The Mad Women's Ball

by Victoria Mas

  She woke at dawn, opening her eyes to find her face still pressed against the glass: in the distance, beneath a sky streaked pale pink, the mountains of the Auvergne carved the horizon into huge waves. In the middle of this undulating landscape, the majestic Puy de Dôme soared higher than the other peaks, like a monarch watching over this kingdom of dormant volcanoes.

  She could still feel the jolting of the train after she alighted, and as she walked the streets of her hometown her body swayed to the cadence of her journey. Above the roofs of ochre tiles, the twin steeples of the cathedral rose towards the heavens like two dark, menacing peaks. The appearance of this cathedral, stark and black, contrasted sharply with the serenity of the verdant mountains around, making it seem frightening and austere.

  Geneviève turned into a narrow road and stopped outside her father’s home.

  There is utter silence in the house as Geneviève closes the door behind her and steps into the living room.

  ‘Papa?’

  The shutters are closed. The room is redolent of onion soup. She had hoped to find her father here, sitting in his green velvet armchair, calmly sipping his morning coffee. She does not want to find him lying on the kitchen floor, unconscious – or worse. In this moment, her only wish is that Eugénie was wrong, that this whole episode has been a grotesque charade, that the mad girl made up this lie simply to get her as far away as possible from the Salpêtrière.

  Geneviève clenches her fists as she walks towards the kitchen.

  The room is empty. On the table, the crockery from the previous night is drying under a tea towel. There is nothing on the floor. Her legs give way. She grabs a chair and lets herself slump on to it, gripping the armrest. She lied to me. This whole thing was nothing more than a trick. How gullible I have been. Geneviève leans forward, resting her head in her hand, her elbow propped on her thigh. She does not know whether she is relieved or disappointed. She no longer knows what to hope for or expect. In truth, she simply feels weary. She sits motionless for a moment, then her eyes fall on a dark stain on the floor. She leans down and squints: there are traces of dried blood between the black and white tiles.

  Geneviève gets to her feet and runs back into the living room, only to find an elderly woman standing there. They both let out a cry.

  ‘Geneviève, you almost gave me a heart attack! I thought I heard a noise.’

  ‘Yvette . . . my father . . .’

  ‘God has sent you, upon my word! Your father took a fall last night.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Don’t you fret, he’s fine. He’s in his bed. I sat with him all night. Come.’

  The neighbour smiles at this woman she has watched grow up. She takes Geneviève’s hand in hers and gently leads her, gripping the banister with her other hand, since her ageing body finds the climb difficult.

  ‘Georges and I came over last night to give him some cake. When he didn’t answer the door, we were worried. Luckily, we have a spare key. We found him on the kitchen floor. But your father is a strong man: he was already starting to come round by the time Georges and one of our neighbours carried him up to his room.’

  Geneviève feels deeply moved, listening to this tale. She seems to float to the top of the stairs on a heady wave of euphoria. What Eugénie had told her was true. Her father had had a fall, he had injured himself. Not that the accident was something to be happy about. But the fact that it had happened meant Blandine really was there, last night, with them. She alone could have known, and could have told Eugénie. Now Geneviève in turn grips the banister. She is overcome by emotion. She wants to laugh, to weep, to take Yvette by the shoulders and explain to her why she came, how she knew, how her sister has been watching over her, over their father, she longs to run out into the streets and proclaim it to all the world.

  The old woman senses Geneviève’s agitation and turns around. She offers a consoling smile.

  ‘Don’t cry, my dear. It’s naught but a cut above his eye. Your father is made of strong stuff. Like you.’

  When they reach the top of the stairs, Yvette allows Geneviève to go first. And when Geneviève steps into the room – as she does when she comes for two days every Christmas – it feels as if it is frozen in time, filled with furniture that no one has touched, and she feels as though she were a little girl again. The wall on the left is taken up by the chest of drawers, the bed is flanked by two nightstands, the little windows are dressed with net curtains. The floorboards creak, the dust beneath the bed goes unswept, a meagre light filters into the cramped space. It is neither truly comfortable nor spartan: it is familiar.

  Lying under the faded blue eiderdown, propped up on two pillows, Monsieur Gleizes is surprised to see his elder daughter. He does not have time to say a word before Geneviève rushes over, kneels by his bedside and kisses his hand.

  ‘Papa, I am so relieved.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I . . . I had some leave. I wanted to surprise you.’

  The old man stares at his daughter in astonishment. Above his left eyebrow she sees the gash he suffered the previous night. He looks tired, and not just from his accident. His face seems more sombre than it did at Christmas; he has lost weight, he screws up his eyes in order to see. For the first time, it takes him a while to understand what is being said. He reacts as though other people are speaking in a foreign language, takes a moment to decipher their words, and only then does he respond. Geneviève grips her father’s wrinkled, bony hand. Few things are more painful than watching one’s parents grow old; witnessing the strength ebb from a person one once believed immortal, seeing it replaced by an irrevocable fragility.

  The man takes his daughter’s face in both hands, bends it towards him and kisses her brow.

  ‘I am happy to see you, although I am a little surprised.’

  ‘Is there anything you need?’

  ‘Perhaps a little sleep. It is still early.’

  ‘Very well. I shall be here all day.’

  Her father lays his head back on the pillow and closes his eyes, his left hand still resting on his daughter’s head. On her knees, next to the bed, Geneviève cannot bring herself to stir, to move this hand that, until now, has never dared to bless her.

  The day passes slowly. Leaving her father upstairs to rest, Geneviève adopts her usual routine: she sweeps under the furniture, carefully irons the old man’s shirts and trousers, dusts the shelves and throws open the windows to air the house. She brings bread, vegetables and cheese from the market, she clears the dead leaves from the small garden. All this punctuated by regular trips up to the bedroom, to bring a cup of tea and make sure her father lacks for nothing. Geneviève moves quietly from room to room. She is no longer wearing her uniform, but the smart blue dress she keeps at her father’s house. For once, she unpins her hair and allows it to fall in curls over her shoulders. She goes about her tasks with pleasant ease.

  Until today, a veil of grief has hovered over this silent house. First her sister, who departed so suddenly, then their mother, who followed her daughter a few years later. Ever since her father decided that he was too weary to practise medicine, no patient has come through the front door. The absence of voices, movement and laughter in this humble home was keenly felt. Each time Geneviève has come home for Christmas the atmosphere has seemed bleak: the chairs where no one ever sits, the shuttered bedroom upstairs that was Blandine’s, the surfeit of crockery and cutlery, the neglected garden filled with dead flowers and weeds. But for the regular visits from the couple who live next door, the house would seem to have lost any sign of life even before its remaining occupant had.

  The living room clock chimes four. Geneviève stirs vegetables in the cast iron pot on the kitchen stove. The hand holding the wooden spoon is trembling slightly. The exertion and emotion of the journey have taken their toll. She puts a lid on the soup and goes over to the settee. The cushions are too firm, forcing her to sit in an uncomfortable, upright position; at least she
will not be tempted to sleep. She runs a hand through her hair and glances around the room. She no longer feels that accustomed bleakness. The bookcase, the armchairs, the paintings on the wall, the oval dining table; none of these things now seem gloomy. Absence does not mean abandonment. Her sister and her mother no longer live in her childhood home, but perhaps something of them still lingers here – not their personal effects, but perhaps a thought, a presence, an intent? Geneviève thinks about Blandine. She imagines her here, somewhere, in a corner of the room, watching. And though it seems crazy, the idea comforts her. Is there a more comforting thought than having one’s dear departed close at hand? Death loses its sting, its permanence, and life acquires greater value, greater meaning. No longer is there a before and an after, but a whole.

  Sitting on the settee in undisturbed silence, Geneviève is surprised to find herself smiling. It is not the same smile she gives to the hospital medical team. In this moment, her smile is sincere, rare, extraordinary. She brings a hand up to hide her mouth, as though ashamed. She closes her eyes and a deep breath swells her chest: she finally knows what it means to believe.

  Night has fallen over the rooftops of the quiet Auvergne town. Through the window comes the clatter of horses’ hooves and the sound of voices as the last stragglers head home. Once the sun has set, few linger in the streets. They hurry home, past the covered windows of the shops. Everywhere, shutters are closed and light gives way to darkness. All too soon, not a sound from the street can be heard inside the houses. Here, life is governed by the daylight.

  In the kitchen, a small wood fire emits a comforting glow, illuminating part of the room. There is an oil lamp on the table at which Geneviève and her father are eating. Their wooden spoons scrape the bottom of their bowls for the last drops of broth. Geneviève had suggested she bring her father his soup but, tired of lying in bed, he insisted on coming downstairs.

  ‘Would you like a little more soup, Papa?’

  ‘No, thank you, I’m full.’

  ‘There is enough for another day or two. I have to go back to Paris tonight. There is a lecture tomorrow morning, and I have to oversee the last preparations for the Lenten Ball.’

  The father looks up at his daughter, studies her face. Something has changed. She does not look ill, no, it is not that. She looks less dour. Less rigid. Her hair seems more intensely blonde, her eyes more piercingly blue.

  ‘Have you met a man, Geneviève?’

  ‘No. Why do you say that?’

  ‘So, what is it that you have to tell me?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Her father sets his spoon in his bowl and dabs his lips with a chequered napkin.

  ‘You say you must go back to Paris this evening. Why come to visit me for only one day? You must have something to tell me. Are you ill?’

  ‘No, no, I can assure you, I’m not.’

  ‘What, then? Don’t beat about the bush, I have no patience for such things.’

  Geneviève blushes. Only in her father’s presence does she blush. She pushes back the wooden bench, which grates against the tiled floor, then gets up and paces the kitchen, her hands clasped.

  ‘There is a reason . . . but I fear you will judge me.’

  ‘Have I ever judged you?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘I judge only bad faith and lies. You know that.’ Geneviève continues to pace nervously in front of the hearth where the fire crackles softly. The collar of her dress feels tight against her throat, but it doesn’t matter.

  ‘I . . . I knew that you were in a bad way. That is why I came.’

  ‘How could you have known? Yvette had not had time to write to you.’

  ‘I just knew. I came as quickly as I could.’

  ‘What are you telling me? Are you saying you have visions?’

  ‘Not me, no.’

  Geneviève sits down next to her father. Perhaps this is a secret she should keep to herself. But sharing it would make it more real, tangible. She wants someone else to know the truth. She wants her father to believe, as she believes.

  ‘I feel happy and yet terrified at the thought of confiding in you. The thing is . . . it was Blandine. Blandine told me.’

  Her father is stone-faced. It is an expression he mastered as a doctor: never let a patient know when you have detected a serious illness. Elbows propped on the table, he watches as Geneviève gets to her feet again and speaks with a fluency he has never heard from her before.

  ‘There is a new patient at the hospital. She arrived just over a week ago. Her family claim she can talk to the dead. I did not believe it at first – as you know, I inherited your logical mindset – but then she proved it to me. She proved it, Papa. On three separate occasions. I know this will seem absurd to you, just as it did to me, at first. But if I am to swear an oath for the first time in my life, I will swear it now before you: Blandine spoke to her. She told this girl things that the girl could not possibly have known. And it was Blandine who told us about your accident. She is watching, Papa. Watching over you and me. She is still here.’

  Geneviève suddenly sits down again and takes her father’s hand.

  ‘It took me some time to believe. I can imagine it will take you some time too. If you doubt my words, come to the hospital, come and meet her, you will see. Blandine is still close by. She might even be here right now, in this kitchen, with us.’

  Her father pulls his hand away and sets it on the table. For a long moment, one that seems endless to Geneviève, he just sits, staring down at his bowl. His face has that same concentration it used to have when he was puzzled by the symptoms during a medical examination, and his mind was focused on finding a diagnosis. At length, he shakes his head.

  ‘I have always known that working with madwomen would one day drive you over the edge . . .’

  Geneviève freezes. She wants to reach out to her father, but her hand refuses to move.

  ‘Papa . . .’

  ‘I could write to the Salpêtrière and tell them what you have just told me, but I will not do so. You are my daughter. But I want you to leave this house.’

  ‘Why would you send me away? I talked to you in confidence.’

  ‘You are talking about a dead girl. A dead girl who spoke to you. Do you realize what you are saying?’

  ‘All too well, Papa, but you have to trust me. You know me, you know I am not mad.’

  ‘Is that not what all the madwomen in your hospital say to you?’

  Geneviève’s head is spinning. The fire in the grate suddenly feels too hot. She twists around on the bench, away from the table, and looks about her: suddenly nothing in this kitchen feels familiar. The pots piled up on the floor, the dish towels hanging on the wall, the long table where, as a child, she ate meals with her sister and her parents. Even the man sitting on the other bench seems like a stranger. Suddenly he resembles those fathers, those countless fathers she has seen come into her office, seething with contempt and overcome by shame at the daughter they are about to commit; those fathers who, without a flicker of regret, sign the committal papers for a child they have already dismissed from their minds. Geneviève suddenly stands up but, still light-headed, she knocks her knee against the table leg, which makes her stumble, and she reaches out both hands to steady herself against the wall. She tries to control her breathing as she turns back to her father, who is still sitting there like a block of marble.

  ‘Papa . . .’

  The man deigns to look up. Yes, this is an expression Geneviève knows only too well: the look that fathers give to daughters who have fallen from grace.

  A hand shakes Louise’s shoulder.

  ‘Louise, get up. You’ve got a lecture.’

  Around this nurse who is trying to rouse her patient, the whole dormitory is stirring. Women wearily get out of bed, slip on a dress, wrap a shawl about their shoulders, pin up their hair and head towards the refectory. Outside it is raining, as it has been for the past two days. Puddles spread across the lawns,
rivulets stream between the paving stones, the sodden pathways are deserted.

  ‘Louise!’

  The girl irritably pulls the blanket over her head and turns on to her other side.

  ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘It’s not you who gets to decide.’

  Louise opens her eyes wide and sits up. The nurse takes a step back.

  ‘Where is Madame Geneviève? Why isn’t she the one waking me today?’

  ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘Again? But she has to be here, there’s a lecture.’

  ‘No, I will be taking you there today.’

  ‘No. I’m not moving till she’s here.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you really going to disappoint Dr Charcot? He is counting on you, you know that.’

  Like a child who has been cajoled, Louise bows her head. The only sound in the dormitory is the rain drumming against the windowpanes. The room is so cold and damp it makes her shiver.

  ‘So? Do you want to let him down?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Now, follow me.’

  In the anteroom next to the lecture hall, the usual group of doctors and students are waiting for the young patient. The nurse pushes open the door, still holding the patient’s arm with her other hand. Babinski comes over to the two women.

  ‘Thank you, Adèle. Is Madame Gleizes still not back?’

  ‘There has been no sign of her.’

  ‘Very well, we shall begin without her.’

  Babinski glances at Louise: her chubby hands are trembling slightly and stray locks of hair fall over her pale, worried face.

  ‘Adèle, button her dress properly and run a comb through her hair. Make the girl presentable, she looks like a halfwit.’

  The nurse suppresses an exasperated sigh. Under the silent gaze of the men, she grabs Louise by the shoulders and rebuttons her dress. Then, with stubby fingers, she clumsily pulls back the girl’s mane of black hair, her nails scratching Louise’s forehead and scalp until she whimpers. Louise hopes that at any minute Geneviève might appear. She listens for sounds from the corridor, stares at the door handle, willing it to turn. Without the matron, everything feels uncertain. Though she has never won the affection of the inmates, Geneviève is indispensable to their sense of wellbeing. She bridges gaps, resolves problems almost before they occur; she reassures Louise during these public lectures. Her very presence, her attentiveness, gives confidence to the girl who is on display. Geneviève is the lynchpin of the hospital, a piece without which the whole edifice would crumble. She is the woman who reins in the others. And when Louise realizes that she will not be coming this morning, she allows herself to be led into the auditorium like a soul who has abandoned all hope.