The Mad Women's Ball

by Victoria Mas

  Next to the nurses, a senior doctor addresses the crowd:

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Salpêtrière Hospital. The nursing staff, the doctors and Professor Charcot are delighted and honoured to welcome you to this Lenten Ball. Now, please give a warm welcome to the women you have been waiting for.’

  As the crowd stands in silence, the orchestra strikes up the waltz again. Necks crane as the double doors swing open. In pairs, the patients solemnly file into the ballroom. The guests have been expecting lunatics, skeletal figures, contorted bodies, but Dr Charcot’s girls move with an ease and a normality they find astounding. They had been expecting grotesque regalia, clownish antics, and are surprised to find themselves faced with costumes that might have been worn by the great actresses. The madwomen file in; they are milkmaids and marchionesses, peasant girls and Pierrots, musketeers and Columbines, cavaliers and sorceresses, troubadours and sailors, peasant girls and queens. They come from every sector – hysterics, epileptics and those of a nervous disposition, young and not-so-young – but every one is captivating, as though set apart, not simply by illness and the walls of this hospital, but by a way of being and moving in the world.

  As the women enter, the guests part to allow them to pass, searching for some flaw, some defect; they notice a palsied hand pressed to a chest, eyelids that blink a little too frequently. But the women afford a startling display of grace. More trusting now, the guests start to feel at ease. Gradually, whispered conversations begin again; there are bursts of laughter; people jostle to get closer to these exotic creatures; they feel as though they are inside one of the cages at the zoological gardens, in close contact with these strange beasts. While the patients take their places on the dance floor or on the banquettes, the guests relax, they snigger, they laugh, they let out shrill cries when brushed by the sleeve of a madwoman; if someone were to step into this ballroom now without understanding the context, they would single out as eccentrics and lunatics precisely those who are supposed to be sane.

  Some distance away, at the far end of the corridor, Louise is being taken to the event by a nurse. In a bed set on castors, the girl allows herself to be wheeled towards the ball.

  All day she had refused to put on her costume, terrified at the prospect of showing herself in public when half her body no longer functions. Dr Charcot’s famous patient reduced to a common cripple, unable to dance, or even to stand. The persistence and flattery of the other patients and the nurses eventually won her round. All Paris was waiting for her, they longed to see her. Her reputation would not be tarnished by the fact that she was paralysed, quite the contrary: the guests would marvel at her courage at appearing in public. More than that, if Dr Charcot succeeded in healing her, in reversing her paralysis, she would become a symbol, the living embodiment of scientific progress. Her name would appear in schoolbooks.

  This was all it took to restore her confidence. Louise waited until all the other women had left the dormitory – except for Thérèse, who would be spending the evening resting – before allowing two of the nurses to dress her. Her palsied arm posed something of a problem, but eventually they managed to get her into her costume without tearing the fabric. A long shawl adorned with flowers and fringes was draped over her shoulders. Her raven hair was swept up into a bun, with two red roses pinned to the tresses. Thérèse had gazed at her and beamed.

  ‘You’re the spitting image of a Spanish lady, my little Louise.’

  The wheels of the bed squeak along the tiled hallway. Several thick pillows have been placed behind Louise, who sits propped up, her useless hand pressed to her heart. As they approach the great hall of the Hospice, Louise feels herself grow breathless. She can no longer make out the words of the nurse chattering behind her.

  Suddenly, in the half-light, the figure of a man appears and blocks their way: Louise stirs from her daze as she recognizes Jules. She holds her breath. The young doctor confidently steps forward and speaks to the nurse.

  ‘Paulette, you’re needed in the lobby. There are more guests arriving, and they can’t find their way unaided.’

  ‘But I’m to bring the girl—’

  ‘I shall deal with her. You go.’

  Reluctantly, the nurse obeys. Jules takes her place and pushes the bed. Not a word is exchanged until the nurse’s footsteps have faded away. Jules bends down, but he does not have time to speak before Louise forestalls him.

  ‘I didn’t want to see you.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘I didn’t want you to see me. I’m ugly now.’

  Jules stops in his tracks; the bed wheels cease to screech. He steps around the bed and stands next to Louise. She turns away from the blue eyes staring at her.

  ‘Don’t look at me.’

  ‘You’re still beautiful in my eyes, Louise.’

  ‘You’re a liar. Cripples can’t be beautiful.’

  She feels his fingers stroking the nape of her neck, her cheek.

  ‘I want you to be my wife, Louise. That will never change.’

  Louise squeezes her eyes shut and bites the inside of her cheek. She has longed to hear these words. Her left hand grips the shawl as she struggles to hold back her tears. She feels the bed begin to move again. Opening her eyes, she sees that they are moving in the opposite direction; Jules has swung the bed around and is pushing her the opposite way.

  ‘What are you doing? The ballroom is the other way.’

  ‘I have something to show you.’

  *

  In the ballroom, Théophile pushes his way through the throng. He is surprised by the number of people here. All around him are top hats and bonnets, lace ruffs and frills, feathers and flowers, moustaches real and false, checks and polka dots, furs and fans. People are dancing, jostling, touching, fleeing. He sees laughing faces, fingers pointing at the madwomen, madwomen smiling back at him, shaking his hand. The clamour mixes with the notes of the violin and the piano, laughter bursting from all sides; hands clap and feet tap out the rhythm. It is a curious, mixed crowd, like a country fair to which the bourgeoisie have come, not to celebrate, but to jeer at the villagers in costume. The ball is not the same for all in attendance. On one side, young women are flawlessly performing dance steps they have spent the past few weeks learning; on the other, spectators applaud, utterly immersed in the spectacle.

  Théophile scans the faces, searching for his sister. His face feels hot, his palms clammy. He would never have imagined that he would find himself here, at the celebrated Salpêtrière Ball, attempting to free his sister without the consent of her doctor or his father. He does not know whether this venture is just and courageous, or foolish and dangerous.

  Circulating among the crowd, nurses dressed in black are handing small glasses of syrup to the patients. Some of the women accept, others wave the glass away, determined, if only for one night, not to be seen as ill. Sitting on benches under the soaring windows, a few elderly patients seem indifferent to the clamour and commotion. When the guests first notice their sunken cheeks, their gaunt faces, they instinctively draw back: seeing these expressionless women in the midst of the whirling ball, one might almost think they were dead. A countess mingles with the guests; her fluttering fan sets her curls aquiver as she regales anyone prepared to listen with stories of her fortune, her château in the Ardèche, and worries aloud that someone might steal her diamond rivière necklace. Further off, a gypsy girl with a scarf about her head and lips painted scarlet offers palm readings to strangers; from time to time she stops, grasps a hand and, to nervous giggles from the guests, offers her predictions before going on her way. A Marie Antoinette clumsily beats a little drum tied about her waist. Slender, pale young girls wearing Pierrot costumes snatch sweetmeats from the buffet and scamper through the crowd of guests, who are shocked to see patients so young. A witch, whose cape trails along the ground and whose pointed hat seems too large for her, is so mesmerized by the crumbs and dust motes on the floor that she unconsciously collides wit
h everyone in her path.

  When he reaches the dais and the orchestra, Théophile surveys the revellers once more then stops. On the far side of the room, by a window, Eugénie is anxiously scanning the crowd. Her hair is swept up into a braid that tumbles down her back and she is dressed in a gentleman’s suit. As though sensing his eyes on her, she turns her wan face towards her brother. Her heart falters in her chest; she feels a lump in her throat. He is here. He has come for her. She has never doubted his compassion. She knows that, of the family, he alone did not want her to be committed, that he had simply acted in the only manner he knew how: unquestioningly following their father’s orders. It is this that makes his presence here this evening so extraordinary. She never imagined that he would be able to rebel against the man he has blindly obeyed all his life.

  Théophile stares at his sister, almost hesitant to act now that he has found her. At length, he takes a first step towards her, only to feel a hand gripping his arm. Startled, he whirls around to see Geneviève standing next to him.

  ‘Not yet. Keep an eye on me, I will let you know when.’

  Instantly, she disappears back into the crowd. From a distance, Eugénie gives her brother a reassuring nod. Then, for the first time in two weeks, she smiles.

  Beyond the ballroom, the Salpêtrière is blanketed in silence. In the wards, in the hallways, on the stairs, there is not a whisper, not even the echo of a footfall. The only sound is the creak of castors across a tiled floor. Propped up on the bed that is being wheeled through the labyrinthine corridors, Louise marvels at these places she has never seen at night, illuminated by the faint glow coming from the streetlamps outside. As they move, disturbing shadows flicker across the walls, the vaulted ceilings. Louise lies back against her pillows and closes her eyes. She imagines familiar sounds: the voices of the women on the ward, the clatter of plates in the refectory, the rumbling snores in the dormitory at night – even the wails and sobs of the hysterics would be preferable to this eerie silence. Anything would be better than this terrifying quiet: sound, at least, is a sign of life.

  Louise feels the bed come to a halt. She opens her eyes: there is a door in front of her. Jules has stepped around the bed and is turning a key in the lock. It opens on to an inky blackness. Louise looks at Jules, bewildered.

  ‘Why did you take me here?’

  ‘This is the room where we always meet.’

  ‘But why are we here?’

  Jules says nothing, but pulls the bed into the room. Louise shakes her head.

  ‘I don’t want to be in here, it’s dark.’

  Inside, it is impossible to make out the walls or the furniture. Louise hears the door close behind her.

  ‘I don’t want to be here, Jules. I want to go to the ball, somewhere there are people.’

  ‘Shh . . . hush now.’

  The girl feels him next to her. He strokes her hair, then she feels his lips pressed against her throat. With her left hand she pushes him away.

  ‘Jules . . . you stink of booze. You’ve been drinking.’

  Louise feels him bend over her again, this time to kiss her mouth. She turns her head to left and right while his moist, alcohol-tainted lips press against hers. With her left hand she vainly tries to repel his advances, but the doctor has now climbed on to the bed. Louise feels tears trickling down her cheek.

  ‘You don’t usually drink. You told me you never drink.’

  ‘Tonight is different.’

  ‘You said you were going to ask me to marry you tonight.’

  ‘And I will. But in a way, you’re already my wife.’

  His breath is hot. Louise recognizes the stench. She feels black bile in her throat. One drunkard who has come too close is enough to leave a memory that is indelible. She does not have time to calm her tears when she feels a hand against her face and Jules’s mouth on hers. A scream rises in her throat as he clambers on top of her. In the darkness, she recognizes the familiar gestures. She thought she had consigned this memory to the past; the more time that had gone by, the more distant it appeared. She had even come to think that the incident had happened to someone else, to another Louise, someone she used to be, a Louise who was no longer a part of her life.

  When she feels her thighs being parted by the same brute violation that she had endured three years ago, her mouth opens in a silent scream. Suddenly, everything inside is extinguished. It is no longer simply her right side that does not respond, but her whole body. She is paralysed from her toes to her upturned head.

  Petrified, she squeezes her eyes shut and allows herself to drift away through a darkness as Stygian as this room.

  On the stage erected for the orchestra, a patient has taken the place of the pianist: dressed as a milkmaid, she has been eyeing the instrument ever since she arrived at the ball. Considering the pianist lacklustre, she decided to take his place. At the sight of this madwoman climbing on to the stage and walking towards him the man had blenched and, to the laughter of the crowd, meekly given up his stool and departed as though pursued by the devil himself. Watched over by a nurse who is standing next to the stage, the milkmaid runs her fingers over the black and white keys, playing a melody that is hers alone, an unsettling air that the other musicians attempt to accompany.

  Eugénie and Théophile have not moved. From his post next to the stage, the young man keeps an eye on Geneviève by the main doors. Eugénie, standing next to a window, has also spotted the matron. Eugénie’s neck is tense; the fear that has knotted her stomach since the previous night has made it impossible for her to eat a bite today. She had given up hope that Geneviève might help her. How could she ever have believed that this woman, who had not flouted the hospital rules in twenty years of service, would suddenly decide to help her escape after only two weeks? Eugénie had resigned herself; she had allowed herself to slip into a profound listlessness that threatened to sweep her away, for hope is not an inexhaustible resource, and must be built on a solid foundation. Then, in the refectory, Geneviève had slipped her the note. In the usual flurry of activity that followed supper, while women were clearing the tables, putting away the crockery, cleaning, polishing and sweeping floors, the matron had come over to her and taken her hand. It had been a swift, precise gesture. Geneviève had not said a word, but Eugénie had noticed something different about her expression – a sort of sisterly solemnity. This folded scrap of paper had revived her hopes, and given her the courage to attend the ball. She needed a costume. Scant choice remained in the pile of clothes: she had had to make do with a gentleman’s suit. On the other hand, it would be easier to slip away in a dark suit than in the red ball gown of a marchioness.

  From somewhere in the room there comes a scream. On the dance floor, the crowd parts and astonished gasps ripple through the circle of onlookers. The orchestra has fallen silent, except for the milkmaid who is still playing out of tune. One of the women is sprawled on her back, her legs jerking wildly, her whole body writhing in pain and contorted by spasms. While nurses rush to help, whispered voices comment on the scene. With the help of the doctors, the nurses manage to carry the twitching body over to a banquette as the guests watch, spellbound.

  Eugénie is first to spot Geneviève’s signal: standing by the main door, she nods discreetly and turns to leave. Théophile, distracted by the mayhem, does not notice the exchange until he feels a hand gripping his arm and leading him away.

  ‘The main door.’

  His sister does not let go of his arm. He falls into step as she pushes her way through the crowd enthralled by the evening’s first fit of hysterics. Now lying on a bench beneath one of the windows, the madwoman is still howling in a hoarse voice. With no preliminaries, a doctor places his index and middle fingers over her abdomen, where her ovaries would be, and begins to roughly massage her. Gradually, her screams subside, her body grows limp, and the madwoman is once again calm.

  The guests shout, they blush, they cheer, they relax. And as the orchestra strikes up a waltz, Théophile a
nd Eugénie push through the double doors without looking back.

  In the main courtyard, the three figures move quickly, hugging the walls. The blaze of the streetlamps on the boulevard does not reach the shadowy perimeter path they have taken. Geneviève leads the way. Behind her, she can hear Eugénie and Théophile panting. If she were to stop and think for a moment, she would be utterly unable to explain why she is doing this. She made her decision three days ago, and has not given it another thought. She knows only that she is thinking about her sister. She was thinking about her sister when she visited the Cléry family in their apartment, she was thinking about Blandine at the ball while she waited for the moment to act, and it is about Blandine that she is thinking now, as they flee. It is a thought she finds comforting, and encouraging. She does not know whether Blandine truly agrees with her decision, whether she is here now, watching Geneviève as she runs down the cold, dark path, or whether it is simply a preposterous invention on her part. Geneviève prefers to believe that Blandine is here, supporting her, watching over her. Belief makes what she is doing possible.

  At length, the three reach the boundary wall, and a low wooden door. Gasping for breath, Geneviève takes a bunch of keys from her pocket.

  ‘Get away from here as quickly and quietly as possible. There are eyes everywhere.’

  The matron feels a hand on her arm: she looks up at Eugénie.

  ‘Madame . . . how can I ever thank you?’

  Until this moment, Geneviève had not noticed that Eugénie is as tall as she is. Nor had she noticed the dark spot on the girl’s iris, or the thick, determined brows. In this moment, Geneviève sees the girl as she truly is, as she has always been. The Salpêtrière distorts appearances, and Geneviève feels she should apologize for not truly seeing her until now.

  Instead, she simply answers Eugénie’s question:

  ‘Help those around you.’