather said, “you are aware that this will be a difficult road for you. Even if you can achieve a full doctoral degree, your colleagues will not be very favorable toward a female among their order. If you work at all, you are likely to be relegated to the status of a glorified nurse. I suspect your best hope will be a position at some children’s hospital.”

  “Relegation as a doctor will suit me far better than exaltation as a wife,” Babette said.

  “I know.” Grandfather picked up his cup again and took a drink. “And I shall explain it to your father. In the meantime, let us plan for the future. Will the faculty grant you a doctoral degree for medicine?”

  Babette sighed and said:

  “I don’t know. I have cause to doubt it. I know that the male students will be up in arms over my merely attending lectures and—God willing—dissections. But what alternative is there?”

  “Remember, child, we are thinking in two or three years’ time,” Grandfather said. “Pursue a degree of some sort here, and in the meantime, I will see what can be done to arrange doctoral studies for you. Perhaps Paris. There are progressive forces at work in France. The possibility of women’s education is becoming more and more promising. I understand that the Empress Eugénie is favorably disposed toward the idea. And I myself am not unknown at court.”

  Babette felt Korbinian appear behind her and place a hand on her shoulder.

  “What he means,” he whispered, “is that as one of the men bankrolling the French economy, the Emperor and Empress have good cause to regard him as a dear friend to France.”

  “Speaking of which, what news from France?” Babette asked.

  “Well, you are missed, of course,” Grandfather said. “But you may be pleased to hear that Alfonse, though still pining for you, has begun to cast his eye elsewhere. I suspect you will no longer have to worry about his attempts at courtship should you return home in a few years’ time.”

  “That is most welcome news,” Babette said, smiling with sincere joy. “I wish him every good fortune in the pursuit of his new conquest.”

  Grandfather smiled back, his eyes twinkling, and said, “Don’t we all, child. Don’t we all.”

  * * * *

  Paris, France

  Babette’s time in Zurich passed in the blinking of an eye. Her studies occupied most of her waking hours, for she embraced them with the utmost determination. What little time she had left was devoted to her work at the hospital. By the time of her graduation, none of the medical faculty could doubt her qualifications.

  But it was not Babette’s intention to practice medicine in Switzerland, as much as she came to enjoy the country. Her home was France, and she was determined to be accredited there. Fortunately, Grandfather had done his work in her absence. Supported by both the Empress and the Dean of the Faculty of Medicine, she entered the University of Paris. There she pursued her studies with just as much fervor as she had in Zurich, filling her free time with private research, medical observation, and experiments. Some of her work she endeavored to publish, but several of her more esoteric studies she reserved for her own purposes.

  Throughout it all, Babette maintained a lengthy, if intermittent, correspondence with the peculiar gentleman she had met in Vienna. Iosef Shashavani proved most eloquent and attentive in correspondence, and together, over hundreds of miles, they conversed about her rather incredible choice of career.

  But graduation brought its own frustrations. Though graduating with honors, Babette found few institutions eager to accept her. Many of her colleagues proved immediately disparaging, and even those who hailed her as a beacon of progress, expressed their naïve certainty that, as a woman, her ideal role in medicine would be in attending to children or to the concerns of her own sex. Babette’s wish to become a surgeon, her dreams of advancing the frontiers of science like Galen or van Wesel immediately floundered.

  Soon, however, like the enabling hand of God, war came again to Europe, and suddenly a path opened to her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Autumn, 1870

  Sedan, France

  “Lescot! How many times must I tell you, do not put lint in my patients’ wounds! It is most unhygienic!”

  Babette shouted in the narrow confines of the surgery, enraged by her assistant’s inability to follow instructions. Fortunately, she had the presence of mind to keep her voice in the lower tone that she had used for the past month. Being a man was not too difficult once one got the hang of things, but sometimes the little things were there to trip one up.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor Sauvage,” Lescot said, drawing his hands back from the wounded man on the table. “I’m sorry, but that is the appropriate technique.”

  “It is primitive and foolish,” Babette said. “You must clean the wound with the alcohol solution that I have already prepared!”

  She grabbed a bottle of the stuff from a nearby stand and waved it under Lescot’s nose.

  “And having done that,” she continued, “you must not pack the wound with fibers acquired from God knows where! You must bind the wound tightly with multiple layers of bandages—”

  “And the final bandage must be treated with alcohol or carbolic acid, I know, Doctor!” Lescot cried.

  Babette stopped herself mid-rant. She had admonished the poor man in such a way ever since the first casualties had come in from the front. Now, of course, the front had moved far closer to them than anyone could have expected. If the stories were true, the Prussians and their allies were at the very gates of Sedan. Babette did not know the truth of it: she had scarcely left the hospital all week.

  She took a deep breath. The bindings over her breasts were making her chest ache again. It was always worse when she shouted. Given the stupidity she regularly encountered, shouting was one of her main occupations apart from surgery.

  “Prepare the bandages for me,” she said, as she treated the patient’s wound with her tonic.

  “Yes, Doctor,” Lescot said.

  The patient—a soldier injured early that morning—bit back a cry of pain.

  “Easy there,” Babette said as gruffly as she could manage. “Just a few minutes more and you’ll be ready to convalesce until the Germans knock on the door.”

  “Do you really think the Germans can win over us?” Lescot asked, passing Babette the bandages.

  “Ask me at the end of the day,” Babette said, binding the wound. After she was done, she said, “There. Summon the stretcher bearers to remove this man and send in the next patient.”

  She wiped her bloody hands on the worn frock coat that she wore for operations. It was caked with old blood, like any good surgeon’s coat should be. She washed her hands in a nearby basin of water—by now dirty with blood. Her block of soap was little more than a sliver and obtaining a new one would be difficult work. Her colleagues saw it all as one of the ridiculous rituals of “Mad Doctor Sauvage”, rather like the refusal to pack wounds with lint and her obsession with sterilization.

  Behind her, Lescot helped the stretcher-bearers carry the soldier out of the surgery and then called for the next patient.
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  “Let us through!” someone shouted from outside.

  There was a commotion and a pair of cuirassiers forced their way past Lescot, bearing a third man similarly uniformed between them.

  “Officers!” cried Lescot. “You cannot come in here! There are other patients—”

  One of the cuirassiers pushed him out of the away. They helped the man between them to the table and set him down. His breastplate had been perforated by bullets in five places, and sword wounds marked his arms and legs. Still, for all his injuries the wounded cuirassier seemed more angry than afraid. Snarling, he raised his head.

  It was Alfonse.

  Babette caught her breath and turned away, quickly busying herself with her bandages. One of the cuirassiers grabbed her by the shoulder and turned her around.

  “My captain has been wounded,” he said. “Badly.”

  “Very badly, by the look of him,” Babette said.

  “Help him!” the cuirassier shouted. “Now!”

  “There are other patients as badly wounded throughout the hospital,” Babette said. “You cannot drag him in here ahead of them.”

  “This man is the son of the Count des Louveteaux,” the cuirassier said. “He is worth more than a dozen of those peasants out there. Now attend to him!”

  Babette looked back at Alfonse and saw him staring up at her, his eyes narrowed. Babette’s disguise had been largely confined to shorn hair and a change of clothes. She had originally planned for a false moustache, but the risk of discovery was too great. In expression and bearing, she looked little like her old self—she had even fooled one of her professors from Paris—but if Alfonse recognized her.…

  She saw him sniff the air, and his eyes widened for a moment.

  He knows! Babette thought.

  “Hush, liebchen,” Korbinian whispered in her ear. He had been remarkably silent all morning, perhaps wishing not to distract her on such a busy day. But now he was there beside her, murmuring, “Do not react or else he will know that his suspicions are correct. Carry on as though nothing is amiss.”

  “Take off his cuirass,” Babette said, selecting a probe and a pair of long forceps to deal with the bullets.

  The cuirassiers did as instructed, hauling off Alfonse’s breastplate. It clattered onto the floor, and one of them kicked it off into the corner.

  “Leave us,” Alfonse said.

  “What?” Lescot asked, looking at Babette.

  “I dislike a crowded room,” Alfonse said. “Everyone but the doctor, leave at once.”

  “Doctor Sauvage—” Lescot began.

  “Go,” Babette said. “Find me more bandages.”

  Lescot hesitated for a moment. He looked at Alfonse, who growled. Lescot went pale and backed away a step.

  “I’ll…I’ll do as you ask, Doctor,” he said before rushing out the door.

  “Christophe, Marais,” Alfonse said to the two cuirassiers, “wait outside and do not let anyone in until I say so.”

  The cuirassiers exchanged looks but quickly saluted with a sharp “Yes Captain.” So saying, they withdrew and silence filled the room.

  Babette looked at Alfonse who looked back at her in turn.

  “The Liston knife is on the table,” Korbinian said softly, brushing a hand through her hair. “Remember that.”

  “Well, Doctor?” Alfonse asked.

  “Well?” Babette echoed.

  “Shall we begin? Or do you intend for me to bleed to death?”

  Babette shook her head to clear it. Keep calm, she told herself.

  “Remove your jacket and shirt and lie down,” she said. “This will be painful.”

  “No more so than I have already endured, I suspect,” Alfonse said, doing as instructed.

  Babette picked up her tools and examined Alfonse. She was surprised by what she saw. The sword wounds she found to be shallow and clean. They had already begun to clot, and there seemed little need to tend to them now. The bullet wounds were equally remarkable. Careful testing with the probe found that all five of the bullets were intact. The wounds were shallow—the effects of Alfonse’s armor, Babette could only assume—and no bones had been broken. She removed the bullets as quickly as she could and washed the wounds with alcohol.

  Alfonse suffered through it all without a sound. He simply stared at her with an unwavering gaze.

  Babette said nothing as she bandaged Alfonse. With the bullets gone, the flow of blood began to slow. The wounds would soon clot and scab over. Babette had seen nothing like it before. In another set of circumstances, she would have loved to perform a study of Alfonse’s physiology.

  “Neatly done,” Alfonse said, looking down at himself. “How far you have come, little runt.”

  Babette kept her expression inscrutable.

  “I do not understand you, Captain,” she said.

  “Come now, Babette,” Alfonse replied, “let us speak plainly.”

  Babette put a hand to Alfonse’s forehead and said, “You do not feel feverish. Perhaps an injury to your head?”

  Alfonse grabbed her by the wrist.

  “Do not play games, Babette!” he snarled. “I know who you are.”

  Babette tried to pull away, but Alfonse’s grip was far too strong. Snarling, Alfonse thrust his other hand into Babette’s coat. Though her breasts were bound, still there was something there to be found. A disgusting leer crossed Alfonse’s face.

  “Just as I thought,” he said. “You’re hiding a great surprise, ‘Doctor Sauvage.’” He grabbed her firmly by the chin and forced her to look at him. “You are Babette Varanus. It has been years since last I laid eyes on you. What strange fate has brought us together again.”

  No point in pretending. Just make him leave.

  “What do you want, Alfonse?” Babette demanded.

  Alfonse chuckled.

  “What do I want?” he said. “Oh, where to begin?”

  The hand at Babette’s chin moved to her throat, and Alfonse pushed her down against the bloody surgical table.

  “Do you know, I was meant to marry my cousin Claire?” Alfonse asked. “Ever since we were children, it was understood. And then…you.”

  “Me?” Babette asked.

  She looked toward the closed door out of the corner of her eye. Where was Lescot?

  “My father wished me to marry you,” Alfonse said. “Why is beyond me. You are such a pathetic thing, unworthy of me.”

  At this, Babette felt her hackles rise. How dare that inbred dolt call her unworthy? She was a Varanus. What was a des Louveteaux to a Varanus?

  “The satyr to Hyperion,” Korbinian said as he loomed above them, gazing into Babette’s eyes from behind Alfonse’s shoulder. “A dung beetle to a king.”

  “But my father sent me after you like a dog after a rancid bone,” Alfonse continued. “You. The runt. And then you had the audacity to refuse me. You took up with a German.”

  Babette felt Alfonse’s grip tighten about her throat.

  “I had to kill him,” Alfonse said. “I had to kill him to get rid of him.”

  What?

  Babette looked up at Korbinian. She saw him as he had been the very night of his death, his chest covered in blood. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth and stained his lips as he spoke:

  “You always knew he murdered me, liebchen. An accident? Self-defense? Lies. Murder. Murder by the blade.”

  Murder by the blade.

  Korbinian pointed toward something on the table. Babette tried to look but Alfonse’s grip held her fast. Still, groping blindly, Babette found what Korbinian wished her to find.

  The Liston knife.

  “And then you left,” Alfonse said. “You left! You should have been mine, as my father insisted, but you ran away. And my father insisted that I wait. That I wait! By the time he finally accepted that you would not return, Claire had been married to another. She should have been mine, but she isn’t, and because of you. You! The runt!”

  Alfonse climbed atop Babette, chok
ing her even harder until stars erupted before her eyes. Her head swam, the world lost its clarity, and finally there was nothing left but her and Korbinian and Alfonse and the knife.

  “But I think,” Alfonse said, “that if I fuck you like the bitch you are, then perhaps you can earn my forgiveness, one pathetic yelp at a time.”

  Snarling, Alfonse tore open Babette’s coat and then her vest, buttons flying in all directions. He bared his teeth at her behind a hideous smile and licked her face with his tongue, like a cat lapping up milk from a saucer.

  “Make me believe you enjoy this,” he whispered, “or I’ll kill you like I killed the German.” He looked into her eyes and said, “And like the German, no one will care.”

  Babette looked back at Korbinian. He was drenched in blood. His face was pale just as it had been moments before his death. Babette saw him mouth a single word, a word that Babette heard herself cry aloud as crimson flooded her vision:

  “Die!”

  She stabbed Alfonse in the soft flesh between throat and shoulder, making him howl in pain. She stabbed again and again, each time repeating the word.

  “Die! Die! Die!”

  The Liston knife lodged in Alfonse’s flesh, and Babette could not pull it free.

  Alfonse began screaming. With a strength she did not recall possessing, Babette flung him off of her. The big man struck the ground, blood gushing everywhere.

  Babette saw Korbinian offering her his hand. She took it, and he helped her off the table.

  She looked into his eyes and said, “I love you.”

  Korbinian touched her cheek with his hand and said, “I know.”

  She took Korbinian’s face in her hands and kissed his bloody mouth, just as she had done so many years ago as he lay dying, the victim of Alfonse’s barbarity. But now things had changed. Now it was Alfonse who would die.

  Murder by the blade.

  Babette turned toward Alfonse, who sat on the ground howling, struggling to pull the knife free. As if in a dream, Babette reached down and drew the blade from his flesh with a sharp tug, releasing another gout of blood.

  She heard shouts from outside and the sound of fists hammering on the door.