by Victoria Mas
Théophile hates his grandmother for her duplicity. He hates his father for having had Eugénie committed without so much as a by-your-leave, and his mother for being biddable and weak, as always. He longs to overturn this table, send the plates and cups crashing to the floor, force all of them to face the shameful decision they have made; instead, he sits there and does nothing. Over the past two weeks, his cowardice has been no different from theirs. After all, he too was involved in his sister’s committal. He had acquiesced to his father’s orders. He did nothing to warn Eugénie. He even led her into that accursed hospital as she begged and pleaded with him. It is the shame he feels gnawing away inside him that prevents him from saying anything. The bitterness he feels towards those around the table is unwarranted, since the same charges could be made against him.
At the sound of the doorbell, the little group starts. Louis sets down the tea tray and steps out of the dining room. At the head of the table, François Cléry takes his pocket watch from his waistcoat.
‘It is a little early for visitors.’
Louis reappears.
‘If you please, sir, a Madame Geneviève Gleizes from the Salpêtrière.’
The very mention of the hospital casts a chill over the table. No one here expected ever to hear that name again – and none of them wishes to. After a moment of surprise, Monsieur Cléry frowns.
‘What exactly does she want?’
‘I do not know, sir. She has asked to speak with you and Monsieur Théophile.’
Théophile sits up in his chair and flushes. All faces turn to him, as though he were responsible for this unsolicited visit. His father irritably sets down his cutlery.
‘Were you aware that this woman was planning to come here?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Go and speak to her. Tell her that I’m busy. I have no time for such matters.’
‘Very well.’
Théophile gets to his feet awkwardly, puts down his napkin and heads towards the hallway.
Geneviève is waiting by the front door, both hands clutching an umbrella that is dripping on to the floor. Her boots and the hem of her dress are soaked, and around her feet a small puddle is forming on the parquet floor.
With one hand, she tidies her hair and adjusts her bonnet. She had not expected the father to receive her. Once a girl steps through the doors of the Salpêtrière, no one, especially no one in her family, wants to talk about her; in this, Monsieur Cléry is no exception. Now that his daughter is a patient in a lunatic asylum, the mere mention of her name would bring dishonour to his family. This is a world in which upholding the family name is more important than protecting one’s daughters. In the Cléry family, the sole remaining hope lies in the son. He came back to visit his sister. He clearly feels guilty. He is the one I need to speak to, Geneviève had thought. And that is why she is here today.
Last night, as she was walking home, the transformation that had slowly been brewing within her had finally come to pass. At first, she had found Charcot’s words devastating. Coming hard on the heels of recent, tragic events – her father’s accident, Louise’s palsy and now Thérèse – this was the blow to crush her completely. She no longer had any control, any influence. Everything seemed to be falling apart, so much so that she wondered whether she should not resign her post.
But as she approached the Panthéon, another thought stole into her mind. For more than twenty years, she had spent countless days and sleepless nights slaving away at the Salpêtrière; she knew every corridor, every block of stone, the face of every patient better than anyone, better even than Charcot himself. And he had dared to belittle her judgement. From his ivory tower, he had casually swept aside the considered opinion of a woman who admired him. He did not hear her and did not care to listen to her. In fact, in the hospital, none of the men listened.
As she walked, she felt her rage increasing until it became open rebellion. This was no longer mere resentment, but the same rebellious fury she had felt towards the church and its deacons as a child. They had sought to challenge her beliefs, her very identity, to intimidate her, to dictate her behaviour and her temperament. At the Salpêtrière, she felt that she had finally found a role; now she realized that she had no value there – not even the value that others might have accorded her – other than that granted by a single man: Professor Charcot.
Perhaps her reaction was disproportionate. Perhaps there was no reason to take offence at a simple admonishment. But she had always stood up to those she felt were in the wrong. And, in this case, Charcot was wrong.
It was decided: she would help Eugénie. Just as Eugénie had helped her.
Stepping into the hallway, Théophile recognizes the matron. He feels a lump in his throat as he moves to greet her.
‘Madame?’
Geneviève glances over his shoulder.
‘And your father?’
‘I’m afraid he is occupied. He sends his apologies . . .’
‘No, no, that is good. It was you I wished to see.’
‘Me?’
It is Théophile who now glances over his shoulder and lowers his voice.
‘If it is about the book I gave you for my sister, I beg you, say nothing.’
‘It does not concern the book. I need your help.’
Geneviève has stepped closer to Théophile and also drops her voice to a whisper. At the far end of the hallway, she can just make out the dining room; the table and those sitting at it are not visible.
‘Your sister needs to leave the Salpêtrière.’
‘What is the matter with her? Is it serious?’
‘There is nothing the matter with her. Your sister is perfectly sane. But the doctor is not disposed to releasing her.’
‘But if, as you say, she is sane . . .’
‘Those who enter such an institution never leave. Or very seldom.’
Théophile nervously glances down the hallway to ensure that no one is coming. He runs his fingers through his hair.
‘I do not understand how I can help. I am not her guardian. Only Father can authorize her discharge.’
‘And he will not do so?’
‘No. Never.’
‘Tomorrow is the Lenten Ball at the hospital. I have added you to the list of guests under the name Clérin – I thought it best to change your surname so you would not be linked to a madwo— to a patient.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘The two of you can meet there. There will be so much happening at the ball that we will be able to slip away for a moment. I will let you out through the main entrance.’
‘But I . . . I can’t bring her back here.’
‘You have almost two days, you can find something. Even a garret room would be better than where she is now.’
A voice from behind startles them.
‘Monsieur Cléry? Is everything all right?’
Louis is standing at the doorway. Théophile’s hand trembles slightly as he waves the man away.
‘Everything is fine, Louis – Madame was just leaving.’
The servant looks at the young man for a moment and then disappears. Théophile starts pacing the hallway anxiously, still running his fingers through his hair.
‘This is all very sudden. I do not know what to say.’
‘Do you want your sister to be free?’
‘Yes, yes, of course I do.’
‘Then trust me.’
Théophile stops and stares at Geneviève. This is not the woman he remembers meeting. Although she is physically the same, something about her demeanour is different, of that he is certain. When last they met, he found her intimidating; now he is more than willing to trust her. He steps closer.
‘Why do you wish to help my sister?’
‘Because she has helped me.’
She looks as though she has said more than she intended. Théophile longs to ask a question. One that has been tormenting him for the past fortnight; one that only this woman can truly answer. He opens his mo
uth, but no words come. He is frightened by what she might say.
As though sensing his uncertainty, Geneviève anticipates his question.
‘Your sister is not mad. She is capable of helping others. But she cannot do so if she remains locked up.’
There is the sound of plates being gathered in the dining room. Geneviève grasps the young man’s arm.
‘Tomorrow. Six o’clock. You will have no better opportunity than this.’
She releases her grip, turns the handle of the door and leaves the building. Through the doorway, Théophile watches as she swiftly and soundlessly goes down the steps. He presses a hand to his chest; beneath his palm, his heart is racing.
Thérèse stirs. She struggles to open her eyes in the shadows of the dormitory. Night is drawing in. In the glow of the lamps, the figures of the women flit around the ward. It is a febrile commotion she knows well: she sees it every year on the eve of the ball. The women’s gestures are impatient, their laughter nervous; few of them will sleep tonight.
Thérèse presses both hands against the mattress so that she can sit up, but is stopped by a searing pain in her wrists. She freezes, bites her lip and stifles a cry. It feels like a razor blade slicing her skin from the inside. The surge of pain rushes to her head and leaves her reeling. She had forgotten.
Ever since she had been at the Salpêtrière, Thérèse had suffered night terrors two or three times a month: the former prostitute would wake with a jolt, howling for help, and her panic would infect the women in the other beds. By morning, she would have no memory of the episode. Aside from these incidents, the eldest of the patients was fit and well.
Though no one knew why, these crises had not occurred for a long time. Thérèse’s mood was stable and her nights were peaceful. Her general health was such that, when Babinski had examined her the previous day, he concluded there was no reason she should not be discharged. Thérèse, who was by now a certain age, was distraught at this suggestion. At the prospect of leaving this place and finding herself on the streets of Paris – smelling the familiar scents, crossing the river into which she had thrown her lover, moving among men whose intentions she could not guess, tramping the pavements she had known so well – she was seized by an uncontrollable wave of terror. Out of the corner of her eye, she had seen a pair of surgical scissors and grabbed them so swiftly that the nurses had screamed.
When she first woke during the night, she had stared at the bandages wrapped around her wrists and felt relieved.
Now, no one would ever force her to leave.
Propping herself up on her elbows, she manages to hoist herself into a sitting position. Slipping her arms out from beneath the blankets, she gazes at the bandages: the white gauze is stained with traces of dried blood. Her skin is taut, she can almost hear it shriek. It will be some time before she can knit again. She slides her arms back under the blankets, not wishing to attract attention. Around her, the women who have come back from the refectory are reluctant to go to bed. Their heads are filled with fantasies of wild applause, of being partnered in a dance; they are yearning for a romantic encounter or at least a meaningful glance, and they will treasure every last detail seen or heard or felt tomorrow night like a sacred relic.
One figure stands out: straight and tense in her black dress, she moves between the rows of beds without joining in the light-hearted merriment. Thérèse sees that it is Eugénie. The young woman returns to her bed and sits down, without even acknowledging Thérèse. She quickly takes off her boots and gets under the blankets. It is then that Thérèse notices the scrap of paper that Eugénie is discreetly slipping into the sleeve of her dress. Her secret now safe, she turns on to her side, her back to Thérèse, and lies completely still.
The older patient does not have time to fathom the mystery before she feels a hand on her shoulder.
‘Thérèse, you’re awake.’
Standing next to her bed, a nurse is looking down at her. A plump, dark-haired girl with little character to her face, she is one of the new recruits, those who joined the service in the past two years. Having found themselves here by chance – since they could just as easily have been maidservants or washerwomen – they care for the patients in the same way they might have served tea or scrubbed sheets. They carry out their orders and, to relieve the daily tedium, they spend their time chattering incessantly – about the patients, the nurses, the doctors, the students. Every piece of news, every little detail, every scrap of gossip is shared, repeated, embellished, mocked. Listening to them as they huddle in corners or sit together on benches, one is reminded of gossiping housewives gathered in the courtyard of some building. You would not dare confide in them for fear they would disclose every secret.
Thérèse shrugs apathetically.
‘Yes, I’m awake.’
‘Do you need anything? You missed dinner.’
‘I’m not hungry, thank you.’
The young nurse crouches down beside the bed. Thérèse is the only patient the new recruits do not ignore; in fact they seek her out, since she has spent twenty years in this place and knows every crack and crevice.
The girl nods towards Eugénie and lowers her voice.
‘See your neighbour there? The one who talks to ghosts? A while ago, in the refectory, I saw the Old Lady give her a note. A little scrap of paper. She tried to be discreet, but I spotted her.’
Thérèse looks at Eugénie lying on her side, her back to the two women. She is not surprised by this news. She has already seen Geneviève staring at Eugénie and looking troubled. In fact, the only thing that has been surprising is seeing the Old Lady in an unusual state of confusion. Something about the matron has changed since the arrival of this highborn girl. But since whatever is happening between the two women seems serious, Thérèse has no wish to find out what it is.
She turns to the nurse.
‘So what?’
‘They’re hiding something, the two of them. I’m sure of it. I’m not going to take my eyes off them.’
‘Tell me, lass, have you naught better to do? This here’s a hospital, not a bistro. You’ve work enough as it is – them two loons over there are fighting over a bonnet.’
The nurse scowls and gets to her feet.
‘If I find out you know something, I’m telling the doctor.’
‘It’s not a schoolyard neither. Go on, you’re doing my head in, I’ll never heal if I have to listen to your nonsense.’
The young tattletale turns on her heel and stalks away. Thérèse glances over at Eugénie. She can’t see it but, curled up on her side, her face pressed into the pillow, the younger girl is silently weeping. Eugénie pushes damp strands of hair from her face, oblivious to everything that is happening around her. A thousand thoughts are racing through her mind. Then, when she finally accepts that it is true, that she did not dream it, she takes the note Geneviève gave her from her sleeve. Her fingers tremble as she unfolds the piece of paper. On it, in the Old Lady’s hand:
Tomorrow night, during the ball. Théophile will be there.
12
18 March 1885
Night is descending. All along the Boulevard de l’Hôpital, the lamplighters are going about their nightly routine. At this hour the buildings along the street are quiet, but for number 47. On the small square, set back from the boulevard, there is an unusual amount of activity: dozens of landaus and barouches roll up and come to a halt. Coachmen step down to open carriage doors, and the passengers alight. Elegant couples dressed to the nines. A fleeting glance at their finery is enough to tell you that this is not the Paris that struggles to feed itself.
Beneath the vaulted arch, next to the pillars supporting the lintel on which the name of the hospital is carved, a few nurses greet the guests. Those already familiar with the place stride confidently across the main courtyard; others stroll along the pathways, peering at the buildings with a timid but joyful curiosity.
In the vast hall of the Hospice, the guests who have already arrived a
re waiting. Wall lamps cast a gentle glow over the discreet decorations: lush plants and flowers by the windows and coloured garlands hanging from the ceiling.
A buffet next to the main entrance is laid with patisseries, sweetmeats and petits fours. People greedily serve themselves, looking in vain for a small liqueur or perhaps a glass of champagne. This evening their refined palates will have to be content with barley water or orange juice.
As they step into the ballroom, new arrivals are greeted by the sound of a waltz. Perched on a dais, a small orchestra is playing with brio.
The music is underscored by the murmur of nervous voices. The long wait is firing the imagination and fuelling the conversations of the assembled company.
‘What do you think they’ll look like?’
‘Do you think it would be unwise to look them in the eye?’
‘Last year, a libidinous old crone rubbed herself up against every man present!’
‘Are they aggressive?’
‘What of Charcot? Will he be in attendance?’
‘I should be curious to see what they’re like, these fits of hysteria.’
‘Perhaps I should not have worn my diamonds. I fear some madwoman might steal them.’
‘Apparently some of them are very beautiful.’
‘I have seen some who are utterly repulsive.’
A staff strikes the floor five times and all conversations cease. The orchestra falls silent. A small group of nurses are gathered by the main doors. Seeing them, it is clear that this is not a ball like any other. The decorations, the orchestra, the buffet are not enough to change the reality of what this place is: a hospital for mentally disturbed women.
The presence of the nurses elicits a mixed response: the guests feel reassured to have them nearby lest some outburst or convulsion should mar the festivities. They also feel less vulnerable, less helpless at the prospect of meeting women whose behaviour in public they cannot even imagine. But the nursing staff are also disquieting; they make the guests feel as though something could happen at any moment, that a patient might suddenly become unstable – even though, deep down, everyone is hoping to witness one of these famous fits of hysteria.