The Green Muse by Jessie Prichard Hunter Page A

I had cried upon awakening, lay in my bed and cried through the day, and gone to bed weeping. My mother had tried to speak to me but I could not bear it, I screamed at her and threw a book.
    And then two days ago she told me that today we were to go to Paris, and that I must ready myself. I did not know what to think. I had thought almost nothing for the entire week, except that my Louis was gone from me forever and that I had done nothing wrong. What I do with my body is supposed to mean so much—­only what he did to my body ever meant anything. A kiss, a touch only: a heaven.
    But my thoughts, my dreams! To be defiled that way was like an undressing, was like being touched with a stranger’s dirty hands. The pain was physical, it still was, on the station platform, an ache in the hollow under my ribs, a pain that ran straight through my body like the trail left by a knife.
    This was to be my dream, then. Waiting for a train to take my to my fairy-­tale city as a captive, with no idea why or where, and no right to ask. Clearly I had forfeited my rights as a person when my mother walked into my room. I know I committed a sin, but it did not feel like a sin; it felt like the only way I could touch Louis’ flesh.
    My mother looked at me with fear and contempt, as she had been looking at me for a week, and the train came.
    I hardly glanced out the window. I remember nothing of the scenery. Father talked about clocks until my teeth were on edge. Mother looked at me until I said something snappish, then I was sorry. That is all I remember.
    And then we were there. Here. A long, long row of trees, an imposing tall façade. I did not understand. The Hôpital Salpêtrière.
    I had heard of it, of course. A place for madwomen. The very finest, I heard my mother telling me. I wanted to run away, but I could not stop my feet from walking obediently beside my mother’s. She held my arm and I hated her; but I knew that from now on to show anger would be to show madness. I have effaced myself in order to survive.
    I felt dwarfed by my surroundings; I felt myself shrinking. Once inside, I could not adjust my eyes to the light. I could not accept the laughter I heard echoing around the great empty front lobby. Perfectly ordinary laughter, no doubt from the throat of someone insane.
    Somebody came. We were ushered into a room. I looked out the window, which gave onto a back garden. It was empty. Somebody came. He asked questions of my parents and ignored me completely.
    The entire time, I heard that laughter. Eventually it seemed to be coming from inside my own head; I wanted to ask if anyone else heard it, to scream. And then it was gone, as if it had never been.
    Suddenly everyone was on his feet. My mother was crying. My father held me awkwardly. My mother held me fiercely and whispered something that sounded absurdly like toiletry advice in my ear, something about flesh worms; I recoiled. And then they were gone.
    â€œI am Dr. Duret,” said the man who remained. He stood up at his desk. I stood and curtsied; momentarily I did feel as though I was insane because this could not be happening to me, I could not have been abandoned here.
    â€œSit down,” the man said. He did not say my name. I could not think of his. I sat. I was trembling, my hands, my knees. I was afraid he would see it. I knew he would see it. I looked him straight in the eye.
    â€œYou are suffering from green disease,” he said authoritatively. He started to go through the symptoms quite thoroughly, noting down the ones I apparently have: Yellowish, green, or blue hue to the skin. Hmmm. I would say there is a definite green pallor; now, let me see, open your mouth, yes, it is quite visible in the gums, although not so much in the lips. Now”—­quite suddenly pulling down my lower eyelid—­ “yes, there is a white here rather than a healthy pink tone.
    â€œHave you lassitude? Your father says you