by Victoria Mas
‘Very well. I will do what I can with the doctor. But only if I can speak to my sister.’
Eugénie nods, relieved. She is not about to celebrate just yet, but she has won a minor victory. Perhaps what Blandine said was true, perhaps Geneviève will help her. And perhaps she will be able to leave this place sooner than she thought.
‘When?’
‘This evening. I will take you back to isolation. Now, go back to your ward. We have already spent too much time together.’
Eugénie looks into Geneviève’s eyes. Her sodden hat is dripping on to her face and her shoulders. Tufts of blonde hair have escaped from her chignon, which is usually so perfect. She has worked so hard to earn her authority that by now her face has become set in a stiff, unchanging rictus. Her eyes alone betray her. One has only to look into those pale blue eyes for a moment to see weakness and uncertainty. But since no one has ever truly looked into Geneviève’s eyes, anything they might have expressed has gone unnoticed.
Having studied her for a moment, Eugénie gives the nurse a grateful smile. She pulls up her hood and sets off running through the rain.
In the dormitory, a new activity has enlivened the women’s spirits. Between the rows of beds stands a man: half his face is hidden by his beard, his hair is cut short, and his corpulent frame has been uncomfortably squeezed into a suit that is too small for him. He looks as though he would be more at home in the countryside, ploughing the earth, than here, painstakingly setting up some strange contraption. Mounted on a tripod, the black camera looks like a miniature accordion. The photographer is flanked by two nurses who ensure that curious fingers do not touch the device. A small crowd has gathered. With barely suppressed euphoria, the women look from the slim body of the camera to the stocky body of the man.
‘It’s strange. No one has ever been interested in us before.’
Sitting with her feet up on her bed, Thérèse knits as she watches from a distance. On the bed next to her, Eugénie is helping Louise to mend a few tears in her Spanish dress. Since her conversation with Geneviève, her mood is calmer and her rage has subsided. Her stay here is now simply a matter of a few more hours. The prospect of getting out, of going into the city, of escaping these infernal walls, fills her with relief and joy. As soon as she knows that she has been authorized to leave, she will write to Théophile. He can come and fetch her with Louis, who will keep their secret; Louis has always known how to keep secrets. She will stay at a hotel for a few days before going to visit Leymarie. She will tell him everything she has seen and heard up to this point, and she will ask if she can write for his magazine. Everything will happen as she planned before she was confined here. Her brief sojourn will have been merely a setback. Since the ties with her family have already been broken, she will not have to do so herself. Alone, she will not have to explain herself to anyone.
Rain lashes at the windowpanes. Lying on her stomach next to Eugénie, Louise is stroking the lace trimmings of her dress. She glances at the photographer.
‘I like him. His name’s Albert Londe. He’s taken my photograph before. He said I look just like Augustine.’
Eugénie looks over at the photography session. Albert Londe is focusing the camera on a woman lying on her bed. She is about twenty years old; wearing a dressing gown, her hair tied back with a pink ribbon, she lies motionless, staring into the middle distance. Her daydream is so intense that she seems utterly unaware of what is happening around her.
Eugénie turns to Thérèse.
‘Who is the girl being photographed?’
Thérèse shrugs.
‘Josette. Never gets out of bed, that one. Melancholia, they call it. Me, I don’t even look at her, she makes me feel down.’
The explosion of the flash powder makes the patient start, and the semi-circle that had gathered around the photographer shrieks and steps back. Only Josette, the subject of the photograph, is unperturbed.
Without acknowledging the women staring at him, Albert Londe picks up the camera and the tripod and moves along the beds, followed by his troupe of admirers who whisper to each other and stifle giggles. The next woman to be photographed is in her bed: the blanket is drawn up to her chin, and she grips it with her fingers as though afraid she might fall. Her legs rub against the sheet covering the mattress, back and forth in a regular rhythm. She glances all around but does not seem to see anyone.
Eugénie leaves off her sewing.
‘Do you not find this intrusive?’
Louise looks up at her.
‘Intrusive?’
‘I mean . . . someone coming here to take photographs of us.’
‘I think it’s a good thing. It shows people on the outside what our lives are like in here. Who we are.’
‘If people genuinely wanted to see who you all are, they would let you out, they wouldn’t . . .’
Eugénie trails off. She decides to hold her tongue. Now is not the time to foment unrest and imperil her chances of getting out. Having spent the past days hurling crockery and insults at the nurses, it would be wise to keep a low profile. And besides, sometimes one has to choose one’s battles. It is neither possible nor appropriate to rebel against everything, all the time, to attack every individual or institution guilty of injustice. Rage is a powerful emotion and one that should not be used in a scattergun fashion. Eugénie realizes that her priority at this moment is not the rights of others, but herself. It is a selfish thought, and she feels a little ashamed, but that is just how things are at this moment: her first concern must be to get out of here.
Thérèse sets down her knitting and checks the length of the shawl.
‘Like I told you before, little one, it’s not everyone as wants to get out of here. I’m not the only one. They could tear down the walls and some of us wouldn’t budge. Can you picture some of these women thrown on to the streets with no family and no idea what to do? It would be a crime. Now, I ain’t saying things here is perfect, but leastways we feel safe.’
The bang from the flash powder elicits another round of surprised gasps. The terrified woman on the bed buries her head under the blanket, pumping her legs faster against the sheets.
Louise sits up on the bed and studies her dress, which is lying across Eugénie’s lap.
‘So, they’re all fixed then, those pesky holes?’
‘See for yourself.’
Louise examines every pleat and fold of the fabric. After this painstaking examination, a huge smile spreads across her childlike face. She gets off the bed, holds the dress against her body, and lifts her head.
‘Only six more days and it’s the Lenten Ball, and I’ll be wearing this dress and Jules will ask me to marry him!’
Hugging the fabric to her, Louise pirouettes, the ruffles on the dress whirling out. She frolics between the beds, dancing to a melody she alone can hear, swaying to the rhythm and to her dreams, picturing the moment when, before the great and the good of Paris, she, Louise, an orphan from Belleville, will be betrothed to a doctor.
After supper, Geneviève and Eugénie discreetly leave the dormitory. The nurse, carrying an oil lamp, leads the way down the now-familiar corridor. Head bowed, Eugénie follows the Old Lady. She feels a certain stiffness in her limbs. She has never attempted to summon an apparition; they have always come to her, unbidden and often unwished-for. In many ways, the visits are still mysterious to her, and crossing the border from the land of the living is not a moment she enjoys. But her apprehension also stems from the fact that her freedom now depends on the matron. If Blandine should fail to appear, or if she comes but does not give answers that Geneviève finds satisfying, it will harm her chances of being liberated. Geneviève will help only if she is convinced. And so, as they approach the cramped room, Eugénie silently calls to Blandine, to the girl who has appeared to her twice before, the pale, red-haired young girl who told her to speak to Geneviève, who revealed her secrets so she could prove to her sister she was truly there. As she walks, Eugénie pictures the girl’
s face, inwardly invokes her name in the hope that, wherever she may be, Blandine will hear her, will come.
The sound of distant footsteps causes Geneviève and Eugénie to look up. From the far end of the corridor, a nurse is walking towards them. Eugénie blushes as she recognizes the woman. It is the nurse who brought her meal the day after she was put in isolation and who was terrified by Eugénie’s sudden fit of rage.
As they pass, the nurse recognizes Eugénie. She pales and gives the matron a worried glance.
‘Do you need any help, Madame Geneviève?’
‘No, thank you, Jeanne, everything is fine.’
‘I was not aware that she was allowed out.’
‘I gave her permission to bathe. Besides, she is much calmer now. Is that not so, Cléry?’
‘Yes, madame.’
Geneviève gives the young nurse a reassuring smile and carries on her way. Although she shows no outward sign, she feels a twinge of anxiety. Ever since she set off down the corridor with Eugénie, her heart has been pounding. Holding the lamp has prevented her right hand from trembling; her left hand is hidden in the pocket of her white apron.
When they come to the room, Geneviève takes out her bunch of keys and, with a jangle of metal, unlocks the door and ushers Eugénie inside. She waits until the younger nurse has disappeared, checks that there are no other potential witnesses, and only then does she step into the room herself.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Eugénie pulls off her boots and massages her ankles. Geneviève sets the lamp on the nightstand, rummages in the pocket of her apron and takes out a handful of candles. She offers them to a baffled Eugénie.
‘Do you need me to light them?’
‘What for?’
‘For the séance, obviously.’
Eugénie stares at the Old Lady in surprise, then she smiles.
‘There is no need for a ritual. If you have read Allan Kardec, you should know that.’
Embarrassed, Geneviève slips the candles back into her apron.
‘He does not have a monopoly on the truth. His book is simply a theory.’
‘Do you believe in God, Madame Geneviève?’
Eugénie sits cross-legged on the bed and leans back against the wall. Her eyes study Geneviève, who seems surprised by this question.
‘My personal beliefs are my own business.’
‘There is no need to believe in order for something to exist. I did not believe in the Spirits, and yet they existed. It is possible to reject beliefs, accept them, or be sceptical; but it is impossible to deny what is in front of you. This book taught me that I am not insane. For the first time, I felt as though I was not the abnormal one in the crowd, but the only person who was normal.’
Geneviève stares at her. It is quite clear that the girl is not mentally disturbed; she suspected as much from the beginning. Perhaps Eugénie would have been better off if she had never mentioned Blandine’s name. Perhaps it would have been better if she had never given the slightest hint of her gift to Geneviève, who is now watching her with a mixture of fascination and fear. Two or three medical examinations would have been enough to rule out any abnormal neurological activity. Eugénie could have been sent home in less than a month. But things became complicated. First, Eugénie talked. She said too much. She mentioned details she could only have known if she had stolen into Geneviève’s apartment in her absence. More important, she made an exhibition of herself before the assembled medical team. Then she had raged and howled and hurled insults for days. Even if Geneviève were to plead Eugénie’s case with her superiors, they would be unlikely to release her.
Geneviève looks around. She feels a little foolish, sitting here in this room with a strange girl, waiting for a ghost to appear, the ghost of her sister.
‘So . . . what do we do?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘We wait for her to come. That is all.’
‘Do you not need to . . . summon her?’
‘It is to you, not me, that she comes.’
Geneviève is disturbed by this statement. She clasps her hands behind her back and paces the room, her jaw clenched. There is a silence. From time to time, as footsteps pass in the corridor, the two women hold their breath; when the footsteps fade, they allow themselves to relax. From behind the closed shutters, a sudden screech comes from the courtyard: two feral cats are fighting over a dead mouse or a patch of garden. For several minutes they hiss and growl, and then, claws bared, they pounce, scratching and clawing at each other until one of the cats wins, or both retreat. Gradually silence is restored, and the hospital drifts off to sleep.
An hour passes. Her nerves frayed, Geneviève leaps up from the bed where she has been sitting.
‘Still nothing?’
‘I don’t understand . . . She is usually here.’
‘You’re lying to me! Have you been lying all along?’
‘Of course not. She appeared on both the occasions you came here.’
‘I’ve had enough. I knew I should never have listened to you. You will be staying here from now on.’
Eugénie does not have time to respond before Geneviève angrily strides towards the door. She grasps the doorknob, but cannot seem to open it. She twists, she pushes, she cannot understand what is wrong.
‘What the . . . ?’
‘She is here.’
Geneviève turns around. On the bed, Eugénie has brought her hand up to her throat. She is having trouble swallowing. Her head is tilted forward slightly, her face suddenly so pale that the matron shudders.
‘It’s . . . it’s your father . . . He has had a fall . . . he is injured.’ Eugénie unbuttons her collar so that she can breathe more easily. Geneviève places a hand on her stomach, which is knotted with fear.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘His head . . . his head hit the corner of the kitchen table . . . He has a gash over his left eyebrow . . . he fainted.’
‘How can you know this?’
Eugénie’s eyes are closed now, her tone has changed. Although her voice is the same, she speaks in a monotone as though reciting a text that has no meaning. Terrified, Geneviève retreats, pressing herself against the door.
‘He is lying on the black and white tiles of the kitchen . . . It happened this evening . . . He had a dizzy spell after dinner . . . This morning, he went to the cemetery . . . He laid yellow tulips on the grave of your mother and Blandine . . . Two sprays of six tulips . . . He needs help. Go to him, Geneviève.’
The young woman’s eyes are open now but she is staring vacantly into space. Her back is bowed, her breathing ragged, her limbs heavy, every atom of energy drained from her. Sitting motionless, her eyes wide, she looks like a rag doll that a child has tossed aside.
For an instant, Geneviève stands still, petrified. There are a hundred questions she longs to ask, but she cannot utter a word. Her mouth hangs open in astonishment. Suddenly, without any conscious thought on her part, she feels her legs move; she turns around, grasps the doorknob which now seems to move, throws open the door with such force it slams against the wall, and runs from this room where it all began.
9
13 March 1885
The town of Clermont is still slumbering when Geneviève arrives outside her father’s house.
Everything happened so quickly. She remembers running out of the room, encountering two nurses and telling them she had to leave, hurrying across the central courtyard and flagging down the first hackney carriage heading down the Boulevard de l’Hôpital. The streets of Paris were teeming with people, as though news of what had happened in that room had spread to curious passers-by.
There was the last train to Clermont, which would stop at a dozen small towns along the way. When she had found her seat, she realized she was still wearing her work clothes. She had smoothed the white pleats as though this gesture could miraculously erase the flaws of her uniform. Glancing at the window of the train, she saw her ref
lection, her ashen face. There were grey bags under her eyes. Wisps of blonde hair had escaped her tight chignon. She tucked them back in with her fingers. The other passengers in the carriage were staring at her as she struggled to catch her breath. Geneviève felt as though they had already formed an opinion about her, that they found her behaviour abnormal and there was nothing she could do or say to change their minds. Years of working at the Salpêtrière had taught her that rumours could cause more damage than fact, that a patient, even when she was healed, was still a madwoman in other people’s eyes, that there was no truth capable of restoring a good name sullied by a lie.
The train whistle gave a piercing wail that made the whole station shudder. The pistons of the great black engine began to move, and the wheels turned with a rhythmic, jerking grind.
Weary of feeling other people’s eyes on her, Geneviève pressed her forehead against the window and immediately drifted off. It was a deep sleep, untroubled by dreams. On the rare occasions when the carriage jolted, or the train whistle shrieked as it pulled out of another station, Geneviève would stir only to become aware of the intense fatigue encumbering her mind and body. She did not have the strength even to open her eyes: she would wake and, realizing that the train was still in motion, instantly drift off to sleep again. In these fleeting moments of wakefulness, the image of her father sprawled on the kitchen floor reminded her why she was here. She wanted to scream his name, but what little strength she had was barely enough to call to him in silence, to tell him to hang on, that she was coming, that she would soon be there.
