by F. R. Tallis
‘Please, Paul,’ she ducked and escaped to the centre of the room, where she checked that her hairpins were still in place and repositioned her shawl. ‘You must go now.’
I walked around the sofas, occasionally bending to inspect a framed portrait. When I reached the piano I noticed that there was some music on the stand. It was not a published piece, but an original composition copied out in black ink. Beneath the title, ‘Serenade’, was a dedication, ‘For Thérèse’. The composer was Cécile Chaminade.
‘Is this your piano?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t know you played. How strange, that we’ve known each other all this time, and I didn’t know that you played.’ Thérèse’s hand had risen to her mouth and her eyes were wide and staring. I turned the first page over and wondered how the music might sound.
‘I would so love to hear you play. Would you do that for me? Would you play for me? It’s only a short piece.’
Thérèse did not respond, but maintained her fixed position. The silence that followed was lengthy, eventually broken by the sound of a key turning in a lock. Someone had entered the hallway. ‘Henri,’ whispered Thérèse, folding the shawl around her body as if the temperature in the room had suddenly plummeted.
Courbertin called out, ‘Thérèse, my dear?’
I could see that for a fleeting instant Thérèse had contemplated not replying, but on realizing that this would serve no purpose, she answered, ‘Henri?’
We both listened to Courbertin’s heavy approach. The door opened and on entering the room he caught sight of me and froze. I noticed that he was sweating and his breath was laboured. He glanced at his wife, who looked terrified, and then back at me. Dropping his medical bag to the floor, he cried out, ‘Clément, what on earth brings you here?’ He strode across the Persian rug with his arm extended.
‘Your copy of Monsieur Varon’s monograph,’ I replied as we shook hands. ‘I was passing and remembered that I should have returned it.’ Reaching into my coat pocket I produced the volume and gave it to Courbertin. ‘Charcot will be discussing cerebral localization at the research meeting tomorrow. I thought you might want to reacquaint yourself with some of Varon’s theories.’ ‘Thank you,’ said Courbertin. ‘You’re always so considerate, Clément. But really, there was no need.’
I gave Courbertin a conspiratorial look. ‘The professor is not familiar with Varon.’ It was generally accepted that an opportunity to impress Charcot should never be missed.
‘Yes,’ said Courbertin, slowly registering the implication. ‘I see what you mean.’ He tapped the monograph and smiled. ‘Good man.’ Then he turned to his wife, who was still standing somewhat dumbfounded in the centre of the room, and said, ‘My dear, you haven’t offered Monsieur Clément anything to drink?’
Before she could respond I said, ‘You are mistaken, monsieur. Madame Courbertin has been most hospitable; however, I am running a little late and must now be on my way.’
‘Very well,’ said Courbertin.
Facing Thérèse, I said, ‘Good day, madame.’
She lowered her head and responded, ‘Good day, Monsieur Clément.’
Courbertin placed a kindly hand on my back and guided me into the hallway. ‘A fascinating study,’ he said, raising the monograph up as if it were sacred – Moses presenting the Ten Commandments to the Israelites. He then mentioned some obscure point of interest and sought my opinion on the matter. The answer I gave met with his approval. At the door, we shook hands once again and bid each other farewell.
I was due back at the hospital by eight o’clock and had several hours at my disposal. The thought of returning to my apartment was not very appealing so I walked to the river and smoked cigarettes on the quayside. I could see the cathedral, gilded by the setting sun, and, before long, I found myself crossing the Pont de l’Archevêché, responding to a silent but irresistible summons. I came to the rear end of the building and rounded the complex jumble of pinnacles and buttresses. Looking upwards, I saw that my progress was being monitored by a host of gargoyles. They protruded from the stonework at various levels of elevation: smooth muscular creatures, with extended necks and whose jaws, stretched wide open, evoked the din of hell. Their horizontal thrust was forceful, carrying with it a strong impression of exertion, as if they were straining to break free and at any moment might leap out into the void and take flight.
I arrived at the north portal and paused to study the stone reliefs and statuary. Three concentric arches, occupied by angels, maidens and learned men, enclosed a rough triangle in which many figures congregated on three levels. The lowest of these levels, the lintel, seemed to depict episodes from the infancy of Jesus Christ. The second level, however, was quite different. I had passed beneath the tympanum of the north portal on numerous occasions, without ever troubling to look up at these strange dramas, but now, having been made aware of their significance by Bazile, my curiosity was aroused.
The seneschal, Théophile, was shown five times, each appearance representing a stage in the telling of his story. Most of the figures had been splattered with white bird droppings, endowing the scenes with an eerie, wintry quality. In the first, Théophile was shown kneeling in front of the Devil. An earnest man stood by his side, holding the pact that the seneschal had evidently just signed, the terms of which promised worldly power in exchange for his soul. The second scene showed Théophile in prosperity. As he distributed pieces of gold with his right hand, a little demon was surreptitiously slipping more into his left. The next two scenes showed Théophile repenting and his subsequent salvation – a war-like Virgin Queen descending upon a vanquished Satan. Finally, in the upper register of the tympanum, Théophile was shown holding his head and marvelling at his good fortune.
I set off for the hospital but found walking more strenuous than I should have. An object in one of my trouser pockets was dragging me down. It turned out to be the silver cross that Bazile had given me. When I reached the Pont de l’Archevêché, I leaned over the railings and tossed it into the river. Thereafter, I made much better progress.
The night that followed was largely uneventful. I made hourly observations of Charcot’s hysterics and was obliged to examine an epileptic patient who had had a seizure. Other than this minor incident, I was left to my own devices. Just before sunrise, I went for a stroll around the hospital grounds, and on my return felt unusually tired. I had some business to attend to in the plaster cast room which, being full of moulded body parts, resembled an art gallery or museum. The human form was not celebrated in this dusty depository, but maligned; all of the exhibits were twisted, deformed and diseased. I noticed that there was a chair in the corner. It looked welcoming, so I sat between its broad arms and was overcome by exhaustion. I closed my eyes and started to dream.
I was standing on the viewing platform of the cathedral, next to the statue of the strix. The sky over Paris was a flickering aurora of red light, broken by thick bands of black cloud. Fiery meteors dropped from the firmament, leaving incandescent trails and exploding with great violence when they reached the ground. On the horizon, I saw a conical mountain belching smoke and ash. It reminded me of La Cheminée. Most of the buildings in the vicinity had been reduced to burned-out, smouldering carcasses, and the river had become a channel of filth. I saw broken cupolas, crooked spires and mountains of rubble. In the middle distance was a strange edifice that I didn’t recognize, a tangle of iron girders that might have risen to a great height before its destruction. Winged creatures wheeled around the burning remnants of the tower of Saint Jacques and I could hear their screeches, carried on a searing wind. It seemed that I was witnessing the last judgement, the final chaos.
It was then that I heard a voice.
‘Behold: the divine plan.’
I turned slowly and discovered that the strix was looking at me.
‘Do you want my soul?’ I asked.
He licked his lips, leered and replied. ‘No. It’s mine already.’
<
br /> I awoke with a start. The dream had been so vivid that it took me some time to recover. I could see the objects that surrounded my chair – a gnarled hand, a club foot and a bucket rimed with hardened plaster – but they all seemed less substantial than the apocalyptic images that refused to fade from memory. I raised my sleeve to my nose and thought that I could smell acrid smoke and flaming timbers. When I finally stood up, my legs were stiff and my temples throbbed with a painful beat. I had been asleep for more than an hour.
The research meeting was scheduled early and, after attending to my toilet, I went straight to the conference room. I was surprised to discover that most of my colleagues were already present, standing like sentinels around the large oval table. The associate professors had taken their seats and were gabbling convivially. There was some accommodating movement, a general repositioning of bodies, and I found myself looking down at Courbertin’s bald head. He must have sensed my presence, because he interrupted his conversation to offer me a tacit greeting.
When Charcot entered, the associate professors stood to attention and they did not sit down again until he had invited them to follow his example. Consulting a sheet of paper that an assistant had helpfully placed in front of him, Charcot read out the agenda. Before discussing some new findings relating to cerebral localization, he wished to review the hysteria project.
‘Gentleman,’ said Charcot. ‘I cannot emphasize enough the importance I ascribe to measurement. Some of you will no doubt remember the case of Justine Etchevery.’ The associate professors produced a low, vaguely approving rumble of assent, but even the most junior doctors were conversant with this celebrated patient’s history. ‘Her retention of urine resulted in severe distension of the abdomen, and her survival, without developing any of the signs of uraemia, seemed to defy the laws of science. When the possibility of imposture was eliminated, some authorities suggested we were witnessing a miracle.’ This provoked a ripple of sycophantic laughter. ‘Gentlemen: measurement solved this mystery. Etchevery’s vomit was found to contain urea, thus demonstrating an alternative pathway for excretion, and hysterical ischuria was distinguished from its rapidly fatal organic form.’ Charcot proceeded to summarize some of the data that I had been partly responsible for collecting and then speculated on the potential significance of certain trends. A brief discussion followed, although none took issue with his largely unverified conclusions.
Our chief lit a cigar and whispered something to his assistants. The curtains were drawn, a screen erected, and the projector was switched on. A broad beam of light travelled over the heads of the seated professors and a photographic image of a naked woman appeared on the screen. Contractures had forced her hitherto supine body into the shape of an arch, supported only by the tips of her toes and the top of her head. Her buttocks were elevated some distance from the ground and she appeared to be thrusting her hips towards the ceiling. Charcot continued talking, and more images appeared. Gaping mouths, bulging eyes, bared teeth; a veritable gallery of human chimeras.
I was standing close to the projector, with my chin gripped in my right hand, and my right elbow cupped in my left hand. I noticed that I was casting a shadow on the back of Courbertin’s jacket. Detaching my right hand from my chin, I opened my fingers, creating the illusion of a dark, spider-like form that, with a little encouragement, ascended Courbertin’s spine and came to rest between his shoulder blades. The progress of the shadow had been slow and fractionally delayed. Charcot’s voice sounded thin and remote: ‘Gentlemen: it is important to recognize that hysteria has its own organizing principles, just like any other nervous ailment originating from a material lesion.’ Tendrils of smoke rose from his cigar. ‘The ultimate cause still eludes our means of investigation, but it expresses itself in ways unmistakable to the attentive observer.’ As he elaborated, his words became less and less distinct until all that I could hear was a faint murmur.
My focus of attention was entirely on Courbertin. How absurd he looked. I considered the wispy strands of hair that had been raked across his head, the roll of flesh that hung over his collar, his short neck, his capacious trousers and flabby haunches: a man of modest abilities, who, by stubborn, bovine persistence and shameless ingratiation, had managed to secure a place at Charcot’s table; a fraudulent man, anxious to please others and win their favour lest they should turn against him and expose his mediocrity; a man of nervous smiles and perspiration, clinging undergarments and wary confidences; and of course, a lucky man, who by an accident of chance, happened to come from a provincial town where a beautiful woman saw in him a means of escape. That such a pathetic specimen should represent an obstacle to the satisfaction of my desires was scarcely believable.
I lowered my hand and the shadow nestling between Courbertin’s shoulder blades dropped a short distance. In my palm, I could feel something, a barely perceptible fluttering, like the wings of a trapped moth. I closed my eyes, and the trembling sensation became more intense, its definition increasing until it achieved a distinct periodicity. There could be no doubt as to what this curious phenomenon represented. I did not respond with shock, horror or surprise, but fascination. My tentative fingers closed around what I knew must be Courbertin’s heart. I could feel its regular, vigorous beat – valves opening and closing, blood entering the atria, the ventricles contracting. The rhythm was hypnotic. Then, quite suddenly, the sensation vanished. Opening my eyes, I saw that Courbertin had shifted in his seat and positioned himself out of my shadow.
The photographic slide on the screen showed a cross-section of the brain. Charcot was gesticulating at certain structures with his cane, but I could not hear a word he was saying.
I altered my position and the shadow of my hand reappeared on the back of Courbertin’s jacket. Once again, I felt his heart beating against my palm. The same thought that had provoked my rash actions the previous day sounded in my mind with identical declamatory resonance: You shall not be denied. I closed my fingers and began to squeeze. Immediately, Courbertin sat up straight. He began rubbing his chest and looking around the room. I squeezed harder, and harder still, until I felt the beat in my palm accelerate. Courbertin produced a handkerchief and mopped his brow. He was shaking, and it took him several attempts to stuff the handkerchief back in his pocket. His sweat tainted the air and I could smell his panic. He muttered something to the man sitting next to him and then stood up. Our eyes met briefly as he hurried into the darkness between the projector and the door. He had looked nauseous, sickly, and his forehead was covered in glistening droplets. Charcot registered the disturbance and threw a glance in our direction, but his delivery did not falter. ‘With respect to the management of hysterical young women, I recommend extra, that is to say, punitive cold showers, beyond five or more per day if they are to be mastered.’ My hearing was now totally restored. I could hear Charcot’s voice and, behind me, the door being opened and softly closed.
When the research meeting ended, I went straight to my apartment and slept soundly for the rest of the day. In the evening, I returned to the hospital, and met Valdestin, who was just leaving.
‘Did you hear about Monsieur Courbertin?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I replied.
My colleague shook his head and produced a heavy sigh. ‘Died this morning – a heart attack – on his way home in a cab.’ Valdestin made a helpless gesture. ‘The driver thought he was asleep.’
The feeling of not being wholly alive seemed to rush into my body and its coldness made me numb and unresponsive. Valdestin mistook my impassivity for grief. ‘I’m sorry, Clément. You were better acquainted with him than I.’ Then, attempting to console, Valdestin added, ‘He always spoke very highly of you.’
A thought formed out of the nothingness in my skull: She is mine now.
9
The Salpêtrière was well represented at Courbertin’s funeral. Charcot and Madame Charcot were present, as were most of the associate professors and a respectable number of junior doctors. Thérèse looked
beautiful in black, tall, slender and alluring, her widow’s veil endowing her with an aura of mysterious glamour. One of her hands rested on Philippe’s shoulder. Standing next to Thérèse was a man who reminded me of Courbertin. He was clearly a relative and I supposed that he must be a brother or a close cousin. At his side was a dowdy wife with dull, lifeless eyes.
The priest swung his censer over the coffin and mumbled prayers. Birds sang. The sun was bright and my skin started to prickle, so I edged into the shade of a mausoleum.
Some distance from the principal mourners stood a tight knot of people who I suspected might be members of Thérèse’s spiritualist circle. The women sported enormous hats festooned with black ribbons, and one of the men was wearing a cape so long that it touched the ground. A frail old lady, who sat on a portable chair in the centre of the group, kept on staring at me. Whenever our gazes coincided, she quickly looked away.
After Courbertin had been buried, the crowd began slowly to disperse. I watched Charcot go over to Thérèse and offer his condolences. Valdestin, who was standing in front of me, turned round and said, ‘Do you think we should say something too?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I think we should leave now.’
I had already written to Thérèse – twice, in fact – and on both occasions I had endeavoured to be sympathetic without also being hypocritical. Thérèse did not love Henri Courbertin, perhaps she had never loved him, and, although I expected her to show some outward signs of grief, I did not expect his death to affect her very deeply. The replies that I received were measured and gave me no cause to suspect that I might be wrong; however, when we finally met, three days after the funeral, Thérèse was clearly troubled.
