by F. R. Tallis
After losing a night’s sleep, I found it very difficult to function the following day. I felt drained of energy and had to put on my eye-preservers to prevent headaches. The problem of my abnormal sleeping habit was partially addressed by changing my working practices. Hysterical patients were monitored at regular intervals around the clock and I started volunteering for the unpopular night shift. This not only allowed me to catch up on lost sleep (when the rest of the world was going about its business), but it also pleased my colleagues and impressed Charcot. It was not possible for me to work every night. That would have been conspicuous. Even so, the compromise that I pursued was quite satisfactory.
I had not touched a battery for many months – not since before my period of infirmity. The day came, however, when I was referred an elderly gentleman who suffered from muscle weakness and I decided to treat him using electrical stimulation.
‘Will it hurt, monsieur?’ he asked.
‘No. Not at all,’ I replied.
The old man was not reassured. ‘I was talking to Monsieur Fromentin, do you know him? He suffers from the same indisposition, and he said that he found the procedure quite painful.’
‘Please,’ I said, placing a friendly hand on the old man’s knee, ‘You have nothing to fear.’ I switched on the battery and it began to buzz. Lifting up the rods, I passed them over the old man’s exposed legs. ‘See?’
‘I can feel a prickling sensation,’ said the old man, anxiously.
‘Well, that’s all right, isn’t it?’
The old man nodded, but he did not look comfortable. He then said, ‘It’s getting hot.’
‘Come now,’ I responded tetchily. ‘You are thinking too much about what Monsieur Fromentin told you.’
‘No, it really is very unpleasant.’
The battery started crackling and there was a loud bang which made both of us jump.
‘What on earth was that?’ cried the old man. A ribbon of smoke was rising up from the machine and it had stopped buzzing.
‘I am very sorry, monsieur, the device seems to be faulty. I’ll have to get another one.’ I went to the storeroom and on my return found the old man inspecting his legs.
‘I’ve been burned,’ he complained.
I inspected his skin and a few blisters had indeed risen.
‘That is most unfortunate,’ I said, ‘but it won’t happen again.’
I set the second battery down next to the first and switched it on. There was no buzzing sound. I tried the switch again and turned the dials but the machine was stubbornly inert.
‘Is something wrong, monsieur?’ asked the old man.
Again, I was obliged to apologize and went to get a third battery. Thankfully, this device was in working order and I was able to administer the treatment without further difficulty. The events of that morning set something of a precedent. Thereafter, I kept on having problems with electrical equipment. Batteries became temperamental in my hands. On one occasion, I was attempting to treat a hysterical contracture and the battery ‘died’ almost immediately. Yet, when Valdestin took the rods from me they promptly came to life again.
‘You’re jinxed,’ he said, laughing.
‘Yes,’ I replied, pretending to enjoy the joke. ‘It certainly looks that way.’
I was accustomed to receiving one letter a year, always around Christmas, from the mother superior of the Saint-Sébastien mission. Consequently, its unseasonal appearance among my mail immediately struck me as odd. On opening the letter, I learned that my old colleague Georges Tavernier was dead. He had fallen ill quite suddenly and his health had rapidly deteriorated. His assistant had been unable to treat the condition (which my correspondent neglected to identify). Tavernier must have been delirious at the end. Instead of calling for Father Baubigny to administer the last rites, he had requested the services of the Port Basieux bokor. That evening, sitting in a dingy restaurant with rotten floorboards, I raised a glass of rum to Tavernier’s memory and took from my pocket an ugly thing of beads and hair. It was the amulet Tavernier had given me in the brothel we visited after the Piton-Noir ball. I worried the charm with my fingers and finally placed it on the table. The world is not always intelligible. When I left the restaurant, I did not pick it up. I left it there, an alien object, wedged between the pepper and the salt.
The examination room was painted entirely black and hung with etchings by Raphael and Rubens. Charcot had taken a personal interest in its refurbishment and had created a darkly atmospheric space in which he could initiate his disciples into the mysteries of differential diagnosis. When I arrived, a large number of my colleagues were already gathered there, among them, Henri Courbertin. We had not encountered each other for some time and he greeted me with characteristic warmth.
‘Clément, my dear fellow, what a pleasant surprise!’ He clasped my hand, smiled benevolently, and began talking about a monograph he had recently obtained on cerebral localization. Although I showed no interest and may have even stifled a yawn, he somehow managed to suppose that I was eager to read it.
‘My dear fellow,’ he continued, nudging me with his elbow. ‘Why don’t I lend it to you?’ Before I could reject his offer he was saying, ‘I’ll leave it in my office for you to collect. I’m sure you will find it absolutely fascinating. Please,’ he raised a finger, mistaking an emerging objection for gratitude. ‘It’s my pleasure.’
Charcot appeared in the doorway and marched through the assembly, distinguishing some of those present with curt acknowledgements, before taking his seat behind a bare table. The rest of us had to stand. He took off his top hat and angled his cane over his shoulder like a soldier’s rifle. After he indicated his readiness to proceed, the drone of lowered voices heralded the appearance of a morose woman who was escorted out onto the empty floor. Her hospital gown was removed and a flush of shame made her upper chest and face glow. Valdestin read aloud the woman’s history and after a lengthy silence (broken only by the drumming of Charcot’s fingers) our chief spoke directly to the patient: ‘Madame, I would be most grateful if you would come forward.’ He beckoned and she obeyed. He then raised his hand, ‘Stop. Now, please turn around and walk back again.’ Charcot touched his ear. ‘Gentlemen, I want you to listen carefully. Now, madame, would you please walk backwards and forwards, just as you did before.’ When she had done this, Charcot thanked her and continued in a more pedantic style of speech, ‘If the ankle flexors and extensors are affected, as is sometimes the case, the foot will be absolutely flaccid. As the patient walks, she overflexes at the knee joint and the thigh lifts upward more than it should. As the foot hits the ground, the toes hit first and then the heel so that you can quite distinctly hear two successive sounds. The ataxic patient thrusts her leg forward in extension with almost no flexion of the knee joint; this time, the foot hits the ground all at once, making only a single sound. Here,’ he gestured at the woman, ‘we have a very typical example of the latter.’ It was only then that he turned to see if we were impressed by his powers of observation. Some discussion followed, the woman was given a diagnosis, and the next patient was summoned. This procedure was repeated until noon, when Charcot rose from his chair, bade us all ‘good day’, and departed in the company of an associate professor and four junior doctors.
Those of us remaining filed out of the examination room and loitered in the corridor in order to enjoy a cigarette before resuming our clinical duties. It had become a point of etiquette to express disbelief at Charcot’s brilliance before talking of other things, and for a brief duration the air was humming with superlatives. Once again, I found myself standing next to Courbertin, who, after honouring this servile obligation, spoke with jovial fluency about a number of inconsequential topics. It was only when I heard him say that he intended to take his wife and son to Venice in September that my attention was fully engaged.
‘And how is your wife?’ I asked.
A shadow seemed to pass across his face. His complexion was pasty and he was breathing hea
vily. ‘She . . .’ ‘Yes?’
‘She hasn’t been very well lately.’
Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Nothing serious, I hope.’
His reply was hesitant, faltering. ‘No, no. It’s just . . .’ He raised his arms and let them fall. ‘Women!’ Then, suddenly recognizing the impropriety of this exclamation, he pretended to make light of it. ‘Enjoy your liberty while you can, Clément! With marriage comes great responsibility.’ And with those ill-judged words, he set off down the corridor, pausing only to remind me of his prior commitment. ‘I’ll leave the monograph in my office. Tomorrow.’ I watched him recede – a bumbling, perspiring fool.
That night, I could not stop myself from thinking about Thérèse Courbertin. I imagined how she might look in Venice, wearing a pale short-sleeved summer dress, carrying a parasol, crossing Saint Mark’s Square or standing on the Rialto Bridge. And I imagined Courbertin, at her side, consulting his guidebook, his handkerchief permanently pressed against his damp brow. I imagined them returning to their hotel, a former merchant’s palace with marble floors and gilded staircases – in bed together, listening to the sound of mandolins and lapping water. These flights of fancy made me aware of how much I still wanted Thérèse Courbertin. Indeed, I wanted her more than ever.
We had not spoken or written to each other for several months, not since our ridiculous argument. If Thérèse was as miserable as I suspected (a reasonable supposition, given Courbertin’s remarks) then I was hopeful that the cause of this misery might be our separation.
The next day, I concealed myself in a doorway opposite the Courbertins’ apartment block. At half past ten, Thérèse appeared and walked off in the direction of the Luxembourg Gardens. I followed her through the gates but kept my distance. She sat down on a bench overlooking the octagonal pool, the edges of which were surrounded by nurse maids and small boys launching toy boats. The sun came out from behind a cloud and its brilliance made my head ache. I put on my eye-preservers and drew closer to my quarry. It was obvious that Thérèse was in a reflective mood. She wasn’t looking at the palace or the blooming flowers, but staring blankly out into space. I took one more step and slid on to the bench beside her. She was so self-absorbed that she didn’t even notice my arrival and it wasn’t until I had spoken her name that she turned around and gasped, ‘Paul!’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I am so very sorry.’
‘Not here,’ she responded coldly. ’We can’t speak here.’ She got up to leave but I grabbed her arm and pulled her down again.
‘No. Don’t go,’ I said. ‘I won’t let you. Not before you have heard what I must say. Please.’ She stopped trying to escape and I released my grip. ‘I behaved inexcusably – I know that – intolerably – but I beg you, please, please, take pity on me. I have been selfish and now recognize the magnitude of my stupidity. I adore you. I cannot go on without you. Please forgive me. I promise that I will never demand anything of you again. I love you – I do not deserve you – but I love you all the same and will always love you.’
Her eyes had begun to fill with tears, but she did not respond sympathetically. Instead, she stood up and took a few uncertain steps towards the balustrade. ‘We can’t talk here. Not like this.’
‘Then let’s go somewhere else.’
‘No,’ she sobbed. ‘I can’t do that.’ She started to move away from me. I willed her to stop and, remarkably, she came to a sudden halt, jolting, as if she had reached the end of an invisible leash. Then, glancing back, she said, ‘I’ll write,’ before descending the steps that led down to the pool. I watched her marching through the perambulators and squealing children until I lost sight of her.
Thérèse kept her word. She did write me a brief letter, full of hurt and anger. I wrote back: wretched, penitent. Soon, we were corresponding regularly, engaged in a subtle process of negotiation, the outcome of which seemed – with increasing likelihood – to be some form of reconciliation. For this to happen, however, it was necessary for me to make certain promises, one of which was never to ask Thérèse to leave her husband again. Needless to say, I accepted all of her conditions, and we were subsequently reunited in our secret apartment. There was some awkwardness at first, but in no time things were just as they were before.
7
AUTUMN 1879
Bazile opened the door, smiled broadly and shook my hand, ‘Ah, Clément, what a pleasure it is to see you again. Forgive me for not responding to your note more swiftly, but I’ve been away. A family matter. In fact, Madame Bazile is still in Normandy.’ I entered Bazile’s parlour and had to pick my way through piles of books on the floor. ‘I’m sorry,’ Bazile continued, ‘without Madame Bazile to keep things in order . . .’ He drew my attention to the chaotic consequences of her absence. In addition to the scattered books, I saw a bicycle frame, some thick coiled rope, a lectern and a box of garden tools. There was also a small ginger kitten scampering around the room. Bazile scooped it up with one hand. ‘I found him outside and thought I’d bring him in to keep me company.’ The animal’s ears drew back, its mouth opened wide and it hissed, apparently at me. ‘Now, now, that’s not how we welcome our guests,’ laughed Bazile. He then put the kitten back on the floor, whereupon it darted under the sideboard and crouched, peering out from its shadowy retreat with glinting eyes. ‘He’s usually more sociable,’ said Bazile, pulling a chair out from beneath the table. ‘Please sit.’ He then excused himself, and returned carrying a bottle of cider and two tankards. ‘How have you been?’ he enquired.
‘Very well,’ I replied. ‘Apart from a little eye-strain.’
‘You still look very pale.’
I shrugged. ‘I haven’t been out in the sun much, that’s all.’
Bazile poured the cider and took his seat on the opposite side of the table. Our initial exchanges were, perhaps, a little more mannered than usual, but we were soon talking with the easy familiarity of old friends. ‘So,’ said Bazile, lighting his pipe and assuming a more serious expression. ‘What next? The result of your courageous experiment was disappointing, but by now you must have given the matter much consideration and I have been wondering how you intend to proceed.’ I explained to Bazile that he was mistaken, and that since recovering from my illness and returning to the Salpêtrière all of my time had been taken up by Charcot’s hysterics. ‘A shame,’ said Bazile; however, he did not press me to reveal more and surprisingly allowed the subject to drop from our conversation.
The frequent replenishment of my tankard had brought me close to inebriation. Bazile, who was also guilty of over-indulgence, had digressed some distance from his initial topic, and was talking about the bells of Notre-Dame. ‘Emmanuel is the sole survivor. All the others were seized during the Revolution and melted down to make cannons. Guillaume, Pugnais, Chambellan, and Pasquier. John and his little brother Nicolas. Gabriel and Claude and the ladies, Marie, Jaqueline, Françoise and Barbara, who, like her saintly namesake, was reputed to have had the power to deflect lightning. Gone forever! Oh, what heavenly music they must have made.’ He paused to imagine their lost voices.
‘Why are there so many gargoyles on the cathedral?’ I asked.
Bazile’s reverie was so deep that he did not hear me properly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, blinking. ‘What did you say?’
‘The gargoyles,’ I repeated. ‘Why are there so many of them?’
‘Strictly speaking, a gargoyle is a rain spout, albeit a rain spout that has been made to look like a monster. There are indeed many of these adorning the cathedral, but I suspect that you are, in actual fact, referring to the chimeras – the statues on the viewing platform.’
‘Indeed.’
‘They are not authentic, of course, but recreations in the medieval style, commissioned while the cathedral was being restored. Even so, there have always been hordes of hellish creatures on the balustrade. The originals were weathered away or removed when they became dangerous, but their claws and feet survived.’
‘Dangerous?’<
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‘By the end of the last century the cathedral was so eroded that it was not uncommon for the most dilapidated statues to fall off.’ Bazile bit the stem of his pipe and spoke through his teeth. ‘That must have been a sight, eh? Demons raining down from the sky and shattering on the parvis!’
‘But why so many?’ I persisted.
‘There are certainly more devils on Notre-Dame than on any other building I can think of.’ He took the pipe from his mouth and began to enumerate. ‘There are the gargoyles and the chimeras. Then there are the carvings on the portal of the Last Judgement, which show sinners being led to hell in chains by demons. And on the north portal you can find Théophile kneeling before Satan.’
‘Théophile?’
‘Théophile, a seneschal who was supposed to have made a pact with Satan to secure advancement. He was saved from eternal torment by the intercession of the Virgin.’ Bazile opened his mouth and released a cloud of smoke. ‘The men who built the cathedral were keen to remind onlookers of the infernal domain.’
‘Why so?’
Bazile looked at me as if I had failed to grasp something very fundamental. ‘Because the cathedral is dedicated to Our Lady, and as her cult became more widespread, she was revered, not only as the queen of heaven and earth, but also, the queen of the underworld.’
Our Lady is the queen of hell?’
‘Yes,’ said, Bazile insistently. He saw that I was doubtful and cited his source. ‘When I first came to Paris I became the assistant of a scholarly priest of Notre-Dame. Do you remember, I mentioned it once before? His name was Father Ranvier and he was greatly interested in the carvings and statues of the cathedral. He was so knowledgeable that his opinion was frequently sought during the restorations. He had embarked on a fascinating history of the building that, after all these years, is still incomplete. I was his amanuensis.’
