by Victoria Mas
In the dormitory, Geneviève is patrolling the neat rows of beds, ensuring everything is calm and in order. She sees Louise coming back into the room. If the matron were possessed of even a flicker of empathy, she would notice the girl’s troubled expression, the clenched fists by her sides.
‘Louise? Where have you been?’
‘I left my brooch in the refectory and I went back to get it.’
‘And who gave you permission to wander about unsupervised?’
‘I did, Geneviève, don’t worry.’
Geneviève turns to Thérèse, who has stopped knitting and is staring at her placidly. The matron gives her a vexed look.
‘Need I remind you, Thérèse, that you are a patient here, not a doctor?’
‘I know the rules of this place better’n all your young recruits. Louise wasn’t gone more than three minutes, ain’t that right, Louise?’
‘That’s right.’
Thérèse is the one person the Old Lady dare not contradict. For more than twenty years, the two have rubbed along together in this asylum. Not that the years have made them friends – the very notion is inconceivable to Geneviève. Yet through the enforced intimacy of the hospital and the hardships they have faced, the veteran nurse and the old prostitute have developed a mutual respect, a bond they acknowledge but never mention. Each has found her niche and plays her role with dignity – Thérèse the affectionate mother figure to the inmates, Geneviève the stern mother figure to the nurses. Between them, there is often an exchange of favours: the Tricoteuse reassures Geneviève or keeps her informed about some patient in particular; the Old Lady keeps Thérèse informed of advances in Dr Charcot’s work and events in Paris. Indeed, Thérèse is the only person with whom Geneviève has found herself discussing anything other than the Salpêtrière. Under the shade of a tree on a summer’s day, in a corner of the dormitory following an afternoon rainstorm, the madwoman and the matron have talked openly about the men they do not frequent, the children they do not have, the God they do not believe in, the death they do not fear.
*
Louise goes and sits next to Thérèse; she is still staring at her boots.
‘Thank you, Thérèse.’
‘I don’t like the idea of you fooling around with that young intern. I don’t like his eyes.’
‘He’s going to marry me, you know.’
‘Has he proposed?’
‘He’s going to do it at the Lenten Ball next month.’
‘Is he, now?’
‘In front of all the girls. And all the guests.’
‘And I suppose you believe a man when he talks? Ah, my poor little Louise . . . men know what to say to get what they want.’
‘He loves me, Thérèse.’
‘No one loves a madwoman, Louise.’
‘You’re just jealous because I’m going to be a doctor’s wife!’
Louise is up on her feet, her heart hammering, her cheeks scarlet.
‘I’m going to get out of this place, I’m going to live in Paris, I’m going to have children. And you’re not!’
‘Dreams are dangerous things, Louise. Especially when they depend on someone else.’
Louise shakes her head vigorously as if to dispel the words she has just heard, then turns on her heel. She goes over to her bed, slides under the cover and pulls it over her head.
4
25 February 1885
There is a knock at the door. Resting on her bed, her sleek hair falling to one side, Eugénie closes her book and hides it beneath her pillow.
‘Come in.’
The servant opens the door.
‘Your coffee, Mademoiselle Eugénie.’
‘Thank you, Louis. You can set it down over there.’
The servant pads noiselessly across the room and places the silver tray on the nightstand, next to the oil lamp. Steam rises from the coffee pot and the young woman’s bedroom is suffused with the coffee’s soft, velvety aroma.
‘Will there be anything else?’
‘No, you may retire, Louis.’
‘Try to get a little sleep yourself, mademoiselle.’
The servant slips out and silently closes the door behind him. The rest of the house is sleeping. Eugénie pours coffee into the cup then takes her book from under the pillow. For the past four nights she has waited until her family and the rest of the city were asleep before reading this book. She finds it completely overwhelming. It is not something she can read sedately in the afternoon, in the living room, nor can she read it in public, in a brasserie. The cover of the book alone would prompt panic from her mother and condemnation from complete strangers.
The day after the pitiful salon debate – about which, fortunately, her father still has no knowledge – Eugénie had set off in search of the author whose name had filled her every waking thought since young Fochon had mentioned him. After a number of fruitless visits to local bookshops, a sales assistant had informed her that there was only one place in Paris where she would find the work: Leymarie, at 42 Rue Saint-Jacques.
Not wishing to ask Louis to drive her there in the barouche, Eugénie decided to brave the elements and walk there herself. Her black boots crunched across the carpet of snow that covered the pavement, her brisk pace and the biting cold making her cheeks flush and her skin prickle. An icy wind whipped along the boulevards, and pedestrians walked with their heads bowed. Eugénie followed the directions given to her by the bookseller: she passed the Madeleine church, crossed the Place de la Concorde, and headed up the Boulevard Saint-Germain towards the Sorbonne university. The city was white, the Seine slate grey. The coachmen sitting atop their carriages, slowed down by the snowy streets, kept their faces buried in their heavy coats. Along the quays, the second-hand booksellers who had ventured into the cold took turns visiting the bistro on the opposite side of the road.
Eugénie walked as quickly as she could, her gloved hands drawing her thick coat tightly around her. Her corset was horribly constricting. Had she known that she would be walking such a distance, she would have left it in her wardrobe. The sole purpose of the corset was clearly to immobilize a woman’s body in a posture considered desirable – it was certainly not intended to allow her free movement. As if intellectual constraints were not sufficient, women had to be hobbled physically. One might almost think that, in imposing such restrictions, men did not so much scorn women as fear them.
She entered the little bookshop and felt her numbed limbs begin to relax as the warmth of the place enveloped her. Her cheeks were burning. At the back of the shop, two men were poring over a sheaf of papers. One – the bookseller, probably – looked to be about forty years old; the other was older, elegantly attired, and had a bald pate and a thick, white beard. They greeted her in unison.
At first glance, the bookshop looked like any other: on the shelves, rare volumes sat next to more recent publications. The mingled smell of paper yellowed by age and wooden shelves weathered by the years created a heady perfume that Eugénie loved more than any scent. Only when one studied the books more closely did it become apparent that this bookshop was different: far from the usual array of novels and collections of poems or essays, this shop was filled with volumes dealing with the occult sciences and esoteric subjects, with books on astrology, mysticism and spiritualism. Here were authors who had probed deeply, had explored territories into which few dared to venture. There was something faintly intimidating about stepping into such a world – as though one had strayed from the traditional path and entered a different universe, one that was lush and enthralling, a secret universe that was never mentioned and yet existed. This bookshop had the forbidden, intriguing air of truths one dared not mention.
‘Can we help you, mademoiselle?’
From the back of the shop, the two men studied Eugénie.
‘I am looking for The Spirits’ Book.’
‘There are some copies over here.’
Eugénie stepped closer. From beneath snowy eyebrows, the crinkly eyes of
the older man regarded her with curiosity and compassion.
‘Is this your first book on the subject?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it recommended to you?’
‘Truth be told, no. I heard a group of right-thinking young men disparaging the author and that made me want to read the book.’
‘That is a story that would have pleased my old friend.’
Eugénie looked at him, puzzled, and the man brought his hand to his chest.
‘My name is Pierre-Gaëtan Leymarie, publisher and bookseller.8 Allan Kardec was my friend.’
Leymarie noticed the distinctive dark spot in Eugénie’s iris. At first he seemed surprised, then he smiled.
‘I think this book will enlighten you on many things, mademoiselle.’
Eugénie left the shop feeling unsettled. The place was mystifying, as though the books that lined the shelves emitted a strange kind of energy. And the two men were unlike anyone she usually encountered in Paris. They had a different way of looking at things – not hostile or fanatical, but benevolent and thoughtful. They seemed possessed of knowledge that others lacked. In fact, the publisher had stared at her intently, as though he recognized something in her, even if she did not know precisely what it was. Feeling disconcerted, she decided not to think about it.
She slipped the book under her coat and headed home.
The clock on her nightstand says it’s 3 a.m. The cafetière is empty; dregs of cold coffee rest at the bottom of her cup. Eugénie closes the book she has just finished reading, and clasps it in her hands. She sits perfectly still. In the hushed bedroom, she does not hear the ticking of the clock, does not feel the gooseflesh prickling her cold, bare arms. It is a curious moment, when the world as you believed it to be is called into question, when your innermost convictions are shaken – when new ideas offer you a glimpse of a different reality. It seems to Eugénie that she has spent her life looking in the wrong direction and now she is being made to look elsewhere, at something she always should have seen. She recalls the words of the publisher some days earlier: ‘This book will enlighten you on many things, mademoiselle.’
She thinks of her grandfather’s words when he told her not to be afraid of what she was seeing. But how could she not fear something so illogical, so absurd? She had never considered any other explanation: her visions were clearly the product of some mental disturbance. Seeing dead people is an obvious sign of madness. Such symptoms lead not to a doctor, but to the Salpêtrière; to mention such visions would lead to instant incarceration. Eugénie gazes at the book she is holding. She has waited seven years for these pages to reveal who she really is. Seven years to feel that she is not the only abnormal person amidst the crowd. To her, every argument in the book makes sense: the soul survives the death of the body; there is neither a heaven nor a hell; disembodied souls guide and watch over mankind, as her grandfather watches over her; and certain people have the ability to see and hear the Spirits – as she does. Obviously, no single book, no single doctrine could claim to be the fount of absolute truth. There are only tentative theories, and choices as to whether one believes them or not, since mankind has a natural hunger for concrete facts.
She has never been convinced by Christian doctrine; she does not deny the possibility of a God, but has preferred to believe in herself rather than in some abstract entity. She has found it difficult to believe in a heaven and a hell that are eternal – life already seems like a form of punishment, and the idea that this punishment would continue after death seems absurd and unjust. So, yes: it does not seem impossible that Spirits exist and are intimately bound up with mankind; she can imagine that the reason for Man’s existence on earth is so that he might develop morally; and the thought that something might endure after physical death is reassuring and means she no longer has to fear life or death. Never have her beliefs been so dramatically challenged, and never has she felt such immense relief.
Finally, she knows who she is.
In the days that follow, she is filled with an inner peace. Everyone in the family is surprised by the youngest child’s newfound equanimity. There are no disruptions during mealtimes; the patriarch’s remarks are greeted with a smile. Eugénie has never been so well behaved, and her family naively begin to think that she has finally decided to grow up and find a good match for herself. And yet the secret she now bears has conclusively persuaded her of the aptness of her choice. Eugénie knows that there is no place for her here any more. She needs to frequent others who share her ideas. Her place is with them. She must forge her path in the context of this philosophy. Although she lets nothing show, the changes taking place within her encourage her to think of the next steps she must take.
By spring, she will be gone.
‘You have been very good these past few days, Eugénie.’
Her grandmother is lying on her bed, her head resting on the pillow. Eugénie pulls the covers over her fragile form.
‘Surely that should make you happy? Papa is no longer in a bad mood because of me.’
‘You seem preoccupied. Have you met a boy?’
‘Happily, it is not boys who are keeping me preoccupied. Would you like a herbal tea before you go to sleep?’
‘No, darling. Sit down next to me.’
Eugénie sits on the edge of the bed. Her grandmother takes the girl’s hands in hers. The glow of the oil lamp conjures flickering shadows that play across their figures and the furniture in the room.
‘I can tell that something is troubling you. You can talk to me, you know that.’
‘Nothing is troubling me. Quite the contrary.’
Eugénie smiles. In recent days she has been thinking about confiding her secret to someone. Her grandmother would be the most inclined to listen, and would respect what she said without thinking she was mad. The enthusiasm she feels is tempting: she longs to reveal what she has been carrying inside her, to share all the things she has seen and felt. Her silence would weigh a little less heavy; she would finally have someone to whom she could confess her troubles and her joys. But still she holds back. What if her mother were to pass by and overhear them; what if her grandmother asked to read The Spirits’ Book and accidentally left it lying around? Eugénie does not trust the thin walls of this house. She will tell her grandmother everything: but only when she is no longer living here.
A breath of fragrance fills the room. Eugénie recognizes the perfume – woody, with notes of fig, the particular scent she smelled as a child each time her grandfather took her in his arms. The girl’s breathing slows. Gradually, she feels a familiar heaviness steal through her limbs; with each exhalation, her strength ebbs a little. Eugénie closes her eyes, exhausted by the sensations engulfing her. When she opens them again, there he is. Standing, facing her, his back against the closed door. She can see him clearly, as clearly as she can see her grandmother who is staring at her in surprise. She recognizes the pale hair swept back from his forehead, the furrows on his cheeks and on his brow, the white moustache whose ends he would idly twist between thumb and forefinger, the shirt collar set off by a cravat, the grey-blue cashmere cardigan and matching trousers, his customary purple frock coat. He does not move.
‘Eugénie?’
She does not hear her grandmother. Instead the voice of her grandfather rings out inside her head.
‘The pendant has not been stolen. It is in the dresser. Under the bottom drawer, to the right. Tell her.’
Shaken, Eugénie turns to look at her grandmother, who is now sitting up in bed, her frail hands gripping her arms.
‘What is it, my child? You look as though God Himself were speaking to you.’
‘Your pendant.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Your pendant, Grandmother.’
The young woman stands up, takes the lamp and goes over to the large rosewood dresser. She kneels down and, one by one, begins to slide out the six heavy drawers and set them on the floor. Her grandmother has got out of bed and is wrapping herself in
a shawl. She watches as her granddaughter scrabbles around next to the dresser.
‘What is going on, Eugénie? Why did you suddenly mention my pendant?’
All the drawers have now been removed, and Eugénie is running her hand over the bottom right corner of the wooden base. At first she feels nothing, then her fingers encounter a hole. Though too small for her hand, it is large enough for a small object to fall through. She taps the damaged rosewood board then knocks on the base; it sounds hollow.
‘It’s under here. Ask Louis to fetch a length of wire.’
‘Eugénie, what on—’
‘Please, Grandmother, trust me.’
The old woman looks at her for a moment in concern, then leaves the room. Eugénie can no longer see her grandfather, but she knows he is still there; the scent of his cologne has moved closer to the dresser.
‘You can tell her, Eugénie.’
Eugénie closes her eyes. Her body feels heavy. She hears her grandmother and Louis creeping into the room. The door closes soundlessly. Asking no questions, Louis hands the girl a spool of wire. The young woman unrolls a length, forms one end into a hook and then slips it into the hole in the timber. Beneath it there is a second board, and using the hook, she painstakingly explores the surface.
Eventually, she feels something. Her fingers carefully twist the wire so that the hook is horizontal; she hears the tip scratching against a chain. Her heart pounding, she twists and turns her makeshift tool, trying to snag what she knows is the piece of jewellery. After some manoeuvring, she pulls on the wire to which something is now attached. It emerges from the darkness into the light, a gold chain wrapped around the hook, and dangling from it, the vermilion pendant which she holds up for her grandmother to see. Overcome by a grief she has not felt since her husband died, the old woman brings her hands to her mouth and stifles a sob.
