heavensent
the two travellers, sheltering beneath a chestnut tree, are startled by a crashing, a harried thrashing, from above. It is Mme. Cochon, struggling to free herself from the embrace of an amorous upper branch. Her dainty wings churn the air, her stout legs kick furiously, and from a neighboring tree, a wild cloud of sparrows rises up in sisterly agitation. Mme. Cochon! cries Madeleine, whose earthbound perspective grants her insight into the situation. Your skirts! They are caught! The enormous woman heaves herself over so that she can unlatch her hem from the tree. Oh, bother, she gasps, this is always happening. Madeleine, in her excitement, treads upon the photographer’s toes. A face from home! It has been so long. She trots backwards and beams up at the woman, whose buttocks bob among the leaves like the hull of a capsized ship. With a crackling of twigs and a fluttering of wings, Mme. Cochon pulls herself upright. She calls down to Madeleine, Your mother doesn’t know what to make of you! The girl grins back at her: She never did! Adrien tugs at Madeleine’s sleeve: he hopes to take advantage of the fat woman’s surprising appendages. From up there, she can see the entire world, or at least a sizeable portion of it. Mme. Cochon! Madeleine hurls her voice at the sky. Have you seen a tall and pale-faced man pass this way? Carrying a porcelain basin, a length of rubber tubing, a silver candlestick, and a small family of flutes? You would have noticed his elegant costume; he dresses beautifully, no matter what time of day. The fat woman sails upward, always happy to oblige. The two travellers wait below, his hand clasping her paw. A black tailcoat? Mme. Cochon hollers. Satin breeches ruched at the knee? Oh yes! That’s him! The woman, high above them, points towards the horizon: He is headed for the hospital at Maryville.
the hospital
rising up from behind a hill, the hospital at Maryville has as many windows as it does patients; its hundred eyes glitter in the morning sun. For every patient, a window, floating high above his head — too high out of which to climb, or even to gaze. When passing by the hospital, one never sees a crazy face pressed against the pane. One is never made aware of the hundred lives contained within. Yet the feeling persists that the building, so modern and brick and glittering with glass, is animated by a peculiar intelligence, and that while the rest of the world is sleeping, at least one of those eyes is still open, and wakeful, and watching. The hospital eschews all reminders of its past. Do not call it the madhouse, or the lunatic asylum. All that was once dark and hidden and misshapen is now frankly examined in the light that comes streaming, unchecked, through these flashing windows. It is the Institute for the Study of Aberrant Behaviors and Conditions. When Madeleine rings at the front gate, a ruddy, uniformed matron appears, bringing with her the smell of laundry soap, square meals, sanitary practices. Her glance takes in the girl, the photographer, the little wagon brimming with canisters and bellows and bulbs. She spies the crippled hands. Come in, the matron says. Come in.
request
mother consults the chemist, once again. In his opinion, her letter should request M. Jouys release for reasons of utmost urgency. When writing correspondence of an official nature, he says, it is better to remain vague. He returns his spectacles to the bald crest of his head. No mention of marriage? Mother asks. The officials at Maryville might not approve, he says. Approve? Mother says. Who are they to approve? They should stick to drawing pictures. In a distincdy dispirited way, the chemist rearranges his selection of eye droppers. Nevertheless, he says, the fete of M. Jouy is in their hands, and if you desire him for a son-in-law, you must first arrange for his release from the hospital. Would it be dishonest, Mother asks, to describe myself as a member of the family? If I were you, he says, I would prefer the phrase: interested party. He sees that Mother is about to object.
misapprehended
oh no, adrien says, alarmed: We are not here as patients! Madeleine shakes her head. A terrible mistake is about to be made. The matron waits beside the door, rustling her skirts. Then why are you here? The director squints at them from across the expanse of his formidable desk. This is a good question. As the matron ushered them down the gleaming hallways, it became clear to the photographer that rescuing M. Pujol would require a great deal of cleverness and strategy. The wheels of the litde wagon had squealed upon the polished floor; a series of doors had stretched far away into the distance. The flatulent man had not, as they expected, been waiting for them in either a tower or a dungeon, rattling his chains and crying out their names. Well, Adrien says weakly. I am a photographer. He indicates the wagon resting beside him: I take photographs.
advances
the director smiles. Though his eyes are sunken, and his eyebrows overgrown, he has all the eagerness and bloom of a young man. It is he who oversaw the installation of the windows. Besotted with everything that is novel and newfangled, he sees, in the litde wagon, the possibility of further innovation. ’What do I spend my days in pursuit of? he suddenly asks. I seem to lead a sedentary existence — he flaps his hands at the desk, the matron, the shelves of books — but mine is a life devoted to the chase. Other doctors deal with sickness in all of its physical manifestations: a swollen abdomen, a blistered tongue, a scaly patch of skin. But illness does not always write itself upon the body, the sickness I search for is hidden deep within the brain. Sometimes it rises to the surface. Sometimes the face betrays what the body conceals. But these moments, these betrayals, last no longer than an instant. They come, they go, they pass over the patient, darkening and brightening his face like clouds gusting over a meadow. How is it possible, then, to tell what he is suffering when the visible signs of his inner disorder appear so fleetingly upon his face? I don’t know, says Adrien. Neither do I, says Madeleine. Removing himself from behind his desk, the director crouches down beside the wagon. He strokes the black box that sits among the canisters and bellows and bulbs, and his touch is reverent, as if the box might abruptly snatch off the first joints of his fingers. One science, he says, in aid of another. You, he says to Adrien, can capture that which I so hotly pursue. Adrien fails to understand. You will take pictures! the director says. You will photograph my patients. Their symptoms will show themselves in your photographs. Adrien nods, mystified. But who, the director asks, and stares at Madeleine, is she? My valuable assistant, the photographer answers, as Madeleine slips her hands beneath her thighs.