The Scarlet Ribbon

by Derry O'Dowd

  James looked up at him in amazement and the French man shrugged off his knowledge.

  ‘Let us walk, James, and you can tell me why you drink, for you can’t hide the condition.’

  James flushed under Andre’s scrutiny.

  ‘“He must be pitiful, patient and compassionate”,’ he continued. ‘Maybe I come to the root of your problem, my friend. “He ought to have a pleasant countenance, and to be as neat in his clothes as in his person, that the poor women who have need of him, be not affrightened at him. He must be healthful, strong and robust; because this is the most laborious and painful of all the workings of surgery.” Well James, what would Mauriceau say about you? Do not let this man anywhere near a pregnant or labouring woman until he has shaved, bathed, and had a change of clothes.’

  Andre paused as he realised his words had struck home with his companion, who looked like a little boy who had been caught doing something he ought not to, downcast and penitent.

  He clapped James on the shoulder.

  ‘But James, would I meet Mauriceau’s strong standards? I think not! He continues to say: ‘“Above all he should have small hands, for the easier introduction of them into the womb; yet strong with the fingers long, especially the fore-finger, the better to reach and touch the inner orifice. He must have no rings on his fingers, and his nails well pared, when he goes about his work, for fear of hurting the womb.”’

  Both men stopped and Andre guffawed as he held his large hands out for James’s inspection.

  ‘I need a friend, even if the one that has come has hands more akin to shovels,’ said James.

  Andre beamed at him. ‘Consider me still your friend, even after such a grievous insult.’

  James Quinn felt absurdly nervous as he stood on the steps outside the impressive door of the large house on the Left Bank. The building was brightly lit from the inside, casting a soft glow onto the dark street.

  His first month of study was over, and he couldn’t have done it without Andre’s help. The Frenchman helped him while James’s mind craved brandy to shut out the pain from his body and soul as he mourned Marguerite, clear-headed for the first time since her death. The punishing, painful time was added to by a heavy schedule and night calls, and from now on he would be expected to carry out full duties competently. Which was why he was here tonight.

  He had realised, reading from the book that had been given to him at the end of that tough, hungover first day of his new Parisian life, that he needed to be able to capably examine a living, breathing woman. Nobody he spoke to of it wanted to entertain the idea, and he had no help, but insistent asking around the better streets of the city in blackest night had whispered the same answer to him again and again.

  And so, here he stood, heart hammering, palms sweating, trying to breathe deeply to calm down. He thought of Marguerite, wondered what she would think of what he was about to do. Whether she would forgive him. For though he had slept with his wife, it had always been done out of love and in the darkness rather than in any pursuit of medical knowledge of the workings of the female body.

  He sent up a little prayer to her in Heaven, bowing his head. ‘Forgive me, my love.’

  It was too late to back out now, even if what had seemed such a great idea in the light of day did not seem so great now, as he stood alone in the inky night.

  He raised his hand to the great brass knocker again before his courage deserted him entirely, hugging the bag that he had brought tight to his chest as if to gain some comfort from it, and the door opened. A servant stood there before him in burgundy livery.

  He ushered James in through the long hallway with many gold-scrolled mirrors hung on the walls intensifying the candlelight, through to a waiting room where a couple of other men sat too large on ornate chairs. As he took in the opulence of the room and the dark blue velvet curtains that cut out the night, one of the men tried to make conversation, asking him which of Madam’s girls he would be visiting tonight and recommending a couple to him with a lewd wink.

  James got to his feet to leave, sure now that he had made a mistake, but just then the door opened and the servant reappeared to say, ‘Madam will see you now.’

  He followed the servant to another room, cosy, but just as lushly furnished. The tall, graceful woman rose from her desk and laid her spectacles on top of the papers she had been going through. She ran her hand down her silk skirts to smooth them before presenting a perfectly manicured, many-ringed hand to James to kiss.

  ‘Madam,’ he said, touching his lips to her perfumed flesh. She wore rose water, just like his mother, but it did not endear her to him any.

  ‘Well,’ she replied, ‘you are not one of our regular gentlemen, and as such I like to meet and talk to new visitors to my house to better gain an appreciation of what it is that they are looking for.’

  She paused and smiled, looking at him intently, sizing him up. ‘I would say a young girl, maybe not so city smart, kind and accommodating for you – I have just the girl in mind.’

  James stared at the beauty spot above her lip as she spoke, and he took a deep breath as he knew now was the time to lay out his needs to the businesswoman who stood before him.

  ‘Madam, I have some special requirements,’ he started, as she cut across his conversation.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘I am usually a better judge of character. You prefer something a little more, shall we say, out of the ordinary? You like to be, perhaps, tied up with delicious silken bonds? Treated as a boy who likes to be spanked? Watch a couple of my beautiful girls delight each other?’

  He blushed furiously as her list went on, and cleared his throat to speak again. ‘No, nothing like that,’ he said, shaking his head in emphasis.

  She looked at him curiously this time, crinkling her eyes in question, and waved her hand imperiously for him to go on.

  ‘She must be clean,’ he said.

  Madam looked affronted, and with a sharp ‘tsk’ escaping her compressed lips answered him, ‘My girls are so clean you could, and can, should you so desire, eat a meal off them.’

  ‘No clap,’ he continued, counting on his fingers.

  ‘Sir! This is a superior establishment, as many gentlemen will attest to! We wish to treat you to supreme rapture rather than a dose of supreme annoyance!’

  ‘No lues venerea, no whore’s pox,’ James continued, another finger poised mid-air.

  ‘We do not sell the fiery material and the hot piss of the citadel in danger. You may engage in armour when entering the covered way, should you wish!’ she continued, breathing heavily.

  He put a hand out as if to calm her. ‘I will need candles,’ he said gently.

  ‘Well, monsieur, then there will be more money for me. Doubtless this maiden should be young, comely and willing.’ The Madam paused, head to one side as she waited for him to continue.

  ‘I want to know her completely; I want to know her body.’

  ‘What of her mind?’

  James shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Come back in three nights’ time, monsieur. I will have a fresh young whore for you then. But now we will talk of price.’

  7

  A cordial water to strengthen the nerves

  Take two large handfuls of lavender and add to fresh water in a pot. Put the pot on the fire and boil the mixture until steam rises from it, pour it out and leave to cool. Once it is cooled add a large spoonful of honey, mix well and then take a small glass at any time as required.

  Quinn Household Recipes and Remedies Book

  * * *

  James stood in the middle of the bedchamber as Madam ushered the young blonde woman over to him.

  ‘This is Avril. Now you may curtsy to your benefactor, my dear,’ and so saying, she left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  Avril stood in front of him, nervous, and glorious in her youthful good health. Her blue eyes were bright, her mouth curved like a small red bow, light hair shone. Her gown was obviously borrowed, for it
seemed as if she was ill at ease in its magnificent folds, the profusion of lace at the cuffs and indecently low bust.

  James led her to the bedside, gently taking her by the hand.

  He lit the candles slowly and placed a jar of lubricating pomade by the bed as she looked on apprehensively.

  In the adjoining room, the unseen eyes of other whores peeped through a spy hole. They were all intrigued by the new gentleman who had requested the most unusual requirements.

  ‘Do not be afraid. I mean you no harm,’ James said to her, taking her chin softly in his hand and turning her face to his.

  ‘Talk to me, for I am scared,’ she whispered.

  ‘Look at me. Have no fear, I will treat you well,’ he said, appraising her.

  ‘You have eyes of such delicate blue colour. See this part,’ he pointed to his own eye for emphasis, ‘this is the iris. The ancients called it after the great goddess of rainbow, sea and sky whose golden wings carried her with her messages between gods and mortals.’

  He traced a finger gently around her mouth. ‘And here the labia oris, those lips that pout with their sweet vermilion borders, there the philtrum, the love groove that inflamed carnal desire in ancient Greece.’

  Avril breathed softly.

  ‘It is also said that God sends an angel to the womb to teach each baby the wisdom and the wonders of Heaven and Earth. Then, just as the baby enters the world, the angel says “shush” and touches the lip to make the baby forget. Some say that it is God himself who leaves the indent of his finger, just here,’ he touched the groove that ran from the bottom of her nose to the top of her lip.

  The whores listened on intently, safe in their dark room, taking turns in watching the man with the kindly way, perhaps a little heartsore and jealous that no one had thought to treat any of them thus, as they giggled and jostled past.

  James ran his fingers down Avril’s throat to her collar bone.

  ‘And this,’ he continued, ‘this long firm bone is called the clavicle, the key, as it unlocks the secrets of the shoulder to help it move.’

  He turned Avril around and gently eased the gown down from her shoulders. As he ran his hands along her back, recalling the bones and muscles that support it, she shivered at his touch.

  ‘You must speak,’ she said.

  James’s fingers traced the twin hollows on her lower back.

  ‘And these, the dimples of Venus, where Vulcan, the god of fire, touched the goddess’s body in a lover’s embrace. Thereafter, at each tryst he poured honey in them then sipped the amber fluid.

  ‘Between the love dimples, the os sacrum, the sacred bone, sacred because it was thought to carry the precious male essence from the spine to the yard and deep into the matrix. And so to here, in the cleft, the coccyx bone or cuckoo bird, because it looks like a cuckoo’s beak.’

  Madam’s eye widened at the scene before her through the spy hole. One of her girls had urged her to come and see what was transpiring in the bedchamber. She drew her breath in sharply as she watched James run his hands along Avril’s naked back, the girl holding the rest of her dress in front of her breasts as the examination of her body went on.

  In the room that held so much fascination to the other women of the house, James turned Avril to him and helped her out of the rest of her clothes as she blushed and kept her eyes downcast.

  He laid her slowly, gently, on the bed and looked at her. She touched his hand for reassurance and he smiled before continuing to speak.

  ‘So, to the via lactea, the milky way, the secret valley, bound on each side by those soft mounds topped by rosebuds. Their petals open to the touch of lips, the mammae that nurture the world.

  ‘One day you may feed a baby born of love. Many authors write of the best paps and teats. These writers say that the breasts should be of medium size, soft and unwrinkled, to receive and concoct there a sufficient quantity of milk.

  ‘They must be found free from the scars of former impostumes, the breasts must be firm and fleshy so that their vital heat may be stronger. As to the nipples, they must be well shaped, not too big nor too hard, nor sunk in too deep; but they must be a little raised, of a moderate bigness and firmness.’

  James touched Avril below her left breast. ‘And this, this mark is called a witch’s teat.’

  She shivered.

  His hands moved down to her navel. ‘Thy navel is like a round goblet which wants not liquor, or so it says in the good book.’

  She started to squirm away a little as James moved his eyes further down her body, and he placed a gentle hand on her thigh.

  ‘The omphalos of Greece, umbilicus of Rome, the centre to which was attached the funis, the navel-string, the cord, from here it is said there is total access to the underworld.’

  So saying, he put his finger into her navel and tickled her there.

  Madam had seen enough, and beckoning her girls to follow she left her hiding place and rushed in to the bedchamber, where she came upon a twisting, squealing Avril, flushed and breathing heavily on the bed.

  She pulled James up sharply from his seat on the bed in a flurry of damask and feminine outrage. ‘Shame, shame on you, enough of your strangeness for now!’ she said, and all but pushed him out of the door.

  ‘Madam, I meant no harm, and she has not been harmed. I must come back to see Avril again,’ he implored, stumbling as he tried to find his feet.

  She sniffed disdainfully; money was money after all.

  ‘So be it,’ she answered stiffly. ‘Until the next time then.’

  ‘This was a dreadful week of sorrows, of sickness and disease. Many mothers in St Joseph’s ward have died of inflammation of the womb,’ said Gregoire the Elder as he addressed his students, sadness written heavy across his face, plain for all to see.

  ‘At first there was the joy of birth and the newborns but then the devastation of the mothers’ departure from this life. We worked diligently to save the poor wretches but to no avail. Now we pray the terrible scourge will soon take its leave of our hospital. On the sad morning before us, and halfway through your time with us to learn how to become man-midwives, we must dissect five more women who left this valley of tears only yesterday to seek peace in the arms of the Saviour,’ he paused. ‘James, we will take your case study to start with.’

  ‘Marie Thérèse Renaud was twenty years of age, the wife of a candle-maker, delivered of her first baby last Tuesday,’ James started to relate the details of his patient.

  ‘Three days after the birth she felt a great heaviness in the bottom of her belly. She became swelled and blown up almost as big as before delivery. There was pain and discomfort making water and going to the stool. She had a great fever with difficulty breathing, hiccups and vomiting.’

  ‘And what of the lochia?’ asked his tutor.

  ‘Marie Thérèse had suppression of discharge from the fourth day,’ he answered.

  ‘Ah, the worst and most dangerous symptom that can befall a woman after delivery,’ said Gregoire the Elder, shaking his white head. ‘Continue.’

  ‘When the inflammation was perceived the cure of it was sought. The privvy parts were anointed with warm oil and an attempt was made to extract any such corrupt things as may remain in the womb after delivery.

  ‘The heat of the humours was tempered by a cooling diet of broth of pullet, not too strong of the flesh, with the cooling herbs, lettuce, purslane and borage. A drink concocted of the roots of succory, dogs-grass, barley and liquorice was administered, and a little syrup of maiden-hair.’

  ‘Which treatments were prescribed?’ asked the Elder.

  ‘Anodyne enemas were used to draw the lochia downwards. A decoction of camomile, mallows, asparagus and linseed was laid on the lower parts - the same recipe was also placed into the womb.

  ‘A very hot plaster with oil of lilies and hogs grease was placed on the lower belly. The thighs were bathed and rubbed downwards with an emollient decoction; cupping glasses were likewise applied to the inside of he
r thighs.’

  ‘Was she blooded in the foot?’ came the next enquiry from his teacher.

  ‘No, the redundant humours were bled from the arm as bleeding from the foot could increase the inflammation of the womb.’

  ‘Your regimen was most favourable, James,’ said Gregoire.

  ‘The fever had too great a hold on her. During the convulsions we prayed for her but death took her away. My heart was heavy for I was attached to her. Her infant girl is baptised Maria by the midwives, who also sorrow,’ James passed the information on sadly.

  ‘James, my son awaits you for the dissections. We will discuss Marie Thérèse with the other cases. Be about your business,’ and Gregoire put a heavy, reassuring hand on his shoulder as he left the room.

  James entered the quiet side room where post-mortems were carried out, eyes flitting quickly over the bodies that lay on tables covered with once-white sheets which were now stained with so much life blood. It broke his heart, and he sighed from deep inside.

  The room smelled of death and putrefaction. James resisted the urge to cover his nose with his hand, wishing he had a posy to mask the odour.

  Gregoire the Younger noticed his arrival and said, ‘Join me, James, for the dissection of Marie Thérèse, then we will work separately. I will keep the notes as required by the hospital board. We must be truthful and report fully any misadventure by the midwives, by ourselves or by the patient. Look most carefully to discover any putrefaction and its cause.’

  James nodded and slipped back the sheet to reveal the young woman’s body whose face and parts he knew so well of late.

  As he reached for the shining knife the saliva dried in his mouth, and he felt an unseen hand grip him by the throat. He could not take a proper breath.

  He could hear his heart thumping, hurting his chest. He took tiny, quick sucks at the air. He felt his hands tingling and shaking as he could not get enough of it into his lungs.

  He was much panicked. His legs shook and felt like they would support his weight no longer. His vision was covered with large black swimming shapes. He was overcome with an impending sense of doom; he was surely about to die. His heart must stop under the strain. He had to run, to escape, but he couldn’t move. As if from a great distance, down a hollow tunnel, he could hear Gregoire’s anxious voice.