The Child Lives On
Chapter Fourteen
She was introduced as Marie Antoinette, but was really Monsieur Cumberland's mother. Old and frail, and in a wheelchair, she greeted me with a friendly smile. I returned the smile and gave her my best curtsy. In an ornate sitting room, which smelled of lavender, we were attended by a slender teenage girl with bright red hair, wearing a modest black dress, white lace apron and white lace cap. Without even asking, she lifted me into a chair. "Mademoiselle," I said, "I do not want to seem ungrateful, but I am perfectly capable…"
"You don't need to be so formal, sweetheart," she said. "Just call me Lucy."
"Mademoiselle Lucy…"
"Is the tea ready, Lucy?" asked Madame Cumberland. She spoke in French, and refused to acknowledge any other language.
"Yes, Madame," answered Lucy.
While Lucy poured tea and served pastries, Madame Cumberland focused her watery eyes on me. "I do hope you will like it here," she said, lifting a porcelain cup to her lips with a trembling hand.
"It seems to be a nice place," was my response.
"From where have you come, my dear?"
"Barfleur."
"By the sea?"
"Yes, Madame."
"Lovely place. I remember it well. What brings you to Paris?"
Paris? Does she think we're in Paris? "Employment," I said, keeping it simple.
"And your line of work?"
"I am an herbalist."
"What, my dear, is an herbalist?"
"An herbalist cultivates and dispenses herbs, taking a holistic approach toward the healing of mind and body."
"Big words for such a small child."
"Must be a genius," interjected Lucy.
"Oh no," I said. "It has taken years to master the craft."
The dumbfounded looks were nothing new to me. I had seen them often over the years. The subject was quickly changed. Madame Cumberland spoke of Versailles and her imaginary husband Louis-Auguste. The history was not new to me, having lived during those troubling times. Biting my tongue, I fought the urge to correct her.
A heavy-set woman, much older than Lucy, wearing the same type of outfit, many sizes larger, entered the room. "Your Majesty," she said, "it is time for your nap."
Madame Cumberland sighed, "Very well, Mary," then reached over and gently tapped my shoulder with a decorative fan. "Feel free to wander about the palace, my dear."
Was I supposed to call her majesty? The egalitarian in me was appalled. Madame would have to do.
While Lucy was clearing the dishes, I hopped off the chair and smoothed out my skirt. "Excuse me, Mademoiselle Lucy," I said, "does this… um… palace have a library?"
"Yes, it does, sweetheart," she said, "but, as far as I know, we don't have any children's books."
"No matter. I will read the novels."
"You read novels?"
"French novels mostly: Hugo, Dumas, Nodier, de Musset-Pathay and others. However, a friend from London introduced me to some of the more recent English and American authors, and I am anxious to read more."
Lucy walked to the bookshelf, pulled out a book, and brought it to me. "If you don't mind," she said, opening to a random page. "Read this."
It was a selection from 'Twice-Told Tales' by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Why Marie Antoinette would have this book in her possession, I do not know. As far as I was concerned, it just added to the incongruity of the whole situation. To humor Lucy, I read two paragraphs, clearly and succinctly.
"You really are amazing," she said. "I can't wait to tell Mother about you."
This gave me pause. The last thing I wanted, or needed, was notoriety.
Costumed people were milling about in the lounge. I stopped to introduce myself, unprepared for what I found. Napoleon Bonaparte and the Duke of Wellington were matching wits in a game of chess. Abraham Lincoln was standing tall and erect behind a lectern, giving a speech. Lord Byron, George Washington, King George III, and Benjamin Franklin were playing gin rummy at a corner table. Oh dear, I thought. What kind of place is this?
Thomas Jefferson appeared beside me. I tugged on the hem of his coat. He looked down on me like I was a bug. "Excuse me, Monsieur," I said. "Is this a costume party?"
"What did you say, child?" he sniffed.
"Is this a costume party?"
"What, pray tell, is a costume party?"
"Never mind."
If he did not know, I was not going to tell him.
Upon entering the library, I felt I had died and gone to heaven. Row upon row of books met my gaze, in alphabetical order. I made a beeline for Dickens. Having heard good things about his work, I was eager to read him for myself.
A few pages into Bleak House, I gave up, unable to concentrate. The events which brought me to this place were jumbling up my mind, leaving little room for Dickens - or anything else for that matter. My adventure began with the death of Jacques, followed by heartache, tears and panic, followed by Monsieur Smythe's offer, a rash decision, and a voyage across the Atlantic Ocean - which, by the way, is very, very big. After a long, long voyage, our ship sailed into New York Harbor. When Manhattan and the pier came into view, I beheld more people than I had ever beheld in one place at one time, even in London. With the ship safely docked, we disembarked and weaved our way through the crowd to an awaiting carriage. I held onto Monsieur Smythe's hand as if my life depended on it - and I have no doubt it did. If I were to lose track of him… well… it was too horrible to contemplate. The carriage ride through Manhattan was nothing less than chaotic. Carriages, carts, horses and all manner of vehicles (some I had never seen before, and cannot begin to describe) came at us from all directions, narrowly avoiding collisions. Pedestrians dodged in and out and through traffic, risking their lives. And for what? Why were they in such a hurry? When we finally reached our destination, I was in such a state of confusion and anxiety, I could hardly function.
Monsieur Smythe left me with an associate, one Virgil Appleton and his family. By that time, my nerves were so frayed, I was unable to thank him properly. The Appleton's were friendly and accommodating. Suzanna, the ten year old daughter, shared her room with me. She was so sweet and charming, my doubts and fears fled for a time - only to return with a vengeance in the middle of the night.
Jacques Davignon was a friend, business partner, and the closest thing to a father I had known since Uncle Richard. I loved him as much as I had ever loved anyone. Like Clara forty years before, he drifted off in his sleep. Alone again, I was of two, or possibly three, minds concerning my next move. One thing was certain, I could not, and would not, stay in the cottage alone. Of my closest relatives, Goeffrey Willoughby was the only one to ever seek me out. I am not blaming the others. It is, after all, a long way from Toronto to Barfleur. In the end, I decided to find Goeffrey somehow. Was it the right choice? Only time would tell.
Monsieur Edward Cumberland, a stocky fellow with close-cropped hair and a large bushy mustache, came to fetch me the next day. His tailored suits and brusque manner proclaimed, "Man of business!" After bidding farewell to the Appletons, and thanking them for their kind hospitality, I went with him. On the train to Binghamton, New York, he broached the subject of his mother. "She won't be with us much longer," he said. "If you would visit with her for a short while, I would be most grateful."
While I was musing, a tall, bony man, with a large head and cavernous cheeks, entered the library and walked stiffly towards me. "Miss Emily Charbonneau?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"The doctor will see you now."
I suppose I could have run, but where to?
The man led me down the hall to an office and offered me a seat in front of a large desk. Bookshelves, photographs and diplomas covered the walls. A plaque on the desk read: Dr. Götz Grudenwaller. The man and Dr. Grudenwaller passed each other, going out and coming in. The doctor was short, thin and bald, with a monocle and a Van-dyke beard.
"Good morning, Miss Emily," he said, taking a seat behind his desk. "Do you know why you are here?"
"Where is here?" I asked.
"Sunnydale Home."
"A madhouse?"
"Certainly not!"
"I beg your pardon."
He cleared his throat. "Miss Emily, I repeat, do you know why you are here?"
"Is that a rhetorical question?"
He shook his head, all the while writing on his pad.
"I know, I know, I fell down a hole, and this is Wonderland." I clasped my hands together. "Oh, I cannot wait to meet the White Rabbit and the Queen of Hearts. Off with her head!" I shouted, causing him to jump. "Now I remember! The White Queen said, "I have believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast," or was it the Red Queen?"
"The White Queen," said the doctor.
"Thank you for clearing that up."
"Miss Emily, will you please answer the question?"
"What question?"
"Why are you here?"
"I have no idea."
"Why couldn't you have said that in the first place?"
"I just thought of it."
"Very well. I will tell you why you are here."
"Why did you not do that in the first place?"
"Touché."
I stared at the top of his bald head while he made a notation on his pad. What could he have possibly been writing? He set down his pen and looked at me.
"You are to be a companion to Mrs. Cumberland," he said, "otherwise known as Marie Antoinette."
"Why me?" I asked.
"You are French and unencumbered."
"Perhaps you should have asked me first."
"I was not aware you had not been asked."
I jumped to my feet. "This is kidnapping, Monsieur!"
"Is it? You are free to go, if you like."
"Where will I go?"
"It makes no difference to me."
I climbed back into the chair. "If you put it that way, I accept your generous offer. Will I be paid?"
"Room, board and pocket money."
"And all the books I can read?"
"Certainly, but you must be available whenever Marie Antoinette requires."
"I will do my best, Monsieur."
"I'm counting on it."
That night, I was installed in a small room next door to Madame Cumberland. She napped often, so I had plenty of free time. The administrators of Sunnydale were more than generous, providing fine quality yarn for my knitting, a plot for my garden and access to crafting and art classes. The maids, Lucy and Mary, were friendly and helpful, going out of their way to make my stay comfortable. As strange as it may seem, living in the madhouse was, as the Americans like to say, okay.
Mingling with the inmates, ahem, I mean residents, was both interesting and amusing. Here are a few examples:
When I spoke to Napoleon in the French language, he did not understand a word I said.
"But you are supposed to be French, Monsieur," I said. "You should speak in your native tongue."
"I have the accent," was his response.
He did have the accent, I will give him that.
When I addressed Mark Twain as Samuel Clemens, he looked at me like I had a hole in my head. "Monsieur," I said, "Samuel Clemens is your real name."
"You are mistaken, young lady," was his haughty response. "I am Mark Twain."
"Alright, Monsieur Twain, tell me about Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. How did you…?"
"Who?"
"Who? What do you mean..."
"Who are those people?"
"Monsieur Twain, Tom Sawyer or Huck Finn are your most famous characters."
"Young lady, I believe you are mistaken."
"I think not. If you were really Mark Twain, you would know…"
"Hrumph! I have the mustache, the hair and the white suit. What else do I need?"
What else does he need? Is this a madhouse or a theatre?
On the flip side of the coin, I enjoyed some interesting conversations, regarding mathematics and philosophy, with René Descartes. He was someone who knew his source material. I was truly impressed.
A large imposing building of red-brick, with an expansive yard completely surrounded by a barb-wire fence, was situated across the way. I could see it from my window. Whenever I walked alongside the fence, which I had to do from time to time, I heard wailing, screaming and other strange and terrifying noises, sending chills up and down my spine.
One day, as I was walking by, a man on the inside jumped out from behind a bush and pressed himself up against the fence, Naturally, I was startled, and took a step back. "Mon Dieu!" I exclaimed. He was skinny, with pale and pasty skin. A shaggy mop of hair and a long black beard hid his face. And to make matters worse, he was completely naked. Being the first time I had ever seen a full-grown man sans clothes, I was both appalled and curious. He stretched out an arm through the chain-link fence and beckoned to me with his hand. "Little girl," he gasped. "Help me."
"Monsieur, what is it you want me to do?"
"Open the gate."
"I am sure it must be locked."
"Find the key."
"I cannot imagine where it might be."
"Please, little girl, you must help me."
"Are they treating you badly?"
"Unspeakable horrors."
"I will have a word with Dr. Grudenwaller."
"It will do no good. Just open the gate."
"But how?"
"Please! Please!" he begged. "Oh, please open the gate!"
While we were conversing, two big, burly men, wearing white coats and hats, crept up behind him, and covered him with a robe.
The man screamed, "Help me, little girl. Help me," as they led him away.
I called out, "Be gentle, Messieurs."
One of the men turned his head and winked.
Mary came running. She must have seen me from the window. For such a large woman, she was surprisingly quick. Falling on her knees, she enveloped me in her arms, squeezing me tightly against her ample bosom. "Sweetheart," she said, "are you alright? Did that man frighten you?"
"No, no," I said, "I was not frightened."
"What a brave little girl you are."
"Do you think so? Back home they called me 'le chat peureux'".
"Well, they wouldn't call you scaredy cat now, believe me."
"Perhaps they would call me 'le chat curieux''.
"Oh ho! Is that so? Be careful, missy. Curiosity killed the cat, remember?"
"I am glad I am not a cat."
"But weren't you scared? Tell Mary the truth."
"Well… to tell the truth, if that fence were not there, I would have peed in my petticoats."
Her chins jiggled merrily when she laughed.
After the incident, I had a talk with Dr. Grudenwaller. He assured me that the patients in the other building were treated with the utmost respect. The unspeakable horrors were only a product of the man's disturbed imagination. With no reason to doubt his veracity, I took him at his word.
Several months later, on a lovely autumn day, when the leaves were changing colors and falling from the trees, I was taking a stroll on the grounds. Residents and their families were out and about as well, picnicking, strolling, playing, reading, and so on. When I saw him, I hid behind a tree - not because he was frightening, but because he was running toward me, yelling, "Little girl, little girl, I've been looking all over for you."
When he came close, I circled the tree, keeping it between him and me. We went around and around, this way and that way. "Little girl," he said, while we were playing our little game of keep-away, "I only want to thank you."
"For what?" I asked.
"For caring."
"Monsieur, I do not know what you are saying. I have never laid eyes on you before."
"Oh, but you have."
"When?"
"Over there by the fence, when I was trying to escape."
I stopped, dumbfounded. This tall, good-looking, well-dressed, well-groomed man could not possibly be that scrawny, shaggy madman. What could possibly account for the change?
"But I could not help you," I said.
"It was wrong of me to ask," he said. "I know that now."
"I do not understand. Why are you thanking me?"
"For caring."
"For caring?"
"When you called out, 'Be gentle', my heart was touched. I knew then that someone really cared."
"But the people here…"
"No, no, it's all so cold and clinical."
"Is it? I did not know."
"Will you sit with me for a while?"
With no reason not to, I acquiesced.
On a nearby bench, he described how drink had led him down a path to madness; and how, when he was cured, he had joined up with a local temperance organization to help fight what he called the plague.
"But in France," I said, "wine is a staple, and we have very little madness."
"Ah," he said dismissively, "how can a child know," then went on to describe, at length, his mission.
From what I could see, he had simply found a new madness, joining with busybodies who wish to dictate to others- for their own good, of course. But if you start outlawing and banning things, where will it end? Should the majority suffer because a few cannot control themselves? Of course, I sat meekly and quietly nodding my head. There was no stopping him.
At the first opportunity, I asked Dr. Grudenwaller about the young man.
"One of our finest success stories," he said, preening a little.
As I spelled out my concerns, he leaned back in his chair, stroked his beard, and gave my opinion due consideration. "It seems to me," he said, "you are nitpicking. When you have seen the light, it's only natural to want others to see it."
"Yes," I said. "I am all for education; but when you use the force of government…"
"Tut, tut, my dear, this is only a few religionists venting their spleen. It won't go very far."
Again, I took him at his word.
That short while, spoken of by Monsieur Cumberland, lasted fifteen years. The years were, for the most part, pleasant and enjoyable. Madame Cumberland was always kind to me. Apart from her one big delusion, she was really quite sane. I enjoyed gourmet meals, wore the finest clothing and lived a life of ease. But as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end.
Madame Cumberland declined steadily. It was hard to watch someone slowly fading away. Near the end, she became disoriented, often forgetting who I was. I remained by her side, regardless. When her breath left her, I cried.