by Victoria Mas
Geneviève does not have time to answer before Théophile takes a book from inside his jacket and holds it out to her, his hand trembling. The cover says The Spirits’ Book. Geneviève does not understand.
‘I managed to take it before my father found and burned it. I beg of you, give it to my sister. I do not do this in the hope of her forgiveness. I simply want her to feel less alone. Please.’
Geneviève is caught off guard, unsure whether or not to take the book; she wants to have nothing to do with Eugénie – and most of all, she does not want to hear talk of the Spirits, of ghosts, of the soul or anything else that pertains to life after death. Théophile’s hand hovers in the air, his eyes pleading with Geneviève. From the hallway comes the sound of approaching footsteps, then three short raps on the door. Geneviève starts, then grabs the book and quickly hides it in her desk drawer. With a grateful smile, Théophile takes his leave, dons his top hat and departs the office just as a nurse comes in.
Geneviève was fourteen years old when she first opened a book of anatomy in her father’s consulting room. It proved to be a crucial moment in her life. As she turned the pages, the logic of science revealed itself to her. Everything about mankind could be explained. Reading the book had been a shock, a revelation – just as reading the Bible had been for her sister. Each was profoundly marked by what she had read, and each felt herself drawn to a particular future: Geneviève to medicine, Blandine to religion.
Geneviève read nothing other than scientific books. She had no interest in novels because she could not understand the point of fiction. Nor did she care for poetry, since it served no purpose either. She believed that books should be practical – to offer some insight, if not into mankind, then into nature and the world. Nonetheless, she knew the powerful effect that books could have on people. She had witnessed it, not only in herself and in her sister, but also among the patients, some of whom talked about novels with surprising passion. She had seen madwomen weep as they recited poems, seen others talk of literary heroines with joyful familiarity, and still others read aloud a passage with a tremor in their voice. Therein lay the difference between fact and fiction: in the former, there was no possible emotional investment. One was simply presented with information. Fiction, on the other hand, aroused the passions, provoked outbursts, overwhelmed the mind; it did not appeal to reason or reflection, but drew its readers – women, for the most part – towards the catastrophe of sentiment. Not only did Geneviève see no intellectual benefit in fiction, she also mistrusted it. As a result, the patients were not permitted novels: there was no need to exacerbate their volatile moods any further.
That evening, she stares at the book she is holding with the same misgiving. Night has fallen. Having washed on the landing and gulped down a bowl of soup, Geneviève took the item hidden in her coat and sat on her bed, in the glow from the oil lamp on the bedside table. The Spirits’ Book. She vaguely recalled hearing of it when the doctors’ meeting took a metaphysical turn. The subject of the book was mocked and maligned. The doctors were indignant that anyone should think such things, let alone publish them. She faintly remembered that the author claimed to demonstrate the existence of life after death – an unquestionably ambitious goal. But because the book seemed to arouse a strong emotional response, she had never taken an interest in it.
Opposite the bed, the stove radiates a gentle heat. Outside, all is quiet on the Rue Soufflot. Geneviève looks down at the book, not daring to open it. This is the book that prompted Monsieur Cléry to have his daughter committed. An understandable reaction; no parent wants to hear his child talking about the hereafter. It is not natural for humans to blur the boundaries, to question the purpose of life, to attempt to communicate with what is unseen. Such actions are the product of madness, not of reason.
She turns the book over, quickly leafs through the pages, sets it down on the nightstand, then picks it up again: there is nothing to prevent her from opening and reading it, even if only the first few lines . . . If it is as preposterous as her colleagues claim, she will quickly become exasperated with it. Whatever she does, she is not about to give it to Eugénie and further encourage her folly.
The clock reads 10 p.m. Her hands firmly keep the book closed, as though she fears what she might discover in its pages.
Come, Geneviève, it is only a book. Don’t be so foolish.
Decisively, she pulls her feet up on to the bed, props herself against the pillow and finally opens the book at the first page.
8
12 March 1885
Dawn breaks over Paris. The streets are already bustling with early risers. Along the Seine and the Canal Saint-Martin, dozens of washerwomen are heading towards the washhouse boats, their backs bent beneath the weight of the laundry sacks belonging to well-heeled families. Ragmen, having spent the night searching for goods to sell, are pulling carts laden with the spoils of their nocturnal foraging. On every street corner, lamplighters are snuffing out the gas streetlamps. In the market of Les Halles, which Zola described as the ‘belly of Paris’, greengrocers and merchants are unloading crates of fruit and vegetables; fishmongers set out their wares while butchers begin to cut up carcasses. Not far away, on the Rue Saint-Denis, in scenes reminiscent of the Rue Pigalle or the Rue de Provence, prostitutes wait for one last trick while others rebuff the attentions of a drunkard. Newspaper vendors emerge from printers with bags of the first edition slung over their shoulders. In every district, the smell of freshly made bread seeps from the bakeries to tickle the noses of the labourers and stallholders, the water carriers and coal merchants, the street sweepers and road menders, all these figures bringing Paris to life as daylight peeks over the rooftops.
The Salpêtrière is still sleeping as Geneviève crosses the central courtyard, her heels echoing on the paving stones of the path that leads from the archway. On the lawn to her right, a cat is toying with a dead mouse. There is not a soul in sight here, not a single carriage.
The sky has become overcast since Geneviève left home, and a light rain falls as she walks towards the chapel of Saint-Louis. Her discreet hat, with its spray of flowers, protects her from the morning drizzle. She pulls her coat around her tightly. There are bags under her eyes. She has not slept a wink.
She passes beneath the archway emblazoned with the words ‘Division Lassay’ and enters the Cour Saint-Louis. Opposite, the park and its leafless trees; to her left, the chapel with its imposing stone façade surmounted by black domes. She heads towards the main entrance. In the inside pocket of her coat, close to her heart, is the book she read last night.
She pauses for a moment before the massive wooden doors, takes a deep breath, then pushes them open.
At first glance, what is most striking is the stark simplicity of the chapel. There is no gilding here, no mouldings. The stone walls, a little blackened in places, are devoid of extraneous decoration. The place almost looks abandoned. Further inside, to the left and right, six statues of saints gaze down from vaulted alcoves. The scale of the building is as startling as the cruciform layout: four naves and four side chapels and, in the middle, a central cupola so dizzyingly high that it creates a strange sensation of vertigo.
Instinctively, Geneviève takes off her hat and shakes away the few raindrops clinging to the fabric. She is surprised to find herself here, in this building she has walked past every day for twenty years, vowing that she would never set a foot inside.
Timidly, she advances, surrounded by the cold, damp stone. Each of the chapels has its individual character, a sparse, modest layout propitious to prayer and contemplation: wooden pews or chairs, a small altar set with candles and a statue of the Virgin Mary. A curious hush pervades the place. Geneviève can hear her own breathing, which seems to echo around the vast walls.
Her attention is drawn to a whispering sound. In the Chapelle de la Vierge, a small plump woman is standing, gazing at a stone Madonna. She is wearing a washerwoman’s apron, and a rosary of carved ebony dangles from the han
ds clasped beneath her chin. She keeps her eyes closed as she whispers to the statue of the Virgin. Seeing this diminutive figure dwarfed by the immense chapel, this woman whose first instinct upon waking is to pray, one might almost envy her faith. Geneviève looks at her for a moment, but the very act of looking seems intrusive, so she turns away and walks towards the chapel to the right of the doorway. The chair on which she sits creaks under her weight. She places her hat in her lap. Next to the altar, a few candles flicker.
Looking up, she studies this world that she so loathed as a child. Everything here reminds her of painful, endless Sunday mornings. She hated this place; she came to hate it all the more after Blandine’s death. ‘A house of worship’. Are people really so weak that they need doctrines, idols, places in which to pray, as though they could not do so in their own home, in their own rooms? It would appear so. And what is she doing here, if she still does not believe? Something in the book she has just read, in the pages she spent the night feverishly turning, has compelled her to leave home at dawn, to come to this chapel. There is nothing religious about the book, quite the contrary. But she had found the urge to come to this place overpowering, just as she found the book overwhelming. She does not know what it is she is hoping to find. If not an answer, then perhaps an explanation, or at least a direction. She knows now that to struggle would be futile; for the past week, ever since the arrival of Eugénie, all those things she felt she had under control have slipped from her grasp. It is a terrifying feeling, but one she has ceased to fight. If she must descend into the depths the better to rise again, then she will allow herself to fall.
Hearing footsteps behind her, Geneviève turns in her chair and sees the plump washerwoman walking towards the door. Abruptly, she gets to her feet and approaches the woman, who stops and looks at her in surprise.
‘I’ll leave with you. I don’t want to be alone in this place.’
The woman smiles. Her face is haggard from a life spent washing other people’s laundry. The skin on her hands and forearms is cracked from being constantly steeped in water.
‘You are never alone here. Not here, not anywhere.’
The washerwoman disappears, leaving Geneviève standing there. Staring into space, the matron brings her hand up and pats her coat: the book is still there.
The key clicks in the lock. Eugénie opens her eyes. Instantly, she feels her stomach cramp; she curls into a tight ball on the bed. She is barefoot. In recent days, her tight boots have made her ankles swell, and ever since she took them off she has not been able to put them on again. Unable to bear her tight dress, she has ripped off the buttons at the cuffs and the seams at the shoulders and the waist.
She lays a hand on her belly and grimaces. Her mane of dark hair, normally so clean and neatly combed, is lank and dirty. Last night, she had determined to eat the piece of stale bread she had been resolutely ignoring since the morning. It was the first thing she had eaten in four days, although she knows she cannot allow herself to become weak, that she needs all her faculties, both physical and mental, if she is to survive in here. She is only too aware that her only resource is herself in this place that crushes people at the first sign of weakness. But the panic she felt during the medical examination has not left her and, in recent days, she has not been able to think of any other response but to continue her solitary protest and refuse any food that is brought to her. She has no choice. Until now, she had not truly understood the meaning of rebellion. Granted, she had often vehemently disagreed with her father. Seeing men belittle and laugh at women had often left her seething in silence. But until now she had not realized that a feeling could crash over her like a wave, engulf mind and body to such an extent that all she could do was howl at the obscenity of it. Her whole body rebelled at the injustice of her situation. And while her fury had not weakened, she could feel that she was deteriorating. Every time she tried to get up from the bed, she felt her head spin and her stomach cramp, her hunger triggering waves of nausea. She could barely hold the jug of water that had been left for her. She had spent her days in semi-darkness; the shutters on the window were closed, but the cracked, worm-eaten wood let in chinks of light. She was both furious and weary. Never had she felt so helpless, so abandoned. Living in her parents’ home, she had naively thought that she was alone – that her character, her insolent retorts, had left her isolated, a solitary creature in a family that did not understand her. And she had been misunderstood, perhaps, but was not alone. What she had experienced was not solitude. Solitude was being incarcerated in an asylum of madwomen, deprived of all freedom, of all hope for the future. Most of all, having no one, absolutely no one, who cared about you.
‘Eugénie Cléry.’
Startled to hear a voice calling her, the girl sits up in bed.
Standing in the doorway, Geneviève is surveying the chaos of the room: the smashed crockery strewn across the floor, the pair of boots lying on the ground, the overturned chair with one broken leg.
From the bed, Eugénie watches her with dead eyes. Her face is drained of its former warmth and confidence.
‘Would you care to take your meal in the refectory? I would like to talk to you afterwards.’
Eugénie raises her eyebrows. She is surprised by the form of words: a question, not an order. But there is something else; something in the Old Lady’s voice has changed. Her face, too, seems different, though it is difficult to see her clearly since she is standing with her back to the light. Yet it is evident that Geneviève is not as prim and still as usual. Something about her has relaxed. Whatever the reason for this unexpected courtesy, it means that Eugénie is allowed to leave this room. More than that, she will be able to drink warm milk.
Perched on the edge of the bed, the young woman forces her swollen feet into her boots despite the pain, fastens the remaining buttons on her dress, pushes back her lank hair and walks over to the matron.
‘Thank you, Madame Geneviève.’
‘I shall expect you to clean this room later.’
‘Of course. I lost my temper.’
‘And after you have eaten, you can go and wash. I will wait for you.’
The drizzle that has been falling since dawn is still settling on the bonnets and top hats of people moving through the hospital grounds.
By the time Eugénie sets off to find Geneviève in the gardens, her hair, damp and freshly washed, has been pulled into a braid. She is protected from the elements by a tawny cape, and a wide hood that covers her head. Her expression is once again determined. Being able to sate her hunger and perform her toilette was enough for her to feel a surge of strength and confidence. She no longer feels quite as weak or alone. The very fact that Geneviève was the one who had opened the door was enough to make her feel hopeful again and to shake off the torpor that has left her paralysed for days.
Next to a tree, sheltered from prying eyes, Geneviève watches as Eugénie comes towards her. She glances around to ensure that no one else can see them, then beckons to the girl.
‘Let us walk a little.’
Eugénie falls into step. The pathways are deserted. To their right, along the low wall that rings the grounds, mice scurry to avoid the raindrops and disappear into cracks and crevices. Muddy puddles have formed on the lawns.
The two women walk with their heads bowed. After a few steps, Geneviève slips a hand inside her coat and takes out The Spirits’ Book ; she proffers it to Eugénie, who stares at the book, bewildered.
‘Take it quickly, before someone sees. I shouldn’t be giving it to you.’
Speechless, Eugénie takes the book and tucks it under her cape.
‘Your brother wished to give it to you himself. That was not possible, as I’m sure you can understand.’
Eugénie wraps her hands around herself, pressing the book against her chest. The thought of her brother coming here, to this place, to see her, brings a lump to her throat.
‘When did you see him?’
‘Yesterday morning.’
>
Eugénie feels a twinge of sadness and elation. Her brother was here. He has not forgotten her. She is not as alone as she feared. She thinks for a moment, then gives Geneviève a sidelong glance.
‘So, why are you giving me this book if it is not permitted?’
She sees a glint in the eyes of the nurse.
‘Have you read it?’ Eugénie asks.
‘Books are forbidden here. So in return, I would like you to do something for me.’
Geneviève feels breathless, her head is spinning, she is stunned by her own actions. Until this day, she had not thought it possible that she, the matron, would end up talking in secret to a patient, going against the rules she herself created, preparing to ask for a favour. She does not wish to think about it. She is keenly aware of the ridiculousness of her behaviour but, once again, she would rather see it through even if she later regrets her actions.
‘I would like to . . . talk to my sister.’
The rain is heavier now, pummelling the faces of the figures as they walk quickly past the hospital buildings. When they come to the far end of the grounds, the two women seek shelter beneath an archway. Eugénie puts down her wet hood. She is thoughtful for a moment, then looks up at the Old Lady.
‘Madame Geneviève, if this is to be an exchange, I would prefer to give up the book and have my freedom.’
‘You know that is impossible.’
‘In that case, I am sorry, but talking to your sister will be impossible too.’
Geneviève is seething. What possessed her to try to negotiate with a madwoman? She is the one who has lost her head. She should send this little bourgeois brat back to solitary confinement and say no more about it. But at the same time, the girl’s blackmail is unsurprising. It was Geneviève who foolishly gave her the ammunition. It was obvious that the girl would demand more than a simple book in exchange for holding a séance. Eugénie is truly infuriating but Geneviève is not willing to give up now. This is her only hope. And besides, she is in no way obliged to keep whatever promises she might make. It is hardly ethical, but only those who believe in promises are bound by them.
