SCARS
"Ah, God! What trances of torments does that man endure who is consumed with one unachieved desire. He sleeps with clenched hands; and wakes with his own bloody nails in his palms."
--Herman Melville
1.
It was the second week of the siege in the winter of 1870 when I first arrived at the Opéra. The cold, gaunt hand of misery had spread its fingers over Paris, and all I can remember thinking about was how hungry I was. Food, while in my life never a luxury, had not been meager before that fateful year, and I had always had a guilty need for things of which the pâtisseries were now in short supply. Yes, it was hunger and cold that dominated everyone's thoughts in those days.
Fortunately, there was gratitude in my heart to temper the terrible suffering I had seen before me in the past few weeks. One has to be glad when a narrow escape from death has just filled the horizon! Terror and gratitude were interspersed amongst my blind perceptions of the day when the Prussian shell landed on the Hôtel-Dieu.
It was well-known that the Prussians--increasing our French sentiment of bitter hatred toward Germans--found grim strategic delight in targeting hospitals and orphanages. Babette--my friend and fellow nurse--and I had been witness to enough of these exceedingly bloody and doleful wreckages in our servitude to the hospitals those past few weeks. So it should not, perhaps, have taken us by surprise that day when we were talking down the old cobblestoned rue with crates of supplies--make-shift bandages apprehended from our pleadings with wealthy grandes dames as well as medicines.
It truly must have been a stroke of God's mercy that we two were not caught in the blazing, unkind blow that had left so many Parisians dead already. In shock we gazed at the smoke from far down the street, knowing already in our hearts that the worst had indeed transpired. The first impulse, of course, was to rush to the charred and broken-down remains of the building and administer help to those caught in the blast. Upon coming closer to the scene, however, a building panic arose. When we saw victims rushing madly past us away from the flames, ensuing terror gripped us and we began to flee, too, carried off with the throngs in any direction to relieve the utterly petty but inherently human emotion of fear.
Babette might have gone back. Her fear was of the quiet kind that remains wild-eyed at every instant and moves only if forced. But I admit I had not the saintly spirit to contend so compassionately with misfortune. So I ran. It was Babette, however, who suggested the Opéra. In the midst of quiet, shaking sobs, she said, "The Opéra, Manon . . . it's a government building--they may have need of nurses . . ."
We were near the still-uncompleted building, so I assented in the fever of the moment. I truly did not know much of Charles Garnier's architectural offspring. I had come to Paris little more than a year before that October and all of that time had been spent in hospitals. I was barely able to recognize it as Babette and I continued to race down the Boulevard des Capucines, our hands still conjoined over the foolish box of medical supplies we shared between us. The half-finished façade of the squat, square building almost passed me by.
Babette pulled at my sleeve and rushed up to a door, pounding away with her industrious little fists. How she knew which door to go to is utterly beyond my understanding, but I did not question her intuition. Presently--and perhaps a bit miraculously--the door was answered. As the building had been requisitioned for the storage of government supplies, I was unsurprised to be accosted with a soldier of some rank.
"Sisters of charity?"
I quickly spoke up with more calm than I felt. "The Hôtel-Dieu has been shelled, Monsieur."
The soldier's look was one of puzzlement. "But we have no wounded here. This building is for supplies only. I have but a small contingent of men stationed within."
"No doubt, but consider, if you will, Monsieur," I interceded with boldness born of desperation, "the shelling is only to get worse within the next weeks. It may be very convenient indeed to have two nurses easily within your power."
It was the most I had said to anyone all day, but the soldier's gaze was focused on Babette, her teeth chattering in both cold and fear. Babette could have been the symbol of the waning France. Before I had known her, I believed she had been very healthy and flushed with flesh and life. Now she was unnaturally thin and her blonde hair, when it escaped from beneath the cap and veil she wore, was sparse and colorless. The ungainly results of the fall of the first bloody shells shown in her stricken, unhappy figure.
The strain could not have been so easily reflected in me. I had never been beautiful, though not necessarily unpleasant to look upon. At the age of thirty compared to Babette's twenty-one years, maturity had hardened features already prone to a morose appearance. I was slight and dark, a sign of my country upbringing, in contrast to Babette, la Parisienne.
Perhaps the soldier took pity on the state of France reflected in my companion. In any case, he relented and helped us inside the building. Into the room which would one day be the auditorium for the Opéra he led us. We were greatly astonished at the size of the building and the dimness of the light within.
"What is that you're carrying?" the soldier inquired.
"Bandages and medicines," Babette murmured quietly.
"Not food?" remarked the solider in a mordant style entirely befitting a man grown old before his time. "How naïve an action for two young ladies who have no friends in the world."
"I beg your pardon, but I was most sure the good fighting men de la patrie would not mind sharing their provisions with two humble nurses."
The soldier smiled as he lit a cigar quietly, the smoke causing Babette to cough weakly. Dusting off his gnarled hands on his faded officer's uniform, the soldier stood at attention and saluted. "I am Captain Gérard Collier, at your service."
"This is Sœur Marie Babette," I replied as Babette dropped a novice's curtsy, "and I am Manon Lapaine."
Collier's eyebrows furrowed like two distressed charcoal cinders. "So you are not a nun?" he questioned blankly.
"No . . . not exactly," I murmured.
Wearing the same dark-colored gown and pinned white apron as the sisters of charity who had left their convents to attend the civilians caught in this siege, I was easily able to fade into the persona of a nun. Yet, like the American woman Clara Barton who was on the German border as I stood in the Garnier Opéra, I typified myself as an independent relief worker. I had been nursing in the Hôtel-Dieu ever since I had entered Paris, not at the advent of the siege. Oh, I had once been as convent-bound as Babette. But when I blankly informed the Mother Superior I had no intention of fulfilling my vows and becoming a bride of Christ, there were not many options. I was twenty-nine and marriage out of the question, so I came to Paris to be nearer to my brother. I did not want to burden him with the added expense of a spinster who could not earn her keep, so nursing seemed the most practical solution. I was given a very small allowance and meals for free, so my career began.
Collier seemed to accept this complicated answer with some hesitancy, but as custom was not to doubt the word of a lady, he at last gave in. "Come with me," he commanded in weary tones owing to a man consumed by the darkness of what would be known as "the terrible year."
Babette and I obeyed at once, rushing to keep up with Collier's defensive gait. He moved rapidly through the deserted hallways, as empty and strange as the belly of a hungry beast. It was only the outer shell of the building, which was not at all completed, and the inner workings were so rife with shadows it was enough to give an impressionable mind a feeling of extreme uneasiness. The half-finished carvings of nymphs and the immortals of opera (who they were I had no idea) did not seek to reassure, only to dishearten with their open, glassy eyes, too much like death for any but the most profane not to shiver.
Collier opened several doors and led us through to what would one day be the principal singers' foyer, large and spacious but not nearly as fashionable as the slanted room which would become the foyer de la danse. "You may stay here," he said simply.
Babette and I looked at each other, at the empty expanse of the unfinished room, unable to utter a response. There was nothing but wooden floors leading to corridors.
Collier seemed to sense our confusion and coolly took a lantern from a nail on a doorway, lighting it with a tinder. He looked at us, still clinging to the basket of supplies. "We can give you standard issue blankets and bedding, if you like."
Instilled with the propriety of the weaker sex, I could only scowl at the idea of "standard issue" anything. I knew the state of the country at the moment and should have been grateful for anything--I was alive, wasn't I? That hateful, uncharitable, unwomanly feeling clutched again at my weak breast, and I bit my lip in shame.
Endeavoring to look at Captain Collier with complete humility and gratitude, I said, "We thank you for your consideration, Captain."
Collier stare at me for a long moment, emotions remaining unfathomable in his bloodshot eyes. He glanced back at the mute figure of Babette. He then nodded. "Come with me, please. I should like you to know the depth of this place you're calling home."
Briskly Collier walked his unrelenting step as I followed, attempting to preserve some kind of maidenly dignity. Babette straggled behind like a child. We ducked down through more archways and doors, back near the original door through which we came, though the bewildering labyrinthe quality of this future opera house made me question the sanity of this architect Garnier.
We stopped at what I believe would have been the wings of the future stage, to a well-lit and cozy--though perhaps dingy-looking--room. Inside, uniformed men loitered, some perched at central square table in rickety chairs, playing cards animatedly.
"Attention!" hollered the Captain. The men rushed to throw down their cards--taking precautions, I saw, to hide their hands from the other players--and stand in the edgy obedience of men in a starving city.
"Two sisters of charity will be living among us," Collier declared, sauntering up and down the aisle between his men. "They are here to nurse the wounded, and that is all. You will treat them with all the proper respect that is due to ladies. Is that understood?"
A rapid, loud, "Yes, sir!" followed--so sharp it reminded me of a firing squad. The soldiers looked at Babette and I, curiosity being the only emotion I could discern. Quietly each edge of the room peered at the other, as if sizing up those comrades one was thrown together with in the hour of the most dire struggle, the most critical facet of life. Could we trust each other? was the inevitable question that poured forth from a dozen eyes. Ah yes, propriety was the marker of civilization--but the virtue seemed ill at ease here in the loneliness of the Opéra.
Collier turned and left the room, motioning for us to follow. We did, and he continued on, this time dipping down a staircase that seemed to lead into even more impenetrable shadows as we entered what I would learn was the first cellar. Below the stage.
"I have a contingent of men stationed down here as well," Collier murmured. "This is where we store the provisions."
He sharply turned the corner, opening a door and peering through. "Salted horsemeat," he explained, gazing at the darkened room with slabs of meat hung from hooks in the ceiling. Babette coughed and pressed her hand over her mouth.
Collier shook his head. "Revolting, isn't it? Now you see this is no place for the delicacy of women." He seemed to sneer as he closed the door and began to walk away. A short little flame burst below my ribs--a desperate one that begged for survival.
"You live in Paris," I called after the Captain. "You must know death is only an inch away. You need not take any extra pains for our 'delicacy.' We are trying to live. We are prepared to do whatever it takes to do so."
It was a very unladylike thing to say. Meekness and propriety were in Collier's right; our stay would be very impertinent indeed. But only on the brink of disaster did Paris realize impertinence was life.
Collier sighed. Babette sighed. I could not tell if she agreed with me. Still, Collier wearily said, "Well then, come on."
He led us to a closet where liters of wine was stored and then to another large room where more men playing cards were brought to attention and made to take the same vows as before.
As Collier, Babette, and I began up the stairs again, Collier's tone suddenly became grave. "You must promise me, Mesdemoiselles, that you will go no lower than this first cellar."
Babette and I looked at each other in bewilderment. We did not dare voice our confusion, but Collier went on. "There are five cellars under the Opéra. The substage section has been carved out of underground rock and there is a lake-"
"A lake!" I exclaimed.
He looked at me. "I have been told. None of my men have ever seen it."
"The descent is so precarious?" I questioned.
"Yes. It's very dangerous. Tunnels, passageways . . . it's an endless world. You must not go down."
"Of course we won't," I said.
Collier seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Catching Babette's gaze, he added impishly, "The men say there is a ghost who lives below."
"A g-ghost?" Babette asked.
"Come now, Mademoiselle," Collier admonished, "aren't you a good Catholic?"
Babette gulped and flushed, and Collier smiled for the first time. "Come along. You must be exhausted."
However, I lingered for a moment in the first cellar. I perceived it was not incautious to believe in ghosts in this place and time. The sounds of the creaking stage could almost be interpreted as sighs. In my memory, a faint violin music began to play and a sudden darting shadow made me turn. No, but I was alone still.
Yes, alone.