by F. R. Tallis
Night had fallen and my head was throbbing. I heard the bells of Saint-Sulpice and thought of Bazile pulling on the ropes in the north tower, performing his sacred duty. The sound had a soothing quality, and with each chime the pain became less severe. When the ringing stopped, I felt oddly restored. A question arose in my mind: Why did you lie to Soulignac and Bazile? But I could not give myself an answer.
I spent the next two hours tossing and turning, unable to get back to sleep. Dawn was breaking and a gap in the curtains admitted a strip of light that fell in disjointed sections across the rumpled bed sheets. There was enough illumination to see that Madame Bazile’s flowers had wilted. Many of the petals had dropped off and were now scattered around the vase. Scooping up a handful I inspected them closely. They were shrivelled and brown at the edges.
Soulignac was puzzled by my swift recovery. I was soon walking every day, down to the river and as far as the cathedral. A few of my symptoms were tenacious, particularly my excessive sensitivity to sunlight, but the solution to this problem proved simple enough. I was able to obtain some ‘eye-preservers’ (pince-nez with blue-tinted lenses) from an optical instrument shop on the Rue de Tournon, and, subsequently, morning and afternoon excursions were relatively painless. Returning from one of my walks, I found a letter from Thérèse Courbertin. She had learned from her husband that I was recovering from a chest infection (a plausible fiction supplied to Charcot in order to explain my absence) and her brief missive was sympathetic and tender. It was obvious that she wanted to see me and the desire was mutual. Employing one of our usual devices, we arranged to meet at ‘our hotel’ in Montmartre.
I had never disclosed my intentions to Thérèse Courbertin. She knew nothing of the experiment. By withholding the truth, I was not seeking to prevent her from worrying about my safety, but rather indulging in a childish conceit. I had wanted to succeed first, so that I could then surprise her with the astonishing revelation, that I, Paul Clément, physician and neurologist, had made the ultimate voyage, and had now returned to change the world. In my vainglorious fantasy, I imagined her overwhelmed by the magnitude of my achievement. Of course, this dramatic scene would no longer play out as I had planned. However, my disappointment was moderated by a consoling thought: Thérèse would not be asking me any difficult questions.
When I entered the hotel room I found her already waiting. She took off her hat, which was adorned with a fresh orchid, and allowed her sable wrap to slip from her shoulders. I closed the door, advanced and encircled her supple waist with my arms. We kissed, and when we parted I began to undress her. I loosened her fastenings, unlaced her corset and, when she was naked but for a pair of stockings, she fell back onto the eiderdown. Her arms were thrown back above her head and her luxurious writhing communicated readiness. I removed my own clothing with clumsy haste and flung the garments aside.
There was something about her scent, a fragrance of extraordinary sweetness, that seemed to create in me a state of unbearable excitement. With every inhalation my want of her increased, until I was possessed by a furious urgency. She tried to calm my agitation by touching my face and whispering the word ‘gently’ in my ear, but her scent was maddening and I could not stop myself.
Afterwards, as we lay together, our limbs still entangled, she said, ‘I thought you were supposed to be ill?’
‘I’m feeling much better now.’
Obviously,’ she retorted. Her hand travelled over my chest and stomach. ‘You’ve lost weight.’ Before I could respond, she added, ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘Yes. I’ve missed you too.’ She turned away and I curled to accommodate the curve of her spine. ‘You’re wearing a new perfume.’
‘No I’m not.’
‘It smells stronger. Sweeter.’
‘Don’t you like it?’
‘I like it very much.’ I kissed the nape of her neck. ‘I want to see you more often.’
She sighed. ‘Paul . . .’
‘I was thinking of renting a room for us – in Saint-Germain – somewhere discreet.’
‘That would be too close.’
‘Not necessarily. Not if we’re careful. It would make things easier.’
‘Would it really?’
‘Yes. I think it would.’
When we were dressed and getting ready to leave, Thérèse picked up her hat and wrinkled her nose.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.
‘My orchid.’ She plucked the flower from the brim and held it out to show me. ‘It’s dying. And I only bought it this morning.’ I had put on my eye-preservers. ‘What are those?’
‘Spectacles made with coloured glass.’ Thérèse’s expression became quizzical. ‘To soften the light. I’m still getting headaches.’
‘They make you look . . .’ she hesitated and smiled coyly. ‘Rather interesting.’
I resumed my clinical duties at the Salpêtrière and was immediately given new responsibilities. Charcot was becoming increasingly interested in hysteria, a condition that had mystified physicians since ancient times, and he was determined to systematize its study. To that end, many junior doctors, including myself, were instructed to collate various measurements. These included thermometry, respiration and pulse. Tables were compiled, graphs plotted and the effects of different treatments meticulously recorded.
Dramatic presentations of hysterical illness are frequently connected with some religious idea or the symbolism of the Church, and one of our patients, a humble washerwoman, had contractures that resulted in a form of muscular crucifixion. Her arms would extend and gradually become rigid, her ankles would cross and she would maintain this position for hours. She was completely unresponsive and could be lifted or leaned up against a wall like a statue – a spectacle that Charcot delighted in demonstrating to visiting professors.
Bazile was always fascinated to hear accounts of such phenomena: ‘When the contractures ceased, what did she say?’
‘She described a blissful transport. Ecstasy, rapture.’
‘Hallucinations?’
‘Yes.’
‘But how do you know that? How can you be sure this woman did not commune with the infinite?’
‘She responded to Charcot’s treatment. Compression of the ovaries released her from the fixed attitude she had adopted.’
Bazile was sceptical. ‘I once saw a stigmatic in a religious retreat, a kind, devout man who had about him an air of profound spirituality. I saw for myself the wounds of Christ in the palms of his hands, and I do not believe, cannot believe, that he was, in fact, a species of lunatic suffering from psychosomatic haemorrhaging, and that baths, electricity or applying pressure to his body would have caused those divine injuries to heal over. I fear that if Monsieur Charcot had encountered the great stigmatics, Saint Francis of Assisi, Saint Catherine of Sienna or Saint John of God, he would have locked them away and subjected them to all manner of indignities. The faculty of reason is God-given and sets us apart from the rest of creation. But we must use it wisely. It seems to me that the ruthless logic of scientists frequently takes us further from, rather than closer to, some of the essential truths.’
In addition to religious visionaries, there were also demoniacs at the Salpêtrière, and these, too, Charcot counted as hysterics. The wretched individuals complained of sharp pains, clawed at their throats, grimaced and leered, spat, cursed and shouted blasphemies. Although they ate little and had wasted physiques (some were almost like skeletons), they were also extraordinarily strong and had to be kept in restraints, for fear that they might damage themselves or cause harm to others.
One morning I was conducting hourly examinations – taking and noting temperatures – when I heard, coming from an adjacent ward, a crashing sound followed by a scream. This in itself was hardly unusual, but the scream was interrupted by pleas for mercy and as I listened I thought I recognized the voice. It belonged to Mademoiselle Brenard, a young nurse admired for her cheery manner and tireless industry. I dashed to her ass
istance and found a chaotic scene. A bed and trolley had been tipped over and the floor was covered with tablets and spilled syrups. Some of the patients had hidden themselves under their bed sheets while others were cowering in corners and crying out, ‘God help us, he’ll kill us all.’ One of my colleagues, Valdestin, was standing in front of Mademoiselle Brenard, who was being held captive by Lambert, a demoniac who had apparently managed to remove his straitjacket. Lambert was holding a scalpel against the nurse’s throat and grinning. His other hand cupped one of her breasts.
‘That’s enough, Lambert,’ said my colleague. ‘Let her go.’
‘No, monsieur. She’s mine now, mine to enjoy.’ Lambert bumped his crotch against Mademoiselle Brenard’s rear and produced a hideous cackle. ‘All mine. Come any closer and I’ll open her up.’ He licked the nurse’s face. ‘I like them this fresh. Don’t you, monsieur?’ I saw the poor girl flinch when the maniac whispered some unspeakable obscenity into her ear. ‘Isn’t she a peach? Ripe and succulent, I’d like to peel her, taste her pulp, her lovely, delicious sugary pulp.’
‘Please let me go,’ whimpered the nurse. ‘I beg you.’
‘I must insist,’ Valdestin commanded, taking a step forward, ‘that you release Nurse Brenard at once!’
The demoniac nicked the nurse’s throat, causing her to scream.
‘Shut up!’ he shouted, grabbing a handful of her hair. He then pulled her head back to expose a bead of blood that grew slowly before trickling down to the collar of her uniform. Valdestin froze. The demoniac studied the red trail, which was particularly vivid against the paleness of Mademoiselle Brenard’s skin, and traced its length with the tip of his finger. Sucking the blood off, he said, ‘As sweet as they come.’
Valdestin turned to me and asked: ‘What on earth are we going to do, Clément?’
It was then that Lambert noticed me. He fell silent and his head began to jerk – a series of nervous, bird-like movements. His expression was still typical of derangement, wild staring eyes and hair standing on end, but his brow seemed to compress under a weight of anxiety. Something seemed to have shaken his confidence.
‘Ah,’ said Lambert. ‘Forgive me. I did not realize. Please, take her – a token of my respect.’ Releasing Mademoiselle Brenard, he pushed her in my direction. She stumbled and fell to the floor. Lambert waved the scalpel magnanimously. ‘She’s all yours. I meant no disrespect, all yours.’
I quickly interposed myself between the sobbing nurse and the demoniac. Fear had made my mouth dry and I was barely able to utter, ‘Put the knife down, Lambert.’ These words sounded thin and he immediately sensed the unsteadiness of my resolve. Whatever it was about me that had made him give up his prisoner could not be relied upon for sustained effect. He was clearly having second thoughts concerning his impulsive act of surrender. Not wishing to lose my advantage, I advanced and repeated my order, this time, more firmly. ‘Put the knife down!’
Lambert studied the glinting blade and then transferred his attention back to me. I was expecting him to lunge at any moment, and was preparing to leap out of the way, when he smiled, obsequiously, and whined, Of course, of course. Anything you say.’
He dropped to his knees and, making a great show of his willingness to comply, placed the scalpel on the floor just in front of my feet. I kicked it out of his reach and he squealed, ‘Please, don’t punish me.’ Then, lowering his head, he began to kiss my shoes while imploring me to take pity on him. I stepped back, disgusted, and as I did so, he started to retch. The position he assumed made him look like a huge insect: sharp elbows, bent and pointing upwards, plates of bone and vertebrae clearly visible beneath taught, grey-green skin. He rocked backwards and forwards until the contents of his stomach gushed out of his mouth and splashed on the tiles before forming a wide pool. The stench was appalling. My disgust was amplified when he pushed his hands through the steaming vomit and picked up something which he held up for my inspection. His expression communicated that he was eager for me to take it. At that point, some stocky porters arrived, accompanied by an associate professor. They dragged Lambert to his feet, and twisting his arms behind his back, frog-marched him off the ward with the professor in attendance. I remember how Lambert kept turning his head to look back at me. He was still looking when I lost sight of him.
Valdestin was already dressing Mademoiselle Brenard’s wound.
‘That was strange,’ he said. ‘The way Lambert suddenly changed his mind.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We were lucky.’
Mademoiselle Brenard’s injury was more serious than I had realized and a significant amount of blood was seeping through the bandage. The poor girl was distraught, tears streaked her face and her chest was heaving.
‘Mother of God,’ she cried, ‘I thought I was going to die.’
I took her hand in mine and squeezed it gently. ‘You were very brave, mademoiselle, very brave. But please, calm yourself. You are quite safe now, and Monsieur Valdestin will look after you.’ In order to deliver my reassurances I had knelt down beside her. She was wearing the same perfume as Thérèse Courbertin. My gaze lingered on the nurse’s lips and the swell of her breasts. Annoyed by my own impropriety, I made some excuse and moved away.
Other doctors were arriving and peace was quickly restored. An orderly was mopping up Lambert’s vomit and as I walked past he stopped me and said, ‘What shall I do with this?’ His fingers opened, revealing something in his palm.
‘Where did you find it?’
‘Just here.’
It was the object that Lambert had wanted me to take.
‘Let me see.’ The demoniac had obviously dropped it when the porters had manhandled him out of the ward. ‘I’ll look after it. Thank you.’
The orderly carried on mopping and I found that I was holding a bronze statuette. It was clearly supposed to represent the female form, and, although I am no expert on such matters, I estimated the thing to be very old. I had seen fertility charms that looked very similar in books about pagan civilizations. Where, I wondered, had Lambert obtained this little Venus? It was not uncommon for demoniacs to swallow objects and to regurgitate them later, but their provenance was usually obvious. This was quite different and emanated an aura of authentic antiquity. I looked around the ward and when I was sure that no one was watching, I slipped the figure into my pocket.
At the end of the day I returned to my apartment, where I discovered a letter from Soulignac. It was not the first. There had been two others, almost identical, containing the same parting request for us to meet again soon. I had previously claimed that Charcot’s hysterics were taking up all of my time, but as I opened the third letter, already certain of its contents, I recognized that I could not defer Soulignac indefinitely. With some reluctance, I wrote a brief reply, suggesting that we might dine together at a restaurant on the Boulevard des Italiens.
We had hardly finished our oysters when Soulignac said, ‘Well, what are we to do now? It seems to me that we have reached an important juncture. Although we did not accomplish our ultimate objective, we have nevertheless developed and tested a method for probing the greatest of all mysteries, and, we have collected together a series of case studies which appear to demonstrate the independence of personality from the brain. Perhaps it is time for us to publish?’
‘But I experienced none of those things reported by our patients. There was no tunnel, no light . . . nothing.’
‘Indeed, a disappointing result, but one which was not entirely unexpected. We were both fully aware that this might happen. Remarkable phenomena are not reported by all resuscitated patients. Be that as it may, our experiment could easily be replicated by others. That is how science proceeds. I assume that you have no desire to repeat the experiment yourself.’
‘No.’
‘Good. Frankly, I don’t think I could be party to such a dangerous venture again.’ The waiter arrived and set about removing our oyster shells. ‘So, what do you say to a publication?’
&nb
sp; I prevaricated. ‘You are a distinguished surgeon and I have a position in the world’s finest department of neurology. The scientific community will not be impressed by six cases, most of whom are dead and can say nothing more in support of their testimony. It would be foolish to risk our reputations.’
I urged circumspection, restraint and the more rigorous interrogation of patients. Premature publication might cost us our careers, our livelihoods. We argued through two fish courses, until, eventually, Soulignac conceded defeat. ‘I suppose you’re right. And in this matter your wishes must prevail. It was you and not I who very nearly made the ultimate sacrifice.’
Outside the restaurant we said goodbye to each other and I watched Soulignac as he marched off into a haze of rain. Why could I not tell Soulignac the truth? I attempted to reflect on my behaviour, but found it impossible to do so. My thoughts resisted connection and my motivation remained obscure.
6
EARLY SUMMER 1879
Thérèse Courbertin continued to raise objections to my suggestion that we find rooms in Saint-Germain. She seemed to have developed a superstitious attachment to our hotel in Montmartre, believing that as long as we continued to meet there we would never be found out. Yet, to me at least, it was self-evident that the existing arrangement was unsatisfactory. The hotel was too far away. Her opposition did not prevent me from investigating alternatives, and I soon discovered somewhere more suitable. The concierge, accustomed to handling delicate matters, made it known to me that a small gratuity would be enough to secure his confidence, and after only a few visits, Thérèse grudgingly conceded that I had been right all along. It was now much easier to conduct our affair. The apartment was perfectly situated, tucked away in a quiet cul-de-sac and in easy walking distance from our respective residences. Moreover, the interior, if a little dreary, was tolerably furnished.