The Dedalus Book of French Horror: The 19th Century (21 page)

‘No, I am not a doctor. Leave me alone.’

‘Yes, you are. I can tell. Come home with me. You won’t be disappointed, I promise.’

‘Not before I see a medical certificate that you aren’t full of pox.’

‘Ha! ha!’ she said, still clinging to my arm, bursting into a laugh. ‘A doctor with a sense of humour. I’ve known many like you. Come on home.’

Ever optimistic of solving such riddles, for I am a passionate lover of mysteries, I allowed myself to be guided along by my companion, or rather my unexpected enigma.

I shall omit describing the hovel where she lived; you can find any number of such passages in the work of many old and celebrated French poets. Only – and this is a detail you won’t find in Régnier
¹
– there were two or three portraits of famous doctors hanging on the wall.

How she pampered me! A blazing fire, mulled wine, cigars; and as she waited on me, the peculiar creature lit up a cigar for herself and said:

‘Make yourself at home, dearie, make yourself perfectly comfortable. Doesn’t it remind you of the hospital and the good old days of your youth. Speaking of which, what was it that turned your hair grey? You weren’t like that not so long ago when you did your internship under L—. You were the one, I seem to remember, who always helped him with the serious operations. Now there’s a man who really enjoys cutting, carving and trimming! You were the one who used to pass him his instruments, threads and sponges. And when the operation was over, he would look at his watch and proudly announce: “Under five minutes, gentlemen.” Oh, I get everywhere. I’m very friendly with all the medical gentlemen.’

A few moments later, still addressing me as if we were old friends, she was back on her hobby-horse again:

‘But you are a doctor, aren’t you, my kitten?’

This meaningless refrain made me leap to my feet. ‘No!’ I shouted in a fury.

‘A surgeon, then?’

‘No! No! Not unless someone pays me to cut off your head!’ And I swore at her.

‘Just a moment,’ she replied. ‘I want to show you something.’

She opened a cupboard and took out a packet of papers, which consisted entirely of a collection of portraits of famous doctors of the day, lithographed by Maurin,
²
and which for many a year you used to see displayed on the quai Voltaire.

‘How about this one? Do you recognise him?’

‘Of course. It’s X—. The name is written on the bottom too. But I’ve never met him personally.’

‘I was right! Look, here’s Z—. He was the one who said of X— during a lecture to his students: “The monster! The blackness of his soul is revealed by his face!” And all because they disagreed with each other on some point or another. How they laughed about it at the Medical School at the time! Do you remember? And here’s K—. He was the one who denounced to the authorities the insurgents who were under his care at the hospital. That was during the 1848 uprising. How could so handsome a man possess so little charity? Now here’s W—, the famous English doctor. I cornered him during his visit to Paris. You could mistake him for a girl, couldn’t you?’

And as I picked up the packet tied with string which she had placed on the side table, she said: ‘Wait a moment. Those are the interns and this packet contains the externs.’

And she spread out in the shape of a fan a mass of photographic images showing much younger faces.

‘Next time we see each other, you’ll bring me your portrait, won’t you, dearie?’

‘What makes you think,’ I replied, pursuing my own obsession, ‘that I am a doctor?’

‘Because you are so kind and gentle to women!’

‘Curious logic!’ I said to myself.

‘Oh, I hardly ever make a mistake. I have known so many of them. I like their company so much that I sometimes call on them, even though I am not the least bit ill. There are some who say to me coldly: “You are perfectly well!” But there are others who understand me well enough from the looks I give them.’

‘And when they don’t understand you?’

‘Strewth! As I have disturbed them for nothing, I leave ten francs on the mantelpiece. They are so good, so gentle, those men! I discovered at the Pitié hospital a young intern who was as pretty as an angel and ever so polite. How hard they made him work, the poor lad! His friends told me that he was quite penniless because his family is poor and unable to send him anything. That gave me confidence. After all, though I’m not as still a good-looking woman. I told him to come and see me as often as he liked. You don’t need any money, I said, so no worries on that score. I didn’t tell him this straight out, you understand, but he knew what I meant; the last thing I wanted to do was humiliate him, the dear child. Would you believe it that I have a strange fantasy which I daren’t even mention to him? I would like him to come and see me complete with his instruments and his operating gown spotted with blood!’

She said this in a perfectly candid manner, just as a tender young man might say to the actress with whom he is in love that he wants to see her in the dress she wore when she created some famous part.

I returned obstinately to the subject which fascinated me: ‘Can you remember the first time you had this fantasy and how it came about?’

She didn’t grasp my question at first and it was only with the greatest of difficulty that I made myself understood. When she replied it was with a sad expression and, as far I remember, she even averted her eyes: ‘I don’t know … I can’t remember.’

What strange phenomena we find in a great city, all we need to do is stroll about with our eyes open. Life swarms with innocent monsters. Lord, creator of all things, you, the Master; you who wrote the Holy Law and gave us Liberty; you the sovereign who lets us do as we please, you the judge who forgives us; you who are full of motives and causes, and who perhaps implanted a taste for horror in my mind so as to win over my heart, like a cure at the tip of a knife-blade; Lord, have pity, have pity on madmen and madwomen! Oh, Creator! Can monsters exist in the sight of Him who alone knows how they were invented, how they
invented themselves
, and how they
might not have invented themselves
?

  
1
   
Régnier.
Mathurin Régnier (1573–1613), French poet famous for his satirical portraits.

  
2
   
Maurin.
Nicolas-Eustache Maurin (1799–1850), French lithographer.

With her veil pulled down to her chin, muffled in furs, and grasping her skirt in both hands like a woman who has dressed in haste, the little baroness darted out into the street where the early morning mist still hovered over the ground. She stopped for a moment in mid step, as if hesitating, and glanced to her right and left with the neck movements of a bird perched on a branch unable to make up its mind in which direction it should fly off. Then, she precipitated herself into a cab, calling out an address to the driver. As soon as she was huddled in a corner, still shivering with cold, or perhaps fear, her muff against her lips, snug amongst the warmth of velvet and silk, a pink and black object slipped to the floor from beneath her coat: a satin corset padded inside the empty cups in order to swell the size of the breasts. What an unimaginable occurrence! The baroness, exquisite woman of the world that she was, looked no different from any other common tart shyly making her way home through the morning streets having neglected to don the fragile armour of whale-bone whose ineffectiveness was clearly proclaimed by the defeats of the previous night. She did not even stoop to pick up the corset. She was reliving every guilty moment of the charming night she had passed in a bachelor’s apartment, where the perfume of the boudoir had been mixed with the smell of Russian leather and fine cigars between walls decorated with ancient coats-of-arms and crossed swords; she dreamt of the sudden transport of an unexpected embrace, of the frenzied unclasping of garments, and of lingering caresses with their languid promise of acceptance and denial. From time to time, she turned her gaze towards the street, which was still grey but gradually becoming pink; under the arches of the main entrances to the buildings dairymen were lining up their pewter churns with copper lids; outside a half-open shop a porter was delivering the morning papers to a woman who was rubbing the sleep from her eyes; office workers flitted along the walls, thin, dark shadows, with their collars turned up and a croissant between their teeth. But she looked without seeing, still recalling the carnal joys of the night, hugging herself in order to prevent their memory from escaping as if they were some garment whose material is soft against the skin.

The cab drove past a church.

The baroness saw the enormous sombre portal which looked as though it is never opened and, to the right, a side door which was ajar. As if struck by some sudden revelation, a strange gleam came into her eyes, all the more remarkable because of the gentleness of their expression, behind her veil – the first glimmer of desire or the sign of a fresh curiosity awakening within her. A laugh – crafty, cruel, slightly mocking, though none the less charming – came to her lips. ‘Coachman! Stop the horses!’ she shouted as she bundled the corset under her coat. She got out of the cab and went into the church, which was deserted except for two or three old women kneeling as they muttered their prayers to themselves by a confessional box, the stout black soles of their shoes plainly visible beneath the muddy hems of their skirts. At that moment a tall, young priest, austere and devout in appearance, emerged from the vestry and made his way towards the tribunal of penitence. The little baroness installed herself on a pew a little to one side and bowed her head while awaiting her turn. She buried her head in her handkerchief. The examination of her conscience was undoubtedly an extremely edifying experience.

***

And why not? Is it not possible to be a good Christian and in love at the same time? Do not the sins of the flesh share the same joys and, alas, the same sense of remorse? We repent our fault with the same ardour with which we commit it; we are as sincere before God as we are with our lover. Mouths which mutter the maddest and most profane promises do so only in order to receive forgiveness; the memory of our transports of delight are but an invocation to the mortification of the flesh. And heaven, whose mercy is infinite, does not fail to welcome the penitent sinner, even when that same sinner has managed to escape from evil in order to purify herself in the well of goodness only a few minutes before – even when her precocious repentance leaves behind it in the temple of God a distinctly sexual odour.

***

Certainly, as the baroness knelt before the confessor, her body emanated an extremely distressing aroma of barely extinguished passion; and the fragrant memory of her sexual deviation mingled uncomfortably with the mawkish smell of incense. As she humbly bowed her powdered forehead, she left a trace of make-up on the grille of the confessional! Above all else, though, she should have contrived to hide the corset which she carried in her hand, not knowing what else to do with it, still impregnated with tell-tale perfumes between her hands clasped together in prayer. But she was utterly absorbed in her repentance, her religious devotion commanded her attention to such a point that she had no mind to worry about such matters. It was with devout humility that, after the customary sacred responses, she confessed her sin.

***

After a long resistance, she had finally consented to go one evening to the apartment of the man she loved. Immediately, he had stationed himself at her feet, whispering such tender remarks to her and reminding her of the ball where they had waltzed together for the very first time, she so white, with bare arms and neck, leaning against his black evening attire amid the swirling dancers, her heart beating through the living marble of her stomach against his own.

‘The sin was already committed!’ she exclaimed.

After a silence of several seconds – as if he had to catch his breath – the priest replied:

‘God’s mercy is infinite.’

Encouraged by these words, she went on with her confession:

‘He spoke to me without respite, more and more ardently! These shoulders, which everybody had admired, would he never see them alone? These arms around his neck which were like Paradise to him, would he never be permitted to kiss them? His blasphemy knew no bounds, Father! And, still sitting on the floor, he kissed the tips of my fingers, the nails, attempted to part – oh, how I blush just to think about it – the lace of my gloves. I should have left at that moment, but I hadn’t the strength. He had already conquered me and, utterly abandoned, I allowed my head to fall back against the chair, my eyes full of tears which said yes.’

She paused again.

‘Alas! God will punish me for my weakness!’

This time there was no response. Had the confessor, shocked beyond words, retired? She could not see him for her head was in her hands, plunged into the corset. But no, he was still there next to her, for she could here his laboured breathing. The enormity of the sin was beyond the comprehension of the young priest. Eventually, he mumbled something in a deep, hesitant voice. It was a supreme act of charity.

‘Do not despair, my child.’

She began to speak again as if the need for repentance overwhelmed her. Devoutly cruel to herself, she spared her modesty no blushes as she continued her painful confession. She recounted everything to him, every abominable delight of the adulterous bed, every one of love’s perverse strategems, every caress suggested to her
by the swarm of fallen angels hiding in the folds of the curtains
, caresses which were repeated and returned continually until the light of dawn began to creep into the room to place a kiss on their pale lips. Like a true penitent spurred on by the arguments of the casuist, she spared him no detail until, as if terrified of forfeiting her salvation, she burst into tears which rolled down her face, dampening the pink and black corset still in her hands.

The confessor said nothing.