by Victoria Mas
*
On the day they first met, Eugénie’s grandfather, then eighteen years old, vowed that he would marry her grandmother, though she was barely sixteen. Before he could present her with an engagement ring, he sealed his vow by giving her an heirloom that had been in his family for many generations – an oval vermilion cameo surrounded by seed pearls set against midnight blue. The central cameo depicted a woman drawing water from a river. On the reverse was a small glass compartment in which he placed a lock of his blond hair.
Every morning without exception, her grandmother had fastened this jewel around her throat – from the day he gave it to her to the day they were married, from the birth of their only son to the births of their grandchildren. As a baby, Eugénie would reach out her plump, curious hands to grasp the chain and pull it towards her. Fearing that the child might break it, her grandmother had placed it for safekeeping in the bottom drawer of her dresser, thinking she would wear it again when Eugénie was a little older. The family all lived together in the apartment on the Boulevard Haussmann. Her husband and their son were both lawyers, while she and her daughter-in-law looked after the children. One afternoon, while the two women were taking the little boy and his baby sister to the Parc Monceau, a newly employed servant had stolen everything in the apartment that he could lay his hands on – silverware, watches, jewellery, anything that glittered even faintly. When they had returned in the late afternoon, the two women were horrified to see that they had been robbed. The pendant had disappeared from the dresser, and the grandmother had wept for a week, assuming that the servant had stolen it along with everything else. In the years that followed, she had often mentioned the lost pendant. When her husband passed away, her grief was all the greater. The pendant had not simply been a piece of jewellery: it had been the first token of love from the man with whom she had shared her life.
And yet, all the while the pendant had been there, hidden between the boards of the bedroom dresser. Nineteen years earlier, fearing someone might come home at any minute, the servant had set about his task with frantic speed, hurriedly pulling out drawers, grabbing whatever he could find and stuffing it into a canvas bag, running from room to room. In the grandparents’ bedroom, he had wrenched the bottom drawer with such force that the pendant had been catapulted out and had fallen through the hole in the baseboard. It had remained there ever since.
The city is asleep. In the bedroom, Louis is helping Eugénie replace the heavy drawers of the dresser. They do not speak. Sitting on the bed, the old woman strokes the pendant and gazes at her granddaughter.
When the last drawer has been pushed home, Louis and Eugénie get to their feet.
‘Thank you, Louis.’
‘Goodnight, ladies.’
The man discreetly withdraws. Louis arrived in the Cléry household some days after the robbery. The mood in the house was ill-disposed to trust, and for months his every gesture was scrutinized for fear that he, too, might one day betray them. The months had turned into years, and Louis had stayed. Loyal and unobtrusive, with never a misplaced word or a look, he was one of those servants who reinforces the bourgeois notion that some men are born to serve others.
Eugénie comes and sits next to her grandmother. The smell of her grandfather’s cologne has faded. She might think that he, too, had gone were it not for the fact that her body still feels heavy. Usually, when her apparitions disappear, Eugénie’s strength returns, as though they are giving back the energy that they borrowed. But she still feels the same heaviness in her shoulders and, as she sits on the bed, she puts both hands on the bedstead to steady herself.
In the other rooms, everyone is asleep. Fortunately, the commotion has not woken anyone.
Still staring down at the pendant, the old woman takes a deep breath before deciding to speak.
‘How did you know?’
‘I had a feeling.’
‘I will not have you lie to me, Eugénie!’
The girl is startled to see the face glowering angrily at her. It is the first time her grandmother has ever looked at her with anything other than kindness. She sees her father in this face. He and his mother share the same reproachful look – an expression so stern it shatters you on the spot.
‘For years now, I have been watching you. I have never said anything, but I know you see things that are not there. You suddenly become motionless, as though someone were whispering over your shoulder. You did it just a moment ago, you froze – then suddenly, you tore the dresser apart like a woman possessed and you found the pendant I have mourned for twenty years. Do not tell me it was nothing more than intuition!’
‘I don’t know what else to say, Grandmother.’
‘The truth. There is something in you. I am the only person in this house who truly sees you as you are. Surely you must know that.’
Eugénie lowers her eyes. Her hands are pressed to her sides, her clenched fingers twisting the purple crêpe de laine of her dress. The smell of cologne drifts back – as though her grandfather had just stepped out of the room for a moment to allow the tension to subside, only returning now that the conversation requires his presence. He is seated on her right. She can sense his tall, thin figure, his shoulder almost touching hers; she can see his legs dangling over the edge of the bed, his long, wrinkled hands resting in his lap. She dares not turn to look at him. He has never been so close to her.
‘Tell her I am watching over her.’
Eugénie shakes her head uncertainly, gripping the fabric of her dress even tighter. She dreads what will follow next. Like a box that she is about to open, whose depths she cannot fathom. What is expected of her is not a confidence but a confession. Her grandmother is demanding a truth that she may not be ready to hear. But she will not allow Eugénie to leave this room without an explanation. What should she tell her, the truth or some fabrication? Often the truth is not better than a lie. In fact, our choice is never between truth and lies, but between the consequences that will follow each one. In this case, it would be better for Eugénie to remain silent and risk losing her grandmother’s trust, rather than revealing the truth while she is still living under this roof and hoping it will not raise a storm.
But Eugénie is tired. The years she has spent repressing these visions weigh heavily upon her. The knowledge she has recently acquired is welcome, but it is also burdensome. And tonight her weariness, the discovery of the pendant, and her grandmother’s justifiable persistence get the better of her. She turns to her grandmother and her whole body trembles as she speaks.
‘It’s Grandfather.’
‘. . . What do you mean?’
‘I know this will seem absurd to you, but Grandfather is here. Sitting on my right. I am not imagining him: I can smell his cologne, I can see him as clearly as I see you. I can hear his voice in my head. He was the one who told me about the pendant. And he is the one who just told me to tell you that he is watching over you.’
The old woman, overcome by a wave of dizziness, feels her head falling backwards. Eugénie grasps her hands, helps her sit upright and looks her in the eye.
‘You wanted the truth; I am giving it to you. I have been seeing Grandfather ever since I was twelve. Him, and other people. Dead people. I have never dared talk about it for fear Papa would have me locked up. I am confiding in you tonight because of the love and the faith I have in you, Grandmother. You were not wrong when you said you could see something in me. All those times when you saw me freeze, I was seeing someone. I am not ill, I am not mad – because I am not the only person who sees them. There are others like me.’
‘But how . . . how do you know? How is such a thing possible?’
Still holding her grandmother’s febrile hands, Eugénie kneels down in front of her. The dread has passed. Now, she speaks with her usual confidence, and as she speaks, she feels a measure of hope, of optimism, which makes her smile.
‘Recently, I read a book, a wonderful book, Grandmother. It explained everything. The existence of Spiri
ts, which is not just a fable, their presence among us, the existence of those who act as intermediaries, and many other things . . . I do not know why God has wished that I should be one of these people. I have carried this secret with me for so many years. The book finally revealed to me the truth of who I am. At last, I know that I am not mad. You do believe me, don’t you, Grandmother?’
The face of the old woman is set in stone. It is difficult to tell whether she would like to unhear what she has heard or simply take her granddaughter in her arms. As for Eugénie, the confession is followed by remorse. We can never know whether we are right to confess a truth. The moment of unburdening, the surge of relief, can quickly turn to regret. Regret that we have opened up, that we were swept away by the need to speak, that we have placed our trust in another. And in our regret, we vow never to do the same again.
But Eugénie is startled to see that her grandmother leans over and takes her in her arms. The face pressed against her granddaughter’s is wet with tears.
‘My darling . . . I always knew that you were different.’
*
The last days of February pass uneventfully. The two women have not spoken of what happened that night, as though their conversation belonged there and cannot be mentioned again for fear it might take form, might become real, for grandmother and granddaughter. Eugénie had thought she would feel calmer after her confession, but ever since that night, she has felt an unease that she cannot shake off. She cannot explain it. Nothing has changed in her grandmother’s demeanour. The old woman still allows herself to be tucked in every night, but she asks no questions. Eugénie finds her lack of curiosity astonishing. She had imagined that her grandmother would want to know all about the visits from her husband, that she might even ask if she could speak to him, or at least hear what he had to say. But no. A deliberate lack of interest. As though she fears learning more about that world.
March has arrived, and the first rays of sunlight stream into the spacious sitting room. The rich lustre of the wooden furniture, the bright colours of the wallpaper, the gilding on the picture frames all seem to come alive in the soft, long-awaited light. In Paris, the snow has all but melted, although there are still patches here and there on lawns and little-used paths. The city seems lighter and, beneath the cloudless skies, on the pristine boulevards, Parisians are smiling. Even Monsieur Cléry, habitually so lugubrious, seems more relaxed this morning.
‘I should like to make the most of this sunny weather and visit Meudon. There are some things I need to fetch there. What do you say, Théophile?’
‘Absolutely . . .’
‘And you, Eugénie?’
Surprised by this cordial invitation, Eugénie looks up from her coffee. The family is having breakfast: the mother is silently buttering a piece of bread; the grandmother is having black tea with shortbread; the father is eating an omelette; only Théophile has not touched the spread that has been laid out. He stares down at his cold coffee, his hands on his lap, his jaw clenched. A shaft of light from the window behind him turns his red hair crimson.
Eugénie gives her father a puzzled look. As head of the household, he is not in the habit of including his daughter in extramural activities, which are usually reserved for Théophile. And yet, at the far end of the table, her father is calmly returning her gaze. Perhaps the lack of bickering in recent weeks has mellowed him. Perhaps, now that his daughter has become the meek creature he always wished her to be, he will condescend to speak to her.
‘A walk in the fresh air will do you the world of good, Eugénie.’
Her grandmother, sitting opposite, gives a nod of encouragement as she delicately holds her porcelain cup between thumb and forefinger. The young woman had planned to go back to the Leymarie bookshop. She has decided to ask whether they might want someone to catalogue the books in the shop, to help with editing La Revue spirite, or even to sweep the floors – anything that might offer her a way out. But her expedition will have to wait until tomorrow. Clearly, she cannot counter her father’s proposal by saying she plans to visit an esoteric bookshop.
‘It would be a pleasure, Papa.’
Eugénie takes another sip of coffee. She is surprised and pleased at her father’s positive mood. She does not notice her mother, sitting on her right, using a napkin to dab at a tear rolling down her cheek.
The carriage drives along the Seine. The horses’ hooves beat out a rhythmic tattoo on the cobbles. Along the pavements, top hats and flowery bonnets adorn the heads of passers-by; couples, still wrapped in heavy cloaks, stroll along the quays and the bridges that span the river. From behind the carriage window, Eugénie watches as the city begins to come alive. She feels serene. The cloudless sky above the grey-blue mansard roofs, the impromptu outing with her father and her brother, the prospect of a new life that beckons on the far bank of the river, all these things gently lull her journey. She has finally found her place in the world. It is a small victory, one that both exalts and reassures her, a victory of which she gives no outward sign, since inner victories cannot be shared.
Face turned towards the window, she does not notice the worried look her brother wears as he sits next to her. Théophile, too, is gazing out at the city. Each district they cross brings them closer to their destination. They have just passed the Hôtel de Ville; he can see the Île Saint-Louis opposite; after they cross the Pont de Sully, the carriage will drive past the Jardin des Plantes and its zoological gardens – then, they will have arrived. Théophile brings a fist up to his mouth and glances at his father. Sitting opposite his two children, hands resting on the pommel of his walking stick, the father keeps his head bowed. He can feel his son’s eyes on him, but he does not wish to respond.
Had Eugénie roused herself for a moment from her reverie, she would have noticed the brooding atmosphere that had reigned in the confined space ever since they set out. She would have noticed her brother’s gloomy expression, her father’s stiff demeanour, and she would have wondered why a day trip out of the city should create such tension. She would also have remarked that Louis was not following his customary route, that instead of heading towards the Jardin du Luxembourg, he is driving past the Botanic Gardens towards the Boulevard de l’Hôpital.
Only when the carriage stops suddenly does Eugénie emerge from her torpor. Turning around, she sees an unfamiliar expression on the faces of her father and her brother, a mixture of gravity and concern. Before she has time to say a word, her father’s voice booms:
‘Let’s get out here.’
Unsettled, Eugénie steps down, followed by her brother. Standing on the pavement, she looks up at the imposing building outside which they have stopped. The vaulted archway is flanked by two stone columns whose lintels are carved with the words: ‘Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité’. Above the keystone, in black block capitals on pale stone she reads: ‘Hôpital de la Salpêtrière’. Through the arch, at the far end of a paved walkway, an even more monumental edifice surmounted by a dome of solemn black seems to take up all the surrounding space. Eugénie’s heart leaps into her throat. Before she can turn away, she feels her father grip her arm.
‘No arguments, my girl.’
‘Father . . . I don’t understand.’
‘Your grandmother told me everything.’
The young woman feels her head begin to spin. Her legs give way and a second hand, this one gentler – her brother’s hand – grips her other arm. She looks up at her father, opens her mouth to speak, but no words come. Her father looks at her calmly – and his calm is more terrifying than the virulence he normally directs towards her.
‘Don’t blame your grandmother. She could not keep such a secret to herself.’
‘What I told her is true. I swear it . . .’
‘True or false matters little. The things you spoke to her about have no place under my roof.’
‘I beg of you, turn me out, send me to England, anywhere, but not here.’
‘You are a Cléry. Wherever you go, you bear
the family name. Only here can I be sure that you will not bring it into disgrace.’
‘Papa!’
‘Enough!’
Panicked, Eugénie turns to her brother; beneath his shock of red curls, his face has never been so pale. He clenches his teeth, but cannot bring himself to look at his sister.
‘Théophile . . .’
‘I’m sorry, Eugénie.’
Behind her brother, she sees Louis sitting up in the coachman’s seat of the carriage parked in the paved courtyard. The servant’s head is bowed; he is not watching the scene being played out.
The young woman feels herself being dragged towards the hospital; she longs to resist, but she does not have the strength. Knowing it is a losing battle, her body has already surrendered. In a last, desperate attempt, she clings to the coats of her father and her brother and, in a trembling voice, a voice already robbed of hope, she pleads:
‘Not here . . . I’m begging you, not here . . .’
She is trailed along the central walkway lined with leafless trees, her boots juddering over the paving stones. Her head is thrown back; the flower-bedecked bonnet she chose for the occasion has fallen to the ground. Her face, turned towards the azure sky, feels the dazzle of the sun as it softly caresses her cheeks.
5
4 March 1885
On the far side of those same walls, a festive atmosphere has taken over the dormitory: the costumes have arrived. Between the serried ranks of beds, there is an unusual commotion as the women shriek excitedly and rush towards the main doors where the boxes have already been torn open; feverish hands plunge into the fabrics, stroke the frills, delicately finger the lacework; eyes light up as they see the colours; the women elbow and jostle, reaching for a favourite outfit; they strut around with their chosen costume, laughing and giggling – and suddenly, this place does not look like a lunatic asylum, but a room filled with ladies choosing their ball gowns for some gala.
