by Victoria Mas
Louise enters the stage, and the entirely male audience holds its breath. The boards creak as she walks. Though she is usually cheerful, no one notices her disappointed expression. She walks to the middle of the platform watched by some four hundred men, eager to see a tic, a gesture, something that proves this girl is truly mad. Louise goes through the motions. She is oblivious to the hand that directs her, the voice that speaks to her, hypnotizes her, to the arms that catch her when she falls backwards. She lets herself go, knowing that, fifteen minutes from now, she will come to herself again. The lecture will be over, Charcot will be satisfied, and she will be able to go back to sleep and forget about this unpleasant incident. Thankfully sleep exists, so she does not have to think.
But her return to consciousness is not as she usually experiences it. When she opens her eyes, the doctors are gathered around her, their worried faces staring down at her supine body. From the public benches comes a nervous, unfamiliar chatter. There is a buzzing in her ears and she shakes her head to dispel this oppressive sound. Then she sees Charcot pushing through the circle that has formed around her. The doctor crouches next to her, shows her the instrument he is holding, a long, pointed metal rod, but she cannot hear what he is saying. He pushes up her right sleeve and presses the pointed end of the rod against her upper arm. Reflexively, she tries to pull away to avoid the pain, but she cannot move: her arm is rigid. Charcot continues with his task. He presses the instrument against the right-hand side of her body, her hand, her fingers, her chest, her thigh, her knee, her shin, her foot, and finally her toes. The doctors all worriedly watch for some reaction from Louise. Charcot, who seems more concentrated than concerned, now takes the girl’s delicate left hand: he presses the instrument against her palm, and Louise lets out a yelp that makes the assembled doctors start.
‘Right lateral hemiplegia.’
This, Louise manages to hear. She is conscious now. With her left hand, she grabs the limp right hand resting on her belly: she shakes it, pats it, but feels nothing; she pinches her numb right arm, the leg she cannot move, railing against the right side of her body which refuses to obey her.
‘I can’t feel nothing. Why can’t I feel nothing?’
She rages, swears, continues to jab at her paralysed limbs in the vain hope of eliciting some reaction, rocks her body from side to side in an attempt to bring back some feeling, however faint. Then anger gives way to panic; she howls, tries and fails to stand up, calls for help, her frantic wails echoing around the auditorium, terrifying the audience. Only then does Geneviève appear, pushing her way through the doctors and assistants who stare at the scene, not knowing what to do. Her face drawn from a second night spent travelling by train. She sees Louise sprawled on the stage, and the girl lets out a ragged sob.
‘Madame!’
Louise reaches out her left hand towards the woman she had given up hope of seeing, and Geneviève kneels down and gathers the girl into her arms. The two women embrace, sharing a pain that they alone can understand while behind them the men, unsettled and uncertain, scarcely dare to breathe.
10
14 March 1885
Place Pigalle. A lamplighter reaches up with his long pole to kindle the gas mantle of a streetlamp. The rain has ceased. The pavements are wet and water still trickles from the drainpipes. At the windows, people shake rainwater from shutters while merchants and café workers jab at canvas awnings with their broom handles to disgorge the water that has collected there. The lamplighter crosses the square and continues his twilight rounds.
When Geneviève reaches the end of the Rue Jean-Baptiste Pigalle, she rests her hands on her hips and stops to catch her breath. It is a long trek from the Salpêtrière to the steep path that leads to Montmartre. She has been walking quickly, so quickly that on more than one occasion on the Grands Boulevards her hat was almost whipped away by the wind. Not wishing to get to Pigalle after dark, she had set off before the end of her shift. On the last stretch of her walk she was startled to see, high on the Butte Montmartre, the scaffolding for the new basilica that all of Paris has been talking about. The sight of this imposing monument framed against the sky brings to mind a memory Parisians would rather forget, the memory of the Paris Commune.
Geneviève glances around warily. She is surprised by how quiet the Place Pigalle seems. If the accounts given in novels and newspapers were to be believed, the area was supposed to be far from charming, filled with cabarets and bordellos teeming with libertines and criminals, loose women and faithless husbands, eccentrics and artists. In no other area of Paris were morals so casually flouted and senses so crudely aroused. Geneviève, who is aware of its nefarious reputation, has never set foot in the quartier and so has been unable to confirm such rumours. Her life has been lived between her small apartment and the ward at the Salpêtrière, and she has never felt the need to wander elsewhere, to discover other parts of Paris.
She crosses to the opposite pavement. On the corner is a café, the Nouvelle Athènes. Inside, the crowd is so dense that it is almost impossible to make out the deep red banquettes. Tired of the incessant rain, the locals have sought refuge in their habitual watering hole. Whorls of tobacco smoke rise above the clamour of intellectual debate. Some customers are boisterous, jabbing their fingers to press a point, ordering another absinthe at the bar. Others, more sedate, are observing the decadent throng, drawing sketches in their notepads while smoking a cigarette, their eyes lowered. Here, the women are wasp-waisted and sport a sardonic moue; the men are relaxed and silver-tongued. Every café has its particular ambience, and the Nouvelle Athènes has a scintillating effervescence – even Geneviève, a stranger to this world, can sense it as she passes the tall windows: this is a place where the avant-garde meet and draw their inspiration.
Geneviève turns into the Rue Germain-Pilon, which runs at right angles to the Boulevard de Clichy, and enters a four-storey building. The stairwell is small, dark and dank. On the top landing she can hear women laughing behind the door to her right. She knocks three times. From inside comes the sound of approaching footsteps.
‘Who is it?’
‘Geneviève. Gleizes.’
The door opens a crack, revealing the face of a young woman with dazzling red lips, something Geneviève finds surprising since she is not accustomed to seeing women so heavily made-up. Registering her surprise, the stranger scornfully looks her up and down, biting into the apple core she is holding.
‘What d’you want?’
‘Is Jeanne here? Jeanne Beaudon?’
‘No one calls her that any more, that was long ago. She’s mam’zelle Jane Avril now. Like an English lady.’
‘I see.’
‘Who’re you?’
‘Geneviève Gleizes. From the Salpêtrière.’
‘Oh.’
The young woman opens the door. She is wearing a short red shift that falls to her knees, and her bouffant hair is studded with flowers.
‘Come in.’
Inside the modest apartment, Geneviève has to gingerly pick her way through to find the living room: trunks filled with clothes and costumes, cats that rub up against her legs, full-length mirrors, sideboards cluttered with gewgaws, jewellery and accessories, wooden chairs set out everywhere. In the living room, where the scent of rosewater mingles with stale smoke, four women are playing cards, sitting on the sofa or the floor. They are scantily but comfortably dressed in simple peignoirs, their arms bare, some wearing a shawl they have knitted themselves. They are smoking and drinking whiskey.
At the far end of the sofa, an attractive young woman glances at the cards and grumbles.
‘Lison wins again, I don’t believe it!’
‘It’s called skill.’
‘It’s called card-sharping.’
‘Don’t be a sore loser, it makes your face all puffy.’
‘It’s your perfume that does that: you stink all the way from here to the Place de Clichy.’
‘Well, at least I won’t smell their manly sti
nk tonight.’
As the two women step into the room, the youngest of the group recognizes Geneviève.
‘Madame, there’s a surprise. What brings you here?’
‘I just thought I would pay you a visit. I’m not interrupting?’
‘Not at all. Let’s go into the kitchen.’
In the rustic kitchen lit by a few candles, Jeanne, a girl of seventeen, makes coffee on the little stove. Until a year before, Jeanne had been on the ward with the other patients. She had arrived at the Salpêtrière a delicate, nervous little girl, who for years had suffered epileptic fits and the vicious beatings of her alcoholic mother. She had been saved from jumping into the Seine by two passing prostitutes. Jeanne had spent two years on Charcot’s ward. It was there that she had discovered dance, how bodies move, how her body could move. She had learned to inhabit a space, to give free rein to an innate grace that longed only to be set free. After she was released, she had gone to Montmartre where she continued to dance, in dive bars and cabarets, anywhere that had a stage where she could leave behind the childhood that had almost crippled her. Twice since her discharge she had come back to visit the hospital. Her slender figure and her oval face, her doe eyes and her impish mouth, won her admiring looks and much sympathy. People loved to listen to her talk, to watch her move; they never tired of this girl who was both melancholic and captivating.
‘I don’t think there’s any sugar, madame.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Take a seat.’
Jeanne hands Geneviève her coffee, then sits down opposite her at the little wooden table. The matron curls her hands around the warm cup. She is still wearing her coat and hat.
Through the window, they can see the hackney carriages crossing the Place Pigalle.
‘Has this year’s Lenten Ball been and gone already?’
‘No, it takes place in four days’ time.’
‘The girls must be excited.’
‘They are very eager, yes.’
‘And how is old Thérèse?’
‘Same as ever. Knitting.’
‘I still have the shawls she made me. I smile every time I see them or put one on.’
‘It doesn’t bother you, keeping something that came from the hospital?’
‘Oh, no, madame.’
‘I mean, it doesn’t bring back painful memories?’
‘Far from it. I liked being in the Salpêtrière.’
‘Truly?’
‘Without you and Dr Charcot . . . I’d never have got through it. It’s thanks to you that I’m better.’
‘But even so . . . thinking back now . . . was there truly nothing you found distressing? At any point?’
The girl looks at Geneviève in surprise. She thinks for a moment, then turns towards the window.
‘The first time I ever felt anyone cared about me was in there.’
Geneviève, too, turns her eyes towards the window. She feels guilty about being here, asking questions – not on account of Jeanne, but because of the Salpêtrière. She feels as though she is betraying the hospital. Never before has she questioned its approach. Until this moment, no one, not even the junior doctors and students, has defended the place more staunchly. She has always had the highest regard for the hospital, and for the doctor who made its reputation. She still does. But doubt has crept in. How is it possible to believe in something for so long only to one day question it? What purpose does it serve to cleave to truths if they can be shaken? Is it possible that she cannot trust herself? Is it possible for her to reconsider her loyalty to this hospital whose values she has championed for so long?
Geneviève thinks about Louise. When the train pulled into Paris that morning, she had taken the first available hackney carriage to the Salpêtrière and, once there, had raced to the lecture hall. Hardly had she pushed open the double doors than she heard Louise’s howls. What had shocked her when she first entered was the general inaction of the men present. Louise was lying on the stage, her left arm flailing, crying and pleading for help, and not a single man had intervened, as though they had all been turned into statues by a woman’s despair. Geneviève instantly realized what had happened: even from a distance, she could see that the right-hand side of Louise’s body was paralysed. She had climbed on to the stage, pushed past the ineffectual men, and had instinctively taken the girl in her arms. Never before had she hugged a patient – or anyone else for that matter. The last person she had embraced had been Blandine.
Geneviève had held Louise until her tears subsided. Then the exhausted girl had been carried back to the dormitory while apologies were made to the shocked audience.
Later that morning, Dr Babinski had explained to Geneviève that the hypnosis session had been pushed a little further than usual, and the powerful fit it had brought on had triggered right lateral hemiplegia. ‘It is utterly exceptional, and most interesting in the context of our studies. We plan to work on the case. And we will attempt to reverse the paralysis during the next session.’ This remark had profoundly troubled Geneviève, a feeling that was only exacerbated by the two sleepless nights she had spent travelling by train. Ever since her father’s outburst, she had felt vulnerable, unable to reason. She had decided to go back to work immediately so that she did not have to think about it. It was only during the afternoon, when she had heard two of the patients talking about Jeanne Beaudon, that she had the idea of visiting the one girl who had been confined within these walls and was now free. She needed to talk to someone who understood.
In the kitchen, Jeanne gets up from the table and searches in the cupboard for a box of matches. From her pocket, she takes a cigarette and lights it. Still standing, she studies this fair-haired woman with whom she lived cheek by jowl for two years. Geneviève is still looking out of the window. A sorrowful expression seems to have replaced the stern gravity that had always seemed permanently etched on her face.
‘You’ve changed, Madame Geneviève.’
‘Have I?’
‘Your eyes. There’s something different about them.’
Geneviève sips her coffee and looks down at the table.
‘Perhaps you are right.’
At the Salpêtrière, the afternoon is brightened by intermittent spells of sunshine. Heartened by this respite from the rain that had seemed to go on forever, some of the women go out to walk in the grounds. Others visit the chapel where, heads bowed, they offer silent or whispered prayers to the Virgin Mary, to Christ; they pray to be healed, pray for the husbands or children whose faces they can no longer remember, pray for no particular reason beyond being able to speak to someone, somewhere, in the hope that they will be heard, as though God were more likely to listen to them than a nurse or another patient.
Those who have stayed behind in the dormitory are putting the finishing touches to their costumes. The sun’s rays bathe the women as they sit on their beds, alone or in groups, gaily cutting, sewing, folding and hemming fabric. The costumed ball is in three days. Impatient and excited, from time to time they burst into nervous giggles or joyous laughter.
In a corner of the room, away from the busy seamstresses, Thérèse is gently stroking Louise’s hair. The eldest of the patients has set aside her knitting to take care of the young girl. Lying on her back, with her palsied right hand laid on her chest, Louise feels Thérèse running her fingers through her hair. Louise has not uttered a word since the incident the previous day. Her gaze wanders the room aimlessly, her eyes not really seeing anything. The nurses regularly try to persuade her to eat something, a piece of bread, some cheese – even a piece of chocolate was brought to her – but in vain. Beneath the sheets, she seems completely paralysed.
Eugénie watches silently from the next bed. Since yesterday, Geneviève has permitted her to sleep in the dormitory with the others. She had arrived just as Louise was being carried back, still half unconscious. A distraught Thérèse had set down her needles to tend to the child. ‘Oh, no, no, no, not my little Louise . . . What have they done to you?’
The old woman held back tears as she helped the doctors put Louise to bed. A heavy melancholy pervaded the dormitory. Today, the girls have been only too happy to have an excuse to escape the mournful atmosphere.
Eugénie is sitting cross-legged on her bed, her arms folded. As she looks at Louise, she feels a familiar anger raging in her chest. She knows that there is nothing she can do. It is impossible to defy the nurses, the doctors, the doctor, the hospital, when the slightest careless word could mean being sent to isolation, or having a cloth soaked in ether pressed over your mouth.
She looks outside at the grounds. In the distance, women are strolling along the sunny pathways. Seeing them reminds her of her childhood, whenever her parents used to take her to the Parc Monceau. Spring and summer Sundays spent roaming the paths, the shadowy trails, visiting the lake with its colonnades, crossing the white bridge, clinging to the railings, watching other children playing, the women whose dresses she admired, the upper-class men who punctuated their conversations with the tap of their walking canes. She is reminded of family picnics on the lawns, the feeling of grass against her hands, the oriental plane tree whose bark she would stroke, the sparrows that twittered as they flitted from branch to branch, the throng of sunshades and crinolines, the children racing after dogs, the black top hats and the flowered bonnets, the extraordinary tranquillity of a place where time seemed suspended, where it felt good to be alive, a time when she and her brother could still delight in the present without having to fear the future.