Malcolm only grunted.
"You are mistaken," Sabine cried. "She is a niece come to visit."
"Madame, I recognize her. I chased her down the lane from Lac d'Or this morning as if she were a chicken freshly prepared for the chef. She will come with me." The footman was quick to hook Catherine's arm in his hand. Struggling to escape, she almost fell as Malcolm pulled her arms behind her and tied them with a thin piece of rope.
The peace she had felt when Sabine wrapped her in the shawl disappeared and in its place was an absence. The world around her looked flat and gray. The sounds were once again muffled by her own heartbeat. Her shoulders sagged. She could run no more.
"What are you doing to her?" Sabine cried, trying to reach Catherine to pull her back into her protective arms, but her husband caught up with her and whispered something in her ear. Sabine's protests subsided, but she whimpered as she watched the rough treatment Picard's men gave Catherine.
"Not that it is any of your business," the footman replied, "but Madame Picard will be going on a long trip. She has problems with her nerves. She is out of humor, and her husband is anxious for her to take a cure and be put right again."
"Ought to stay quiet. Malcolm said. "Master won't be happy if you spread his business around. We've got to get her down the road.”
"If Monsieur Picard should pass this way, would you let him know that we are taking care of business?" the footman said as he and Malcolm carried Catherine by her arms around the corner of the bakery.
The two men dragged her to the waiting carriage, where they opened the door and threw her in. Malcolm joined her, sitting on the leather-clad seat across from her, and the footman swung up on the little platform behind. A few short taps on the door from Malcolm, and the carriage began to roll.
"Where are you taking me?" Catherine demanded.
"You're going for a rest," Malcolm said as he leaned back and crossed his arms to prepare for a nap. It was obvious that, with her hands tied, he no longer considered her a flight risk and could therefore rest a bit before his muscle was needed again.
"The convent?" she asked in relief. "You're really taking me to the convent."
"I have not heard it called that before," he said without opening his eyes.
"Not the convent? Then where?"
Opening his eyes, Malcolm leaned forward and whispered in a gravelly voice that had as much muscle as his well-developed frame. "Charenton."
Catherine recoiled at the name of the much-hated and much-talked-about asylum. She had heard horror stories of people being forced into the place no matter their mental state, only to emerge later with little of their faculties remaining because of the long, close contact with the insane.
Malcolm enjoyed her reaction for a moment and then went back to the business of sleeping.
Still wrapped in Sabine's shawl, she struggled to burrow deeper into it, but her bound hands made its purchase on her shoulders more precarious, and the combination of the cool weather and the news of her final destination set her to trembling violently. Once, she remembered, a long time ago, there was a man in her village who everyone agreed must be possessed. He had a wife and a comely daughter, but something in him forced him to rage at them at all hours of the day and night, and then he would try to flee whatever strange delirium took purchase of his mind and wound up running in the streets, where his pitiful screams disturbed everyone.
The parish priest advised his family that the man was to be pitied and that he knew a place where they could send him, a place where nursing brothers would take care of the man and do everything they could to soothe him when he was out of control. The joy his family felt when they had heard of a way to bring him peace soon changed to grief. Once he had entered Charenton, he was allowed no contact with the outside world, and his family never saw him again.
Catherine was puzzled as to why her husband would want to send her to such a place. She was as sane as he was. She paused in thought and realized that was the key. Her husband himself was suffering under a delusion, and whether it was that she herself was mad or that the place to which he was sending her really was a convent, the outcome for her was to be committed to a place with a reputation that matched that of its British counterpart, Bethlehem Hospital, from where came the word bedlam.
Catherine was, for the first time, so uncomfortable that she could not escape reality by sleeping, so she was forced to endure the monotony of the trip along increasingly well-maintained roads. Along the way, she idly considered how she might contact her father.
The reality that her mother was beyond communication made her breath hitch and her eyes water, but she shook her head back and recovered. If she could not speak to her mother again in this life, she would see her in her dreams and talk to her there. And a belief in the great hereafter assured Catherine that Mathilde was really in a better place.
In contrast, the building that she saw along the south side of the road as they approached was distinctly unappealing and inhospitable. The land surrounding the gray fortress was not just winter bare, but looked as though someone had taken a rake and purposely rooted out the grasses that might have grown there. The ersatz lawn resembled the badly manicured beard a young man might try to grow before he was fully grown. The landscaping, or lack of it, made the approach even more forbidding than if nature had softened the edges with trees and ground cover.
Malcolm stirred as if in commune with the negative vibrations Charenton emitted. He was soon awake enough to rasp, "You remember, Madame Picard, that the good men here know what you are and won't be believing any stories you might tell. You best keep your mouth shut."
"And then what can I hope for?" Catherine asked.
"A good, quick death instead of years of the miserable existence you are likely to encounter here," he said. For the first time, Catherine actually detected a smile on his face. The terrible, unfamiliar rictus made her shudder.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Catherine was unfamiliar with novels. Her father focused her education on the classic texts from the ancients through to modern philosophers. The diet of words made Catherine an introspective person but taught her little of human nature. She could be won over with a kind word, no matter how duplicitous, and resolve never to trust again when she discovered the lie. Then another person would speak or act kindly, and she would be in their thrall until they, too, proved to be less than honest. Her life, since leaving a home where everyone was genuinely kind, had been a torturous journey of great happiness and hope dashed by calumny and dread.
The building in front of her was another cesspool of heartbreak. At least, she thought, the appearance would not mislead her as had Lac d'Or. When she arrived at her husband's estate as a newlywed, the house seemed magical. The huge windows and light-filled interior dazzled her. The massive stone edifice in front of her now had few windows. From her perspective as she strained to see out of the carriage window, the building appeared to form a U-shape around two parallel lawns separated by a long path of gray steps. A rough drive, slick with rain and the concentrated effulgence of human and animal waste, bordered the greens. Two round coupoles capped the intersection of each wing of the building. The front door was a massive wooden affair with heavy iron hinges.
Malcolm jumped down first, and instead of offering his hand, grabbed Catherine by the neck and upper harm and flung her to the ground. With her hands still tied in front of her, she struggled to keep from falling. The footman took his place at her side, and the two walked her into what appeared to be a reception room for the asylum proper.
A round, squat monk in a rough habit greeted the trio. He made the sign of the cross over them.
"This is Madame Catherine Picard," Malcolm said. "Her husband wrote you that she was coming." He shoved her toward the monk, who staggered a little but helped her stand straight.
"Yes, we've received word," the little man said as he recovered. "I am Brother Jean. Please remove this from around her wrists. We do not believe in restraints
here."
Malcolm snorted in disbelief, but acquiesced. He stood, awaiting further orders, but when none were forthcoming, he wheeled to leave, and the footman followed him.
"Please tell Monsieur Picard that his wife is in good hands. We will contact him when we feel she is well enough to return home."
"No need of that," Malcolm said without turning around. "She don't have a home with Picard no more. The slut can't give him a son and he's put her out."
The monk's face puckered as though he had bitten into a sour fruit. He looked into Catherine's eyes, searching for signs of sanity.
"What he said is true. I am here because I am an inconvenience to my husband. I cannot give him a child, something he wants very much, and now he has cast me out. I am not unhappy about this, but I am desperate to get back to my family. My mother has died, but my father still lives. I must find my way back there. Will you post a letter for me? I do not wish to weigh on your hospitality longer than I need to. I'm sure if my father hears from me, he will come collect me." The words sounded sensible, but it did not seem to matter to Brother Jean.
"Yes, my dear. All will be well," he said, patting her hands. She might as well have not spoken at all. The little monk heard nothing. "Come with me, and I will show you to your room. It is late now. You must rest for the night, and in the morning, we will talk about it some more. Just think of peaceful things. Offer up the suffering to our Lady and you will find a new sense of calm descend."
Her inability to communicate with this new person made Catherine peevish. At last she had arrived in a place where the people had taken vows to help others, and the person she encountered first could not hear what she was saying. She tried again.
"You do not understand, father. I need your help." They started down a long hallway. The cold gray stone walls were broken every ten feet or so by heavy iron sconces that held torches whose light shone brilliantly in a small diameter but only served to throw shadows on the floor. The effect disoriented her, leaving her nauseous.
"And help you will find here. We are a religious community first, my child. And we pray daily to relieve the suffering who come to our home."
"Prayers have done me no good so far," she said.
"If I believed you were in your right mind, I would call that blasphemy." Jean led her to a heavy wooden door, one of many that lined the hallway, and, using a key from a ring on his belt, opened the door and showed her in. "This is your room. Keep it neat."
Catherine stared at the rough cot, really a plank of wood suspended from the wall by two chains, and the rudely constructed table that held a heavy basin for water. The floor was stone like all the walls and floors she had encountered in the building so far, and sloped to a center drain. The ceiling was at least twice her height, and she saw a slit near the top like those on the outside of the building. The opening was not protected by a glass of any kind, and she imagined that whatever the weather brought would enter up there as well, be it snow, rain, or sunshine.
Still clad only in the underclothes from the party and the woolen shawl that the baker's wife had given her, Catherine rubbed her arms to warm them. A rough blanket on the cot offered a little more warmth, so she wrapped it around herself as well and curled up on the board, trying to conserve her body heat by affecting a fetal position.
She listened. The thick walls dampened most sounds, but she could hear some cries and grunts, although she could not discern from whom or what they came. The cell she found herself in was, in fact, more comfortable than the one her husband had thrown her into with Marie, but she felt the same hopelessness at the impossibility of escape since the monk who led her here did not understand her plight. Weariness from her flight and the subsequent journey to Charenton overcame her, and she stretched out on the rough couch, finding her only escape in sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
"She seems quite gentle. I found her charming." Brother Jean's voice was soft but audible as Catherine woke the next morning. Before she opened her eyes, she could feel his presence in the room. "I do not think we should anticipate any problems with her."
"It is just like you to discount the possibility of violence," a new voice replied. "I think we should keep a sharp eye on her until we know for sure what she is capable of. I do not understand why you put her here when you know our protocol calls for new inmates to be sent directly to be with our other charges."
"No act of charity is unnoticed by our Lord, Brother Vincent."
Catherine opened her eyes and saw the new monk shaking his head in distaste at Jean's comment. The pair were dissimilar, and even if she had not met Jean already, she could have matched the other monk to his voice. His comments were entirely irreligious, and he had the pinched, dour face of a man consumed by the idea of making money.
"That is a lovely thought, but it will not feed us or our charges," Vincent said, confirming Catherine's first impression. "I believe she is awake. I see her eyes opening."
"Madame, have you joined us again? Will you get up and have a bite of breakfast?" Jean cooed at her as if he were enticing a reluctant kitten out for a bowl of milk.
Catherine sat up on the cot, keeping the shawl and blanket wrapped around her as best she could. Without taking her eyes off the two men, she stood and moved toward the door. They moved with her, putting themselves between her and the only exit from the room.
"Madame Picard, remain calm," Vincent said. "We will be escorting you to breakfast with your fellow inmates."
"I believe I told Brother Jean last night that I will not be here long. If you will give me pen and paper, I will send a note to my father. He will be anxious to come for me once he hears that my husband has left me here."
"Madame, we know from correspondence with your husband that your father is deceased," Brother Jean said, shaking his head. "You remember that, don't you?"
Catherine sucked in her breath at the malicious lies Robert had offered the staff in arranging her commitment. How convenient, she thought. He had told them she had no family so anything she said about them would be the prattling of someone dispossessed from her senses. What recourse would she have now?
"Hand me the manacles, Jean?" the newer brother demanded.
"I see no need to tie her up. Last night she was quite docile."
"You are softhearted. If she tries to run away, you are not able to give chase."
"We will take that risk," Jean said. "Come with us, madame." He offered his hand and she took it.
She had no choice but to follow him. She was in the bowels of an infamous building, being led to a fate she dreaded. Last night's accommodations were less than uncomfortable, but from the monks' conversation, she suspected that she was going to experience even worse.
Indeed, the halls that had seemed intimidating last night grew more so as the trio made their way back further into a building Catherine had no way to measure. The passageways narrowed, for one thing, and the heavy iron sconces with their flaming torches were set even farther apart. These qualities made the trip down the hall fraught with shadows. When they could no longer walk three abreast, Jean took the lead, and Vincent fell behind and grasped Catherine's shoulder. Once they reached the door, Jean looked back and smiled at Catherine encouragingly before he took a heavy key from the bundle at his belt and unlocked the door.
Catherine experienced the cacophony of the mass of humanity beyond the door as a gust of wind carrying an atonal orchestra of voices rushed past her ears. The combined volume was loud enough that it made a tangible vibration as it passed. But even once she had heard it, the sound did not offer up a clear translation. No one voice became predominate; in fact, the whole choir offered up a constant moan of misery that made her flinch. In the days to come, she would find out that the only times the voices ceased and quiet reigned was when food was brought in for the morning and when the administrator appeared.
When he did, he had a wonderful platform. Through the door Jean unlocked was a rectangular landing from which stairs wound do
wn almost two stories to the pit where the vocal humanity gathered. The platform served as a reviewing stand when the administrator made his appearances, and now it served the three who had just come through the door as a resting place until they made the trip down to join the other people in the cavernous room.
With Jean grasping one arm and Vincent the other, Catherine pulled back with all her strength, trying to make her way back through the door to a place that might assault her senses less than this huge, moldy, dark place. The sharp scent of hay was dampened by the stale odor of human waste. The high notes of glee and bass notes of grief bounced off the stone walls. The filthy gray wooden stairs led into a dark well of churning humanity. The monks' experienced hands held her in place as they surveyed the room.
"I told you she was not as tame as you had hoped," Vincent muttered.
Catherine caught the words, but she wasn't sure Jean had heard the reproof in the din. She was further convinced of his deafness to Vincent's complaints when the littler monk said, "I hate to send her in there. She's a lady who came to us from one of the most illustrious houses. How will she survive?"
"If she has any wit about her, she'll find a way. The sane ones always do," Vincent answered.
Catherine surveyed the floor below the platform. Dozens of women were crowded into the hall, and although the ceiling was twice the height of an ordinary room, or maybe three, it did not mitigate the crushed proximity of the women who huddled together in a shifting, screaming mass. The noise combined with the fetid odor of unwashed bodies and damp, moldy stone to create an inescapable miasma. No two women were dressed alike in particular, but all their clothes were in the same filthy state whether they wore as little as Catherine or day costumes appropriate to their station.
She observed that rank had no sway here, as there were women with the wizened look of someone who had long lived in poverty as well as women who seemed to have been flung into the room in their best party frocks.
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