Werewolf of Paris (35 page)

Versailles couldn't accommodate all these prisoners. They were guarded in great courts, halls, cellars, under the months of cannons, while Thiers vainly thumbed his history books to find a solution to the problem of taking care of this mass. Great batches, transported in long cattle trains, were sent to fortresses on the coast and summoned separately to their trials. Scores were to be condemned to death, hundreds were to be sentenced to imprisonment for life, thousands were to be deported to tropical islands.

*
These enormous figures are thus fairly credibly explained: The moaning of the great heap of dying and dead hostages would not cease. And it was impossible to tell where the sounds were coming from, so that there was nothing to do but keep on firing and stabbing until there was complete silence.

†
See Laronze,
Histoire de la Commune, p. 625, and Vuillaume, Mes cahiers rouges au temps de la Commune
, p. 116
et seq.

*
A pun in French. Resoled shoes are twice new, that is to say, “deux fois neufs,” which is also two times nine or eighteen.

Chapter Eighteen

W
here shall I end my tale?

This has neither beginning nor end, but only a perpetual unfolding. A multi-petaled blossom of strange botany.

Why should I not end here? Why should you want to know of the death of this werewolf rather than another? Consult your mortuary registers. Were these men and women? Or were they only disguises, disguises that concealed nameless monsters, warm incubators of infamies which would congeal your blood if brought out from their bowels into the light of day for you to see? The earth does not swallow the dead, but only their corpses which were the envelopes of their hates and crimes. These are never buried, but live on imperishable to write more gruesome records every generation.

What is it you would know? Sophie? The records of the Ministry of War, the
Gazette des Tribunaux
, inform us that she was condemned to be deported as implicated in the case of Barral de Montfort. He, himself, came to the trial, limping and his right arm withered by a shot through the nerve. He wept out of one eye. The other was dry and closed. It hadbeen eaten by flies as he lay for dead in the ditch beside the barricades of Place Voltaire.

The transport
Danaë
sailed on its interminable journey to New Caledonia, a journey lasting five months, without Sophie. Her father had brought his wealth into play and saved her from the penal colony.

His surprise had been great when he returned to Paris and learned of what had happened. Only one letter had come through to him. It was from Aunt Louise Hertzog and it told of the disappearance of Sophie. “And Barral de Montfort,” Aunt Louise wrote, won't tell me where Sophie is, but obviously he must know.”

The baron had read the letter with mixed feelings. But after he had considered for a while, he had decided: “Let fire burn.” And thinking of his wife and of Louise Hertzog, he had added: “And let ice follow the rules of ice, if it so desires.” And then he had chuckled: “Lucky Barral. If only I were in his shoes.—Ah, well, life goes on. A few years more, or maybe only a few weeks, and where will we be? Let her have her fling.” He had looked across his desk to a mirror hanging on the wall and he had noted the growing whiteness of his remaining sparse hairs. And as for Sophie, she had had her fling.

She did not know whether Bertrand was dead or alive. She did not care. She wanted to kill herself but could not summon the courage to meet death. The horror of the night was so strong in her that she took care not to go to bed too sober. Nor alone, if she could manage it.

Barral's heart was numb with pain at the sight of her conduct. He spoke to her in gentle reproach one day, when they were alone.

“Those men—” he stuttered, “those—how can you?”

“Why, you too, you poor fool!” she said gaily, and dragged him down to her on a couch.

He went home bewildered, entranced, all his old love reawakened and doubled. He forgave her everything. And next day begged her to marry him.

“What?” she asked, astounded. Then she wept. “Faithful, loyal Barral,” she said. “After all I've done to you.”

They set the date of the marriage for the morrow, and that gave her the necessary impetus to kill herself with gas that night.

Instead of accompanying her to the mairie for a civil wedding, he followed her body to the Cimetière Israélite at Père-Lachaise. Her father wept silently, her mother noisily. As the earth was spaded over her, Barral could not restrain his anger. He pointed his good arm to heaven and swore that he would have his revenge.

Aymar was released shortly by virtue of a non-lieu, but was summoned again at once to testify in the trial of the painter, Courbet. This bluff genius had been responsible, during the Commune, for the tearing down of the Vendôme Column, that huge bronze column surmounted by a figure of Napoleon. While the column was being pulled down to the applause of the populace, Courbet was heard to say: “That column is mad at me. I'll bet it's going to fall on me and crush me.” It did not fall on him, it fell precisely on the bed which engineers had built to catch it, but it did crush him.

Before the tribunal Courbet maintained that he had acted out of no hatred for the Little Corporal, but purely out of artistic motives. “That bad imitation of Trajan's Column annoyed me. I was ashamed to think that visitors should look upon that as one of the glories of French art. And then no consideration for perspective—and that statue of Napoleon done seven and a half heads tall, just because the rules say so, whatever the actual proportions of the little fellow were.”

The president said: “You were moved then purely by artistic zeal?”

And Courbet answered: “Simply that.”

He was condemned to six months in jail. And the cost of reconstruction, which came to over 350,000 francs, was charged against him. He had not that much money, so his paintings were seized and sold at auction. Today they would fetch enormous sums, and even in his own better days, but for the moment his fame was in eclipse. Even with his furniture thrown in, only 12,000 francs were realized. And the Salon refused to exhibit him any more, holding him morally unworthy. He ran away to Switzerland, but France continued to pursue and dun him. He died at last of a broken heart. And his death was passed over without a word. Courbetism and realism were for the moment out of style. The Impressionists were in.

As soon as Aymar was free he visited Bertrand at La Santé. The head physician was dubious about the possibility of release for the prisoner.

“He is in good health, but he has moments of rage. Then he smashes the furniture or attacks the guards.” The physicians saw nothing mysterious in Bertrand. He was just another case.

“Moments of rage?” said Bertrand bitterly to Aymar. “Why not? Who wouldn't in this awful hole?”

“You don't seem so anxious to die any more, do you?” Aymar asked.

Bertrand hung his head, as if an unwillingness to die were a shame. Imprisonment had made him keen for liberty and life. “Please, uncle,” he begged, “get me out of here. They treat me so miserably.”

Aymar smiled: “Get you out? How can I? And do you think you ought to be out? Wolves belong in a cage in the zoological garden.”

But then he thought: “Why should this one wolf be shut up for an individual crime, when mass crimes go unpunished? When all society can turn into a wolf and be celebrated with fife and drum and with flags curling in the wind? Why then shouldn't this dog have his day too?”

“Do you ever think of Sophie?” Aymar asked.

Bertrand closed his eyes as if in deep pain. But after a second he shrugged his shoulder. “Sophie. Yes, Sophie. Or any woman, for that matter,” he concluded fiercely.

“They don't provide women for the prisoners, eh?” Aymar asked.

Bertrand breathed heavily.

“Well,” said Aymar, “I shall see what can be done, but first tell me. Do you ever… well…change?”

Bertrand hung his head again.

“Indelicate question, eh? Like asking a girl if she—Yes, I quite understand.”

Though outwardly bitter, Aymar was sorry for Bertrand. The prison of La Santé was considered a model one, being only recently constructed, but metal and stone make at best a chilly abode. The director, with whom Aymar consulted, suggested that if Aymar wished to remove his nephew to one of the pay asylums licensed by the State, the permission could probably be secured.

It was thus that Bertrand found himself transported to Dr Dumas' sanatorium at Saint-Nazaire. Aymar, himself, had gone to inspect various places and had picked out this quiet retreat. Here, if anywhere, Bertrand would be comfortable and well taken care of.

The first aspect of the place was inviting. There was a large garden with old, spreading trees shading soft lawns. An old brick wall overgrown with ivy surrounded the estate with a sufficient but gentle barrier. Within the enclosed area were a main building of handsome exterior and several smaller structures. Inside were pleasant large rooms with windows looking out onto the park.

The patients were mild creatures. They had, perhaps, a tendency to think one thought over and over again like a wheel turning idly after the belt has slipped off. Or their minds followed some strange personal logic, their thoughts were off in a world of illusion, shut up in a private universe, or sunk into a permanent stupor.

Some sat in comfortable chairs on the terrace. Others strolled on the lawn, strutted about impersonating Shakespeare or Alexander, or else chased imaginary butterflies.—When visitors came to inspect Dr Dumas' establishment, these were the patients they saw. And the sight was almost pretty: children playing in a garden.

These were the show patients. It was intended that visitors should picture their dear ones in this scene. Yes, here would be an excellent spot for Mother who has lost the ability to direct her muscles, who can no longer control her bladder or her bowels, or lift her cup to her mouth.

“And can you cure them?” Dr Dumas is asked.

He is a handsome fellow. Well-built, serene, with the bearded face of a distinguished scholar. He replies evasively, but majestically.

“That depends on the individual case. We can
cure
some. We can
improve all.'”
He points out some of the patients sitting in the shade of the great chestnut trees and gives their case histories. It is enough to convince his visitors. And so poor Mother's last dwelling place is fixed upon. She will be better off here than at home, the sons and daughters assure themselves. “And we can see her every second Saturday afternoon and any other time upon written notice. Of course, the price is steep, but Mother is worthy of the best. Good old Mother. Some day she will be cured and we'll come and take her home again.”

But there is more to this hospital than the park and these droll troubadours who are exhibited to visitors. On the top floor, for example, there are certain rooms which are never shown to visitors, and which on visiting days are locked and barred, with the windows tightly shut. If the relatives of a patient in these rooms come to visit, the afflicted one is hastily washed up and made presentable, the violent ones are drugged if necessary, and brought into a special visiting room below.

“Yes,” says the doctor. “I can note improvements. Of course, to the medically untrained—” And when the relatives are leaving: “Now not too frequent visits, please. It upsets them too much emotionally. For best results our carefully worked out routine must not be broken.”

In these upstairs rooms are the patients with disgusting, beastly habits. Those who pollute themselves, who make constant obscene motions, those who argue and fight acrimoniously with an imaginary foe. Those who must be prevented from killing themselves and thus robbing the doctor of his fee.

In one room you may see a poor wretch who grovels on the floor, clinging with his nails to the flooring in mortal dread lest he drop to the ceiling. He has lost all sense of direction due to a disease of the inner ear and knows not up from down nor left from right. He cannot walk, he cannot lie. There is no longer any balance in him. But Dr Dumas has succeeded in keeping this man alive for three years.

In another room is a patient who must be fed, who must have her every want attended to. She is the daughter of a nobleman. She looks like a dwarf Chinese woman. She is over forty years old and has been in various asylums all her life. She is harmless, but disgusting, and there is no sense in attempting to tend to her every want. Once in a great while, when her white-haired father drives up in his fine barouche, an orderly throws the little runt into a tub of water, she is divested of her smelly clothes, scrubbed clean and brought down to the visiting room. Her father contents himself with a perfunctory look, hands over a check and leaves. He has heard of people paying through years for the care of a patient who has long departed to a better world and he is determined not to be taken in.

Elsewhere in these garret abodes are epileptics given to violence and horrible shrieks, sufferers of syringomyelia, whose limbs decay and drop off painlessly, melancholic individuals who must be chained in order to prevent suicide, and more horrible types without labels who are simply beasts unfortunately born from a human womb and therefore credited with a soul, and these are merely kept in a cage, for their locked rooms into which food is thrown are nothing else than that.

To Bertrand, intelligent, mild-looking young man that he was, Dr Dumas first assigned a nice room on the second floor. Bertrand was immensely pleased. And that very first night he made an attempt to escape. But Dr Dumas was no fool. He gave all his patients this very opportunity only to see how they reacted. The orderly, Paul, a brawny fellow who had gotten his muscles in a blacksmith's shop, was on guard. At midnight he saw Bertrand leap from the low balcony and go racing through the bushes. Paul ran to head him off, tackled him and thought to pin him to the ground with ease. But Bertrand had a vigor beyond his appearance and an unaccountable strength in his soft muscles. Moreover, he brought his teeth into play and his fangs ripped through the cloth of Paul's uniform and tore the flesh to ribbons. Paul howled with pain but held on. The two other orderlies came racing to the rescue and Bertrand was finally subdued.