The Mad Women's Ball

by Victoria Mas

  The bourgeois drawing room is much like their own. Suspended from the ceiling, a crystal chandelier dominates the space. A manservant moves among the guests offering glasses of whiskey from a silver salver; another pours coffee into porcelain cups.

  Standing around the fireplace or lounging on sofas from an earlier century, young men converse in low voices while smoking cigars or cigarettes. The new Parisian elite, conformist and right-thinking. Their faces radiate their pride at having been born into the right family; their nonchalant gestures express the privilege of never having had to labour. For these young men, the word ‘value’ takes on meaning only in the context of the paintings that adorn their walls and the social status they enjoy without having had to work to earn it.

  A young man with a sardonic smile comes over to Théophile. Eugénie hangs back, surveying the urbane assembly.

  ‘Cléry, I didn’t realize you would be in such charming company today.’

  Beneath his shock of red hair, Théophile blushes.

  ‘Fochon, allow me to present my sister, Eugénie.’

  ‘Your sister? Decidedly, you are not much alike. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Eugénie.’

  Fochon steps forward to take her gloved hand; the young woman is faintly repulsed by his insistent stare. He turns back to Théophile.

  ‘Did your father mention my grandmother’s legacy?’

  ‘I did hear something.’

  ‘Papa is extremely angry. All he has ever talked about is the château in the Vendée. But by rights, I should be the angriest of everyone; the old trout left me nothing. Her only grandson! Come. Eugénie, would you care for a drink?’

  ‘Coffee. No sugar.’

  ‘The little goose feathers in your hair are most amusing. You will enliven our salon today.’

  ‘You mean you actually laugh sometimes?’

  ‘She’s impudent too! How marvellous!’

  Within this hushed sanctum, the hours pass with excruciating slowness. The conversations of the various little groups meld to become one deep, monotonous drone broken only by the chink of glasses and coffee cups. Tobacco smoke has formed a soft, misty veil that hovers above their heads, and alcohol has relaxed their already limp bodies. Seated on a soft velvet armchair, Eugénie hides her yawns behind her hand. Her brother was not lying: the only possible reason for attending such salons is social convention. The debates are not so much discussions as polite homilies, ideas learned by rote and trotted out by supposedly enlightened minds. There is talk of politics, inevitably – colonization, President Grévy,5 the Jules Ferry educational reforms6 – and also of literature and theatre, but it is superficial, since these young men consider the arts to be entertaining rather than intellectually enriching. Eugénie hears without truly listening. She is not tempted to shake up this world of narrow opinions, though at times she feels the urge to interrupt, to point out the contradictions of certain statements; but she already knows the response she would receive: these men would stare at her, mock her insolent intervention, and dismiss whatever she had to say with a wave of their hand, relegating her to her rightful place. The proudest minds do not appreciate being contradicted – especially by a woman. These men acknowledge women only when their physical appearance is to their liking. As to those who might impugn their masculinity, they mock them, or better still, they banish them. Eugénie remembers a story, dating back some thirty years, of a young woman named Ernestine who sought to free herself from her role as wife by taking cookery lessons from her cousin – a chef – in the hope that one day she might work behind the stoves of a brasserie. Her husband, feeling his authority threatened, had her committed to the Salpêtrière asylum. The newspapers and café gossip circles have echoed with many similar stories since the beginning of the century. A woman who publicly upbraided her husband for his infidelities locked away like some beggarwoman who’d displayed her pubis to passers-by; a woman of forty flaunting herself on the arm of a man twenty years her junior incarcerated for debauchery; a young widow shut away by her mother-in-law because the latter considered her grief for her husband to be excessive. The Salpêtrière is a dumping ground for women who disturb the peace. An asylum for those whose sensitivities do not tally with what is expected of them. A prison for women guilty of possessing an opinion. They say that the Salpêtrière has changed since the arrival of Professor Charcot twenty years ago, that only genuine hysterics are locked up nowadays. But despite such reassurances, the doubt persists. Twenty years is a short span in which to change the deep-rooted convictions of a society governed by fathers and husbands. No woman can be certain that her words, her aspirations, her personality will not lead to her being shut away behind the fearsome walls of the hospital in the thirteenth arrondissement. And so, they are circumspect. Even Eugénie, for all her audacity, knows there are some lines that one must not cross – especially not in a salon filled with influential men.

  ‘. . . but the man was a heretic. His books should be burned.’

  ‘To do so would simply overstate his importance.’

  ‘It is a passing fad, he will soon be forgotten. Besides, who even remembers his name these days?’

  ‘Are you talking about the one who claims that ghosts truly exist?’

  ‘ “Spirits”.’

  ‘He’s a madman.’

  ‘It goes against all logic to argue that the spirit can outlive the body. It contradicts every precept of biology!’

  ‘And, putting aside those laws, if the Spirits did truly exist, why would they not show themselves more often?’

  ‘Shall we put it to the test? I challenge any Spirits present in this room, if Spirits there be, to move a painting or knock over a book.’

  ‘Stop, Mercier. Absurd though it may be, I do not care for jests on such a topic.’

  In her armchair, Eugénie sits up and cranes her neck towards the group, listening intently for the first time since she arrived.

  ‘It is not merely absurd, it is dangerous. Have you read The Spirits’ Book ?’ 7

  ‘Why would we waste our time on such fairy tales?’

  ‘In order to criticize, one must first be informed. I have read it, and I assure you that many of the points raised are profoundly damaging to my most deeply held Christian beliefs.’

  ‘What interest could you possibly have in a man who claims to communicate with the dead?’

  ‘He dares to profess that there is neither a heaven nor a hell. He diminishes the consequences of termination of pregnancy by claiming that the foetus is devoid of a soul.’

  ‘Blasphemy!’

  ‘Such thoughts deserve no less than the rope!’

  ‘What is the name of this man you are discussing?’ Eugénie has risen from her chair; a manservant approaches and takes the empty coffee cup she is holding. The men have turned and are staring, surprised to hear this mute young girl finally speak up. Théophile stiffens in trepidation: his sister is unpredictable, and her interventions invariably cause a stir.

  Standing behind a sofa, cigar in hand, Fochon gives a faint smile.

  ‘At last, the girl with the goose feathers speaks! Why do you ask? You are not a spiritualist, I hope?’

  ‘Could you please tell me his name?’

  ‘Allan Kardec. But why? Are you interested in him?’

  ‘You are so heated in your condemnation. Anyone capable of provoking such strong passions must surely have hit on something.’

  ‘Or he must be profoundly wrong.’

  ‘I shall judge that for myself.’

  Théophile threads his way through the crowd to Eugénie. He takes her arm and whispers.

  ‘Unless you want to be crucified on the spot, I suggest you leave right now.’

  Her brother’s look is more anxious than authoritarian. Eugénie can feel disapproving eyes scornfully looking her up and down. She nods to her brother and, with a wave to the assembled company, she leaves the salon. For the second time in as many days, her departure is met by a leaden silence.

 
; 3

  22 February 1885

  The snow is so pretty. I want to go out into the gardens.’

  Leaning against the glass, Louise petulantly drags her boot along the tiled floor; her plump arms are folded over her chest, her lips set in a pout. On the far side of the window a perfectly level expanse of snow stretches across the lawn of the hospital grounds. During heavy snowfall the patients are forbidden to go outdoors. The clothes they have are not sufficiently warm, and their bodies are too weak – they would catch pneumonia instantly. Besides, allowing them to play in the snow would risk overstimulating their minds. And so, when the ground is carpeted with white, they are confined to the dormitory. They hang around, they talk to anyone prepared to listen, they move about listlessly, make half-hearted attempts to play cards, they stare at their reflection in the windowpane, they braid each other’s hair, everything in an atmosphere of the most leaden boredom.

  From the moment they awake, the prospect of having to get through another whole day overwhelms their minds, their bodies. The absence of a clock makes every day seem like one interminable, suspended moment. Within these walls, as they wait to be seen by a doctor, time is the worst of enemies. It gives free rein to suppressed thoughts, rouses memories, induces fear, stirs up regrets – and, not knowing whether this time will ever come to an end, they fear it more than they fear their ailments.

  ‘Hush your whining, Louise, and come sit with us.’ Seated on her bed, Thérèse is knitting another shawl before a crowd of curious onlookers. She is a plump, wrinkled woman whose gnarled hands tirelessly knit stitches that bind them all together. With pleasure and pride, the women swathe themselves in her creations, the only tokens of interest and affection they have been offered in a long time.

  Louise shrugs.

  ‘I’d rather stay here by the window.’

  ‘It’s bad for you, staring out like that.’

  ‘No, I feel as if I have the gardens all to myself.’

  A masculine figure appears in the doorway. The young doctor stands motionless, surveying the room, and spots Louise. The young woman notices him; she uncrosses her arms, gets to her feet and suppresses a smile. He gives her a nod, then disappears. Louise glances around, meets Thérèse’s disapproving gaze, looks away and leaves the dormitory.

  *

  The door opens on to an empty room. The shutters are closed. Louise carefully closes the door behind her. In the half-light the young man is standing, waiting.

  ‘Jules . . .’

  The girl throws herself into his arms, feels them enfold her. She can sense her pulse beating in her temples. The young man strokes her hair, the nape of her neck; a shiver courses through Louise’s skin.

  ‘Where you been these last few days? I’ve been waiting for you.’

  ‘I had a lot of work to do. In fact, I can’t stay long, I’m expected at a lecture.’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘You have to be patient, Louise. We’ll be together soon.’

  The intern takes the girl’s face in his hands. He strokes her cheeks with his thumbs.

  ‘Let me kiss you, Louise.’

  ‘No, Jules . . .’

  ‘It would make me so happy. I would carry the taste of your kiss with me all day.’

  She does not have time to reply before he bends down and tenderly kisses her. Feeling a resistance in her, he continues to kiss her, because it is through force that you achieve surrender. His moustache tickles her fleshy lips. Not content with this stolen kiss, he lets his hand slide down and grips her breast. Louise roughly pushes him away and takes a step back. Her limbs are trembling violently. Feeling her legs give way, she sits down on the edge of the bed. Jules comes over, seeming unconcerned, and kneels down beside her.

  ‘Don’t take it like that, my little dove. You know I love you, you know that.’

  Louise does not hear him. Her eyes are vacant, staring. It is the hands of her uncle that she now feels moving over her body.

  It all began with the fire on the Rue de Belleville. Louise had just turned fourteen. She was sleeping in the concierge’s lodge with her parents when a fire broke out on the ground floor. The heat of the flames roused her. Still drowsy, she felt her father’s arms lift her and pass her through the window. Some neighbours found her on the pavement. Her head was spinning and she could scarcely breathe. She blacked out then, and when she came round, she found herself in her aunt’s apartment. ‘We are your parents now.’ The girl did not cry. She imagined that this death was temporary. That her parents would recover from their injuries, that they would come and fetch her. There was no reason to be sad: she simply had to wait for them.

  And so she lived with her aunt and her husband in a mezzanine apartment behind the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. Shortly after the tragedy, her hips and breasts had begun to develop. In less than a month, the little girl who was no longer a little girl could no longer fit into the only dress she owned. Her aunt had to unpick and re-sew one of her own dresses. ‘You can wear that for the summer, we’ll see about finding you something to wear for winter.’ Her aunt was a washerwoman, her aunt’s husband a labourer. He never said two words to Louise, but ever since she had begun to develop, she had felt his dark eyes watching her insistently. She was faintly aware of some feeling she did not recognize, one that she assumed was beyond her years, and this inappropriate attention – which she had not sought – made her feel profoundly embarrassed. She felt ashamed of her curves. She could not control her body, or the way that it was seen, both in the street and at home. Her uncle did not say anything, he did not touch her; but at night she had trouble sleeping, as though some purely female instinct made her afraid of what he might do. Lying on a mattress up on the mezzanine, she was alert to the slightest creak of the wooden steps that led to her supine body.

  Summer came; Louise hung about with other young people from the area. Every day, her little gang killed time as best they could – running down the slopes of Belleville, pilfering sweets from the grocers and stuffing them in their pockets, throwing stones at the pigeons and the rats – while their afternoons were spent in the shade of the trees in the undulating park. One day in August, when the sun was swelteringly hot and the stones seemed about to melt, the friends decided to cool off in the lake. Others had had the same idea, and the park was filled with people from the area seeking a little cool and some shade. The young people found an out-of-the-way corner where they could strip off and, wearing only their underclothes, they plunged into the lake. It was glorious. They forgot about the heat, the boredom of summer, and the uncertainties of the age.

  They stayed in the water until late afternoon. When at last they emerged on to the banks, they spotted the uncle hiding behind a tree. How long he had been there, they did not know. With his thick, sweaty hand, he grabbed Louise by the arm and shook her roughly, berating her for her lack of modesty. As her friends watched in horror, he dragged her off back to the apartment; her dress was half unbuttoned, her long wet hair fell over her chest, and her breasts were visible through her sheer petticoat. No sooner had they come through the door than the uncle pushed her on to the bed where he slept with his wife.

  ‘You little slut, flaunting yourself in public like that! I’ll teach you, you’ll see.’

  Sprawled on the bed, Louise saw him take off his belt. He would probably just give her a beating. It would hurt, but the wounds would be superficial. Then he dropped the belt on the floor. Louise shrieked.

  ‘No, Uncle, no!’

  She scrabbled to her feet, but he slapped her and she fell back on the bed. He lay down on top of her so that she could not move, tore at the fabric of her dress, forced her legs apart and unbuttoned his trousers.

  He was still violating her and Louise was still screaming when her aunt came in and discovered them. Louise reached out her hand.

  ‘Help me, Aunt! Help me!’

  The uncle pulled out as his wife hurled herself at him.

  ‘Degenerate! Monster! Get out, I won’t have you in t
his house tonight!’

  The man hurriedly pulled up his trousers, slipped on his shirt and disappeared. So relieved was Louise at this deliverance that she did not notice that her genitals and the sheets were stained crimson with blood. Her aunt lashed out and delivered a resounding slap.

  ‘And you, you little hussy! This is what you get for leading him on! And just look, you’ve stained my good bedsheets. Get yourself dressed, and wash those sheets out right now!’

  Louise had stared at her aunt in disbelief; it took a second slap before she pulled on her clothes and set to work.

  The uncle came back the following day and normal life resumed, as though the incident had been forgotten. Louise, however, lay on her mattress up on the mezzanine, her body shaken by convulsions she could not control. Every time her aunt ordered her to come downstairs and wash the dishes or clean the apartment, the girl would force her tortured body down the steps. When she reached the bottom, she would immediately vomit. Her aunt would shout, and then Louise would faint. This carried on for four or five days. One night, hearing the screams that shook the little building, the downstairs neighbour came and knocked at the door; the aunt opened it in a towering rage and the neighbour saw Louise lying on the floor in a pool of vomit, convulsed by spasms, her head thrown back, her body arched. The uncle bundled the girl up, and he and his wife took her to the Salpêtrière. She had not left since. That had been three years ago.

  On the rare occasions Louise mentioned the incident, she summed it up by saying, ‘Being scolded by my aunt upset me more than my uncle forcing himself on me.’

  Of all the women, she was the patient whose seizures were the most frequent and the most severe. She presented with the same symptoms as Augustine, the former inmate whom Charcot had introduced to the Parisian public through his lectures – almost every week, her body would be racked by convulsions and contractions, she would writhe, arch her body and then pass out; at other times, while sitting on her bed, she would be swept up in a fit of ecstasy, raising her hands towards heaven and talking to God, or some imaginary lover. The interest Professor Charcot had taken in her, and the success of the weekly lectures in which she had starred, had led Louise to think that she was the new Augustine – and this thought comforted her, it made her incarceration and her memories less painful. And then, for three months now, there had been Jules. The young intern loved her, she loved him, he was going to marry her and take her away from this place. Louise would have nothing to fear: she would finally be happy, and healed.