"Her sin? A man attacked her and she thinks it is her sin?"
"The bell you heard is the bell she rings each morning on her way to prayer. She keeps a regular schedule. Prayers at set times, of course. Work during the day."
"What work does she do?" Catherine asked.
"She does any mending she needs to do—or as much as she can do, given the scarcity of needle and thread in our cell. She sweeps the floor. There is no broom, so twice a day we have to move out of her way as she crawls between us and uses her sleeves to sweep the detritus collecting on the floors."
"I wonder if God applauds such piety," Catherine mused.
Genevieve ignored the comment and continued to detail Marguerite's daily routine. "Then she has her meals. She even has recreation in the evening. I've heard her singing and clapping sometimes."
"How long has she been here?"
"Almost a year, I believe. She doesn't keep a calendar. She told me she planned to spend an eternity with Christ, her bridegroom, so time here on earth has little meaning."
"How sad," Catherine said.
"Not the saddest case here, I don't think," Genevieve said.
"Whose is the saddest?" Catherine asked. She was drowsy, and listening to Genevieve was almost like having a bedtime story. Whatever words she might feel wash over her, they kept her from thinking about her own plight and the impossibility of getting out of there.
"I cannot decide, and I have spent many hours trying to judge just that. I feel as though focusing on the misery of others keeps me from minding mine so much, and since I don't have a long-range plan to match Marguerite's, finding amusements to pass the time is quite important to me." Genevieve's bald statement of self-centeredness made Catherine laugh. The combination of morality and solipsism was charming and childlike in a way.
"Have you narrowed the candidates down?"
"Some days I think I might actually have a winner, and then those men come and haul her away and I have to start over." Genevieve paused and leaned in closer to confide in Catherine. "I know two women equally entitled to win. Marie-Gerarde and Lisbette. I pity them both, for they have terrible stories."
"More terrible than Marguerite's?" Catherine asked.
"Tragedy is so subjective. I find both of them pitiful, but let me tell you their stories and you can be the judge. First, I will tell you about Lisbette."
"Who is she?"
Genevieve looked around the room to locate the subject of her first narrative and pointed out a woman sitting on the floor and leaning against the opposite wall. Catherine could see Lisbette had pulled a blanket up over her head like a veil, but even with the edges forward, the material could not hide her face.
"What happened to her?" Catherine asked when she saw the woman's face. It looked like patchwork of silk and burlap; patches of her skin were tight and shiny, and other parts were rough and dull.
"A fire," Genevieve said. "Her house burned down. She has those terrible scars on her face, but the worst one is on her heart. Her daughter died in the fire."
"How terrible!"
"Even more terrible is that she caused the accident. The two of them were alone in the little house her husband had engaged for them while he was away on a military matter. Lisbette's little girl was not walking yet, so she carried her everywhere. She did all her work around the tiny house herself, with that baby on her hip."
"The stove?" Catherine asked.
"Yes. She overbalanced when she reached down to open the door. Her own burns are from trying to beat out the flames that caught her daughter's little dress on fire."
"And why is she here and not somewhere where she could be nursed back to health?"
"She has been nursed back to health physically. Her mind is never going to catch up. I warn you, if she asks about her daughter, tell her little Simone is safe with her aunt and Lisbette should enjoy herself."
"I feel as though I should express my condolences."
"Admirable instinct, but if you speak to her about it, she will burst into tears as if it's the first time she's heard the news," Genevieve said with a shudder.
"I cannot think of a more pitiful story."
"I believe you are right," Genevieve said. "I was going to tell you the story of Marie-Gerarde. But now that you've heard about Lisbette's history, Marie-Gerarde's story would seem shallow in comparison."
"And what is her story?"
"Oh, it is a very ordinary tale. Her husband was a fortune hunter and told her that he had found a woman with a bigger fortune."
"And how does she evidence her madness?"
"She is quite...forward with everyone, especially any men that appear. Do not allow yourself to get close to her."
"I think that is quite an ordinary story. Why did she go mad?"
"Because her husband brought her here instead of divorcing her, and she was quite sane when she entered the room."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Catherine's days in the room were a litany of monotony. Every day as her senses dulled and her physical repugnance toward the smells and sounds of the prison decreased, her desire to escape grew.
The appearance of food each morning was a referendum on the character and sanity of the women who had been thrust together in the terrible pit. Catherine observed how the women reacted when the food arrived, looking for the strongest among them. A band of women might succeed in fighting their way out where a single woman would fail.
"Wake up, the food has arrived." Genevieve's rough shake woke her.
The two women pushed themselves off the filthy bed of straw and moved to the closest table. The first piece of furniture at the bottom of the stairs was where the novice monk left a bucket of gruel, a wooden board covered with hard, stale bread, and a pail of murky water with a wooden ladle.
Together, Genevieve and Catherine tore off pieces of the bread and gnawed on it as they moved to distribute the food among some of the other inmates. Out of touch with reality, some women did not even realize that there was food. Some were so damaged, they had no concept that they even needed food. Unless someone helped them, they would go without food and eventually starve.
"Lisbette come get your bread," Genevieve called, "and share with Marguerite."
The girl wrapped her shawl more tightly—the better to hide her disfigured face—and darted to Genevieve for a portion of the bread. Detouring to offer some to the little nun, she went back to her corner and huddled with the hard piece of dough, tearing at it with her teeth. The badly healed burns impeded her meal, but she persisted.
Genevieve had no fear of elbowing anyone who tried to snatch food before it could be divided. "Ach, get back, Sophie. You'll get a crust soon enough." Her feint at the beggar did little to deter the woman.
"Sophie had nothing," the beggar whined. "Your new friend has all the bread she wants. How smooth her skin, how lustrous her hair. Sophie only wants a bite of bread."
"You'll get it in time." Genevieve pushed her back and turned to the tray of bread.
"What does she mean?" Catherine asked.
"She thinks you have money. Some women come in with a hidden sou or so. They think they can bribe someone to make it easier."
"Who would we bribe? The brothers take vows of poverty. Money would mean nothing to them."
Genevieve shrugged, her hands pistoning from the tray of bread to the grasping hands of the women crowded around the table. "No one knows what we endure until she lives here. I almost pity the innocent who has imagined discreet cells with narrow beds and nursing sisters guiding us to meals in a spotless refectory."
Catherine did not reply.
"You were that innocent, weren't you?"
"Once. Once I was. But now I am not," Catherine said. "Bribery isn't an option, but if we gather the strength of a few of us working together—"
"Strength without reason can be a dangerous thing."
"Just think of the familiar story of the handful of sticks. One stick can be broken, but a bundle of sticks cannot.
"
"Women are not sticks. Besides, we are already broken, each in our own way, and putting the broken pieces together will not make a whole."
Catherine abandoned the conversation and helped Genevieve hand out the food, protecting the weaker women from the stronger as well as they could. Inside, the plan to break free was still a flickering coal.
Once everyone had broken fast, the women who had no connection to reality would mill about the room, interacting with the shadows only they knew. Sometimes their activities might bring them into contact with others; they might bump into someone or think that another woman they found was someone in their private world.
One morning, Catherine was huddled under the blankets on Genevieve's pile of straw, trying to stay warm. No one had passed away in the few days she had been in Charenton, so she still wore only the decaying slip in which she'd arrived and depended on Sabine's shawl and Genevieve's blanket for warmth. That morning, as she was fantasizing about a huge, hot cup of café au lait and a tender croissant with jam made from the wild strawberries she remembered from her youth, Sophie approached her.
"Bonne femme, I am need a few pennies to buy some bread. Will you give some of your pennies to a poor old woman?" Sophie's expression was bleak. Catherine remembered what Genevieve had told her of Sophie's history.
"Sophie, I do not have any pennies for you. Ask someone else." Catherine thought her gentle response might send Sophie on her way.
"I beg you, madame! You are rich. You hoard your pennies, Sophie knows. You should give some of your money to me. God will bless you for helping a poor woman." Sophie's voice deepened in intensity, and her eyes started to blaze with the fervor of the hunt.
"No, Sophie. I do not have anything for you." Catherine maintained her gentle tone.
"If you do not give me your pennies, I will take them. You do not want me to take your pennies, do you?" Sophie leaned in, and her whole face took on a feral aspect. Catherine looked around the room, trying to spot Genevieve and signal that she needed some kind of help, but she couldn't see her.
"Sophie, go away!" Catherine thought that a sharp tone might deflect the woman, who was growing more threatening in posture. It was impossible to tell if she had any weapons other than her own lack of moral filters. Without the capacity for reason to stay her, Sophie might attack with her bare hands, and despite Marie's quick lessons in the little cell at Lac d'Or, Catherine was ill-equipped to respond if she did.
Screaming, Sophie grabbed Catherine's throat and squeezed. Unable to pry the fingers from her neck, Catherine thrashed and gasped for air. When she was almost unconscious, her eyes fluttering and her breath almost gone, Catherine heard Genevieve's voice.
"Sophie, for shame! Let go of her at once!"
Sophie backed away, and Catherine struggled to sit up and breathe. She tried to call to her friend, but when she tried to form the words with her mouth, no sound came forth. Minutes passed before she was finally able to push enough air up through her throat to croak, "Genevieve!"
It appeared that Genevieve had been able to distract Sophie and return to Catherine. In kneeling by her friend, she scolded her, saying, "I thought I had warned you about her. You cannot give her any hope that you might help her."
"I didn't," Catherine said with a rasp. "I told her I had no pennies and she should go ask someone else."
"She didn't believe you, did she?" Genevieve gathered Catherine in her arms and hugged her. "I am so sorry. I hope you do not think I abandoned you. I only went to find out if the men are coming today. Forgive me?"
"I do not blame you! I should have moved to safety when she approached, but I was warm for the first time since I can remember, and I wanted her to go away so I could enjoy the daydream I was having."
"And what was the daydream about?"
"I was dreaming of café au lait and a croissant."
Genevieve laughed. "Coffee and bread? I imagine you dreamed of much bigger things before you were in here. And now you dream of coffee and bread, every Frenchman's birthright." Genevieve moved back to look Catherine in the eye.
"You must not daydream. You see how dangerous it was, just now. If you were not dreaming, you would not have been at the mercy of the lunatic who attacked you."
"I still do not understand how...or why...you live here so sanely. I do not think I can live here long if I do not find a way to escape."
"The escape is the danger. These women around us," Genevieve said, "many of these women came here as sane as you and me. But to preserve that sanity, they started allowing themselves to escape a little each day. What do you think happens when your escapes are so pleasurable they are preferable to returning? You do not return."
"You maintain that they made themselves mad."
"Yes. I believe that they could not face coming back to this existence, so they chose not to return," Genevieve said.
"I find it difficult to express how I admire your dedication to reality. At the same time, I do not understand it. Our choice is to give up all this," Catherine gestured around her at the dark, damp walls, the moaning crowd of women, the general ambience of dread, "and live inside our own world or embrace all this and suffer. Why choose to suffer?"
"I believe that the ability to reason and experience life is what makes us human. I do not choose to be less than human. No matter what degraded state I am forced to live in, I will always choose to be conscious."
Catherine shook her head, pondering what Genevieve had just said. "I am tempted every morning to choose to cease existing. I cannot imagine taking my own life. I believe that is a great sin. But if there is a way to escape—"
"The only rational choice is to exist in this milieu and to consciously choose to exist here."
"I would think you are only protecting yourself from disappointment by not working for liberation, if it did not mean you are completely cognizant of living in this hell we live in each day," Catherine responded.
"Let us speak of something else. I told you I went to find out if the men were coming today."
"What men?"
"I do not know exactly who they are. Every few days some men show up, they peruse the women and make a few gestures, and very soon half a dozen women are taken." Genevieve shrugged, making it clear that she cared very little about what happened to the women. "They are led away with nothing but the rags they wear."
"And why do you want to know if they are coming?"
"I wondered if there would be a diversion today. I think we can liberate something warmer for you to wear if the men show up."
"I do not want to steal someone's clothes, no matter how cold I am," Catherine said, shocked at Genevieve's plan.
"It will not be stealing. Danielle hoards things, and I believe she is hoarding a dress."
"Hoards things?"
"Yes, she is like a little magpie, always gathering things to feather her nest. I know if anything shiny disappears, she is the one most likely to have taken it, but she takes other things as well."
"So we will plunder her stash and take what we need?" Catherine was now into the spirit of the plan, realizing that she would not be stealing someone's treasures, but from a pile of objects they had likely been stolen from someone else. "But what if we find a dress that belongs to someone here?"
"I do not think we will. I think we will find a dress that belonged to someone no longer here. In fact, I think we will find a dress that belonged to Miriam, a woman who was led away the last time the men were here. That's what gave me the idea. Danielle uses the entrance of the men as a distraction so she can riffle through other people's things. We will do the same."
"While she is pawing through others' possessions, we will paw through hers? How have you kept her from taking any of your things?"
"By not acquiring anything," Genevieve said.
"And are the men coming today?"
"I consulted with someone who is obsessed with keeping a calendar, and she thinks that today is likely for the men to come."
"
Today will be an adventure," Catherine said.
"Yes, I suppose it will be. The men usually come out on the landing, and if we are engaged in pilfering, it will only serve to keep us out of their line of vision, as Danielle's little castle is under the landing. You must make sure she does not find us there."
"Yes, I see."
"I will look for the dress," Genevieve said. "You will be the lookout. Watch for Danielle and tell me if she seems to be paying any attention to us. We will work quickly, and if all goes well, by the time the men leave, you will have a new frock."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The men didn't come that day, nor the next, and Catherine almost forgot her conversation with Genevieve. Each night, Catherine went to sleep hoping, despite Genevieve's warning, that she would meet her mother again. She still struggled with the Genevieve's advice. Catherine had not been raised to surrender, and she felt that either choice—capitulation to an illusion that would take her away from the dreary, filthy reality she lived in or acceptance of it with no hope of escaping or desire to try—would doom her. She longed to talk to her mother.
Finally, one night, she drifted off to sleep and found herself sitting at a school desk much like the one she had worked at when her father was educating her at home. The room was empty of any other furniture, save a tall stool in the corner. A chalkboard hung on the wall. The room was cavernous, and she heard footsteps behind her. Turning around, she saw her mother walking toward her.
"I have been longing to talk to you," she cried when she saw her mother. "I have so much to tell you and so much to ask."
The two women met and hugged each other.
"And so much to learn," her mother responded when they broke away from each other. She pushed Catherine's hair back from her face. "So we meet in a schoolroom. This is really your father's natural habitat, but I have sensed that you are struggling here, and I felt that your questions are not just practical, but philosophical as well."
"I do not know what practical answers you could provide. I doubt you understand what it is like to have to survive like we do here," Catherine said.
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