11

IT WAS SOMETHING LIKE ENTERING a convent. (What has become of Madeleine Dampierre? Perhaps she’s dead, or perhaps she lives yet, seeing out her days as a reformed whore in some convent in New Orleans, her face encased in the wimple of the Sisters of Charity; a face the good nuns had taken for yours, a face that you’d just as soon erase from your memory, as though in ceding to her your given Christian name you had committed an unforgivable sin. And what sin would that be? Creating a double identity just to confuse the celestial registry? And thinking about your name, about your multiple and scattered names, you imagine it, above all, in Cuba, locked away in the dusty archives of courts, magistrates, jails, and hospitals; written on accusations, printed in pamphlets and in moth-eaten newspapers. Who knows? If she’s still alive in this world, your name might even be stored away in Juanita’s memory as well, an old and withered Juanita, almost certainly a widow, who might be remembering, as you are today, her years of youthful vigor in the sultry and far-flung city of Baracoa. But why such a remorseful tone this morning? The sun has risen in all its brilliance and yesterday’s snow has begun to melt, trickling down the windowpane. Why not imagine that your name, Henriette Faber-Cavent, or Enriqueta, as you were known in Cuba, might meet a happier fate, perhaps raise its head in some old tome of medical history, noting you as a pioneer among female doctors? Indeed, at this sun-drenched moment, with your optimism on the rise, who’s to say, my dear friend, that in the future, that open and conjectural time for which you claim to write, that some extravagant biographer won’t be taken with your life story, or even that some novelist, yet to be born, won’t discover your memoirs in an antique book auction and decide to reinvent you as a heroine, if only for the novelty of imagining the same woman as a widow, soldier, mother, doctor, and husband, and that’s assuming they don’t also confuse you with our dear Madeleine and attribute to you as well the avatars of whore and Sister of Charity.) In any case, as I was saying, it was something like entering a convent:

I cut my hair.

I changed my name.

I severed ties with friends and family.

I dressed in black.

I went to live alone in a cell-like room in the Latin Quarter, which, in those days, was still a hive of grisettes, poets, and students.

Was I happy, accounting for the fact that there are many types of happiness, all of which are fleeting? Yes, absolutely. A happiness tied up in the joy of seeing myself capable of shattering that false sense of security that everyday life affords us, of breaking with the routines that had slowly been enveloping me in a soft and warm eiderdown quilt of hot chocolate and pastries and the Gazette de France at eight in the morning; a vigorous and stimulating happiness like an early-morning drum roll or the mountain air; a happiness similar to the way I felt when, leaving Maryse and my carriage behind, I saddled Jeudi and, dressed as a Mameluke, set out into the unknown.

In those days, the study of medicine was enjoying a surge of popularity among educated youth, an interest linked to various changes that had been implemented in medical instruction after several years of total neglect. The conceptual bases that formed the foundation of the nouvele école were the incorporation of surgery and medicine as branches of a single science—until then held as separate disciplines—and the validation of clinical practice over theory. The observation of patients came to be seen as irreplaceable, and the words of Cabanis, one of the fathers of the new school, were drummed into any new student: “The true education of any young doctor is not to be found in books, but rather at the patient’s bedside.” Nevertheless, the Faculty did recognize the importance of theoretical study, implementing a curriculum that encompassed anatomy, physiology, pathology, surgery, obstetrics, pharmacology, chemistry, physics, natural sciences, and the history of medicine. But even within the confines of the university’s classrooms, practice was favored over theory. The importance conferred on the dissection of cadavers was such that it constituted its own school, awarding students who distinguished themselves with gold medals. The instruction we received was empirical and materialist; its outlook realist and democratic, due, in large part, to our instructors’ experience of the Revolution and to the surgical training they’d acquired in military hospitals.

Matriculation was open to all, although the various districts throughout the country had the right to name Élèves de la Patrie, local young men specially selected by means of a competition who would receive the meager support of a State stipend. In the Paris Medical Faculty there were, perhaps, three hundred of these young men. They lived in attics full of rats and old books, wore clogs and dressed in dirty, mended clothing, drank sour borage tea and sopped stale bread at all-night soup stands. Many were peasants’ sons, humble people who knew well that, had the laws giving them the opportunity to study not been passed, they would never have left their towns and villages. Taciturn and distrustful, they were ferocious competitors, driven by ambition. They liked to show off their knowledge of Latin, even though in the Faculty it was already becoming a dead language: all instruction was given in French and very few doctoral candidates wrote their theses in the classical style. The rest of the students lived better; the ones from Paris, still living with their parents, did not have to pay for food and lodging; those who came from the provinces and from abroad—as was, supposedly, my case—came from families of means and received allowances that afforded them a certain degree of comfort. In general, quite in contrast with the intense and solitary “state students,” they were jovial lads quite content to take a grisette as a lover. Because medical school was more demanding than any other discipline—in addition to the huge number of hours dedicated to clinical practice, there were no vacations, attendance lists were passed at the start of each and every class, and the oral and written exams could not possibly have been more rigorous—students scarcely had time, except every once in a great while, to attend a dance or the theater. On Sundays, weather permitting, they could be seen in the Bois de Boulogne or the Bois de Vincennes, atop a blanket spread over the grass, carefree, embracing their lovers, singing picaresque folksongs, eating and drinking. The passerby spotting them during these moments of leisure would never suspect that that very night they would be memorizing the names and functions of the muscles of the face or the bones of the foot for the next day’s lesson.

Our professors were competent and effective. There must have been about thirty of them, each department chaired by one full professor and one assistant professor. Nearly all of them had served in the military, and many held positions as “interns” in the hospitals. Appointments were highly competitive, although the recipients did not always represent the best of the candidates—given that all of the medical schools (Paris, Montpellier, and Strasbourg), hospital administrations and health-related institutions were run by the State, it was not unusual for an open position to go to some influential figure’s personal favorite. I should also say that, within the public health system—a vast web across the map of France—teaching was seen as a patriotic vocation, or better, as a military duty. The country had been girding for war since 1792 and, in the same way that military conscription required new blood every year, the army and navy required new doctors, surgeons, assistants and pharmacists. Since the costs of war justified low salaries, a vein of corruption ran through the entire system. In the Faculty, where Napoleon had ordered salaries to be cut in half, doctoral theses could be bought; that is, a wealthy student could always find some professor down on his luck willing to write his dissertation for him. Nevertheless, it would not do justice to my professors to fail to recognize that the majority of them were serious, talented, and dedicated individuals.

When I was visiting Paris not long ago, I was surprised to see how well preserved the Faculty’s buildings still are. How many more decades will they endure? The beautiful portico with its six Ionic columns, the bas-relief allegory on the pediment, the wide entrance hall, the high windows at the back of the staircase, the library above them, the museum with its anomalous organs and fetuses floating in alcohol, the assembly room hung all around with magnificent Gobelin tapestries; below, to the left, the grand patio of the Training College, the six dissection rooms with their gray slate tables, five students per cadaver, the pungent odor of the antiseptic liquid; beyond that the second patio, the majestic round amphitheater, its terraced seats, its cupola, its lamps, its grotesque renaissance masks. . . .

Fortunately, few of my classmates spoke Spanish and none of them were from Cuba. There was one student from Mexico and one from Buenos Aires, both merchants’ sons, but when we first met they had fortuitously suggested that we speak only in French to one another so as to improve our fluency in conversation. As for Spaniards, only two Catalán brothers remained, and they always spoke to each other in their own language; the rest of the Spaniards had returned to their country to take up the insurgent cause. Nevertheless, in an attempt to ward off any possible suspicion, whenever I spoke I tried to imitate the Mexican and Argentine’s heavy accent. As for those who wanted to know about Havana and its customs, I had memorized all of the materials that Maryse had sent me. Quite soon I was able to manage surprisingly well, to the point that I was not only able to speak confidently about the city’s castles, churches, plazas, and streets, but also about its enviable geographical orientation, temperature, rain and wind patterns and, above all, about the sugar mills, slavery and the tobacco and lumber industries. After a few weeks, I became so bold as to comment on the state of medicine in Cuba, on the institution of the Protomedicato, or about the subjects taught in the various departments at the university, or to describe my Uncle Robledo’s summer house overlooking a valley full of tall palms and fruit trees whose exotic names (mamey, guanábana, marañón, caimito, mamoncillo) I would rattle off without having the least idea what any of them looked or tasted like. Since this promised to be a prolonged and amusing game, I wrote to Maryse telling her that my studies were off to a great start but that I needed more newspapers and some general information about the island of Cuba. One day I learned, quite by chance, that instead of calling me Enrique Fuenmayor, I was known in the Faculty as “the Cuban.”

The precautions I needed to take in order to hide the fact that I was a woman were much more demanding because I had to be constantly vigilant. To begin with, there was the problem of my voice. As Maryse had said, had I decided to become a singer I would have been a mezzo-soprano. This worked somewhat in my favor since, though my voice was not as deep as Aunt Margot’s, at least it wasn’t shrill. At first I tried to speak in the lowest register possible for me, drawing the words from the back of my throat. But this approach, as I was soon to discover, affected my vocal chords, causing me to speak in a hoarse, muffled, and nearly inaudible whisper. As a last resort, I decided to use my Puss-in-Boots voice, which Maryse had taught me to summon from deep in my stomach rather than my throat. The situation improved, although I never managed to achieve a truly satisfactory timbre. Luckily, there were two or three students with voices higher-pitched than my own in my class.

It took me considerably longer to imitate a man’s way of walking, sitting, and gesturing. To this end, I bought a full-length mirror in which I could see my entire body reflected. I had never realized how often men, even the best-mannered among them, scratched themselves, smoothed their hair, blew their noses, spit, picked their teeth, and adjusted their crotches. During lectures, I set about observing my classmates, taking note of the frequency with which they brought their hand to their faces in order to scratch their noses, stroke their chins or bite their fingernails. Not having hair on my face—one of my biggest worries—turned out not to be an issue: there were several other students who were blond and smooth-cheeked. The real problem was my breasts. Although I was naturally small-breasted, I was, according to Aunt Margot, endowed with nipples almost as long and thick as a sheep’s. This anatomical aberration had contributed to my timidity since I’d entered adolescence, as they were sometimes noticeable even through thick winter garments. But ever since I’d discovered that, for Robert, my disproportion was actually an attraction—in the same way he’d been excited by the blond down on my upper lip and the curly fuzz on my thighs and buttocks—it had become my favorite flirtatious weapon, to the point that I felt disappointed if the masculine gaze didn’t come to rest, at least for an instant, on the two protuberances that my blouse and dress tried in vain to flatten. Maryse had confirmed Robert’s predilection: “That’s how it is, my sweet, men go crazy for those perverse little details. It’s well known that the Duchess of Lavallière had one leg shorter than the other and I can’t remember which one of Henry the Eighth’s wives had an extra finger. As for me, I’ve learned that my excessive lips and the deep cavity of my bellybutton constitute my greatest charms. Who could have guessed? I’d always thought that my eyes and my hands were the most attractive parts of my body.” Of course, my nipples were not noticeable when I was dressed in a frockcoat and vest, but when performing dissections or assisting surgeons in the hospital, it was common to work in shirtsleeves with the cuffs rolled up and a kind of apron that wasn’t thick enough to hide them. And so, I had no other choice but to bind my breasts with a silk sash, which I would wind several times tightly about my torso—a solution I found particularly painful when my breasts swelled during the days of my period. As for the rest of it, I derived considerable satisfaction from not being obliged to adopt a passive attitude with my interlocutors, and I loved going around in pants, including the little pillow I wore sewn into my underclothes at crotch-level.

Four months after I’d begun my studies, just as I was becoming accustomed to an independent life, a new war against Austria broke out. On the very same day I learned of the mobilization—several students with military experience had been called into service—I received a brief note from Uncle Charles informing me that, as he planned to join the campaign, I needed to be apprised of certain matters. We had not seen one another or written since our painful separation, although I knew from Françoise’s letters—the only tie I had not broken—that he was in good health and was considering marrying Madame Bagnol. We were to meet in the Luxembourg Gardens at eight in the morning.

Eager for our meeting, I arrived early. Spring had just barely begun and it was cold and damp. I was pacing back and forth to keep warm when I saw him coming along the path, his step quick and sure, wearing his regiment’s bicorn hat. He recognized me immediately, despite my pants and waistcoat, and waved as he approached. I ran to him and threw myself, crying, into his arms.

“Come now, Henriette. What will the guards at the sentry post say about us? They’ll think the worst,” he said in a low, gruff voice, trying to pull away from me.

“I’m so happy to see you again! You have no idea how much I’ve missed you! I was just asking myself if, one day, you might come to forgive me.”

“I’ve nothing to forgive you for, my child,” he said, starting to walk without looking at me. I realized that his emotions were in conflict: on the one hand, his joy at seeing me again, on the other, his displeasure at finding me dressed as a man. “It is I who have behaved badly. I’d convinced myself that you wouldn’t make it on your own and that you’d be back in short order. Well, at times I’m guilty of pig-headedness, although I want you to know that I had given myself until June to come look for you. Except now I’ll be leaving in a few days for the war. How are you, child? You look too thin.”

“It’s the clothing, Uncle. Everything is fine. You have nothing to worry about. You can go in peace. At first I was a bit frightened, but everything has turned out very well,” I said, taking his arm as I’d always done when walking together.

“I know, I know; don’t think that I’ve been kept in the dark. I have friends in the Faculty,” he said in a tone that hovered somewhere between comical and mysterious.

I stopped walking and let go of his arm.

“What do you mean? Someone in the Faculty knows my secret?” I said, alarmed. I’d thought many times that it would take but one word from my uncle to find myself expelled.

“No, I would never betray you. An old comrade-in-arms from my days with the Army of the Rhine. I merely wanted to know if you were having any trouble. And anyway, you have nothing to fear. I told him that you were the nephew of an old friend, now married to a Spaniard in Cuba. I was thinking of Maryse and Robledo.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, although I was not pleased to know that one of my professors had been particularly attentive to how my studies were coming along. Who could it be? Possibly a surgeon of Uncle Charles’ age, although there must have been half a dozen men in their forties in the Faculty who had served in the first campaigns.

“Please Uncle, whoever your friend may be, tell him that you’ve seen me yourself and are perfectly satisfied that all is well; tell him that it’s no longer necessary for him—”

“Don’t worry,” he interrupted me. “I’ll write to him this very afternoon. Now I must speak to you of other matters. As you might imagine, I’m extremely busy. Larrey is expecting me at ten. Just imagine, we need to organize the ambulance trains and everything is in total chaos. This time the Austrian surprised us. The Emperor is in a foul mood and Larrey . . . do you remember meeting Larrey in Boulogne, the day Aunt Margot. . . ? Well, I’ll come to the point. I think it’s best that we leave things as they are for now. One never knows. War is war. But you know that already. What I mean to say is that if something were to happen to me you will always have the house here in Paris waiting for you. Everything is just as you left it. Your room, your clothes, your jewelry, your cabriolet . . . Pierre and Françoise as well.”

I started to cry again, this time from sorrow. I had fled from that good man’s life as one embarks on a journey with no possibility of return. In my eagerness to break definitively with my existence as a well-to-do widow, I had informed him of my decision abruptly, not giving him a chance to come to understand my point of view. Two days later, taking advantage of a moment he’d gone out, I had left the house, leaving him a cavalier letter by means of explanation.

“Oh Uncle, Uncle, how I love you!” I said between sobs, and I latched onto his arm, bringing my head close to his. When I raised my face to kiss him, I saw that he was pretending to blow his nose.

I tried to convince him that it was an unnecessary expense to maintain the house, that, with him absent, there was no reason to keep Pierre and Françoise on. I had no need of their services and, while I would never dream of firing them, they could at least return to Foix. As for the cabriolet, it would be best to sell it, and really, who better than him to guard my jewelry since almost all of it had belonged to Aunt Margot to begin with? And anyway, wasn’t he planning to marry Madame Bagnol? Well then, the jewelry would be my wedding present and that way it would stay in the family. I had all I needed, and more, from the rent at Foix.

“Henriette,” said Uncle Charles, checking the time. “I have known good generals and bad generals. Do you know what the difference is? The bad ones always assume that they’ll win the battle and they don’t take the necessary precautions. The good generals, like the Emperor, Ney, Lannes, Davout, Oudinot, and so many others, hold off sending their best troops into combat because, were something to go badly, they are the ones who will have to lead the retreat along a predetermined route. So, my dear, let’s be good generals. If I lose my battle, you’ll remain to fight your own and you’ll be well furnished with the necessary provisions; and if you’re the one to lose, and you must think of the unforeseen events that may arise during your four years of study, you will have your route of retreat firmly in place. Madame Bagnol has more than enough with her own jewels and rents, and I have no need of money. And in any case, I’ve already paid the rent on the house and I suspect that Pierre and Françoise could prove useful to you in a time of need. Let’s leave things as they are. And now, I must say my goodbyes,” he added, tucking his watch back in his pocket.

“Write to me, Uncle. Françoise will make sure I receive your letters. You have no idea how much it would mean to me to have news of you.”

“I’ll write to you from Vienna,” he smiled. “You’ll see. It will be over quickly. The Emperor is impatient. He needs the troops for the mess over in Spain.”

We embraced at the exit that opened out onto Rue Vaugirard. After heading off in different directions, we paused, turned, and bid each another farewell one more time.

The death of Field-Marshall Lannes was gravely felt in Paris. The son of a stable boy, he was considered one of the people’s most legitimate heroes; to me, he was also an old friend. The news had depressed me so that I found it difficult to be alone in my room. If Lannes and Robert had died in battle, who was to say that Uncle Charles and Alfred’s lives wouldn’t be equally cut short? With these thoughts weighing on my mind, I left my anatomy book on the bed and, after touching up my man’s hairdo, I went out into the street to walk off my unease. Without realizing it, as dusk came on, I found myself at Le Coq Audacieux, where I hadn’t been since the fall, and I took the table that I used to share with Alfred. I ordered a bottle of wine and immediately became sad all over again. I tired to think of other things, but the wine seemed to stir up all my wells of grief. I decided to let the memories accompany me as I drank.

The long march behind the Fifth Hussar Battalion.

My interview with Lannes at midnight, the compass in his hand, his penetrating gaze and beautiful mouth.

“Tell Huet to name this woman as second sutler to the 9th Hussars!”

Ma Valoin and her wagon.

The roads to Saxony, Prussia, and Poland.

Robert climbing the stairs with the leopard skin draped over his shoulder.

His fist through the windowpane.

“Ah, it’s you. Doesn’t it seem that spring is awfully late to arrive here in Foix?”

The bottle paid for, and my determination to manage completely on my own in shambles, I crossed the river and walked to Rue Saint-Honoré. I knocked at the door to my old house. The night was dark, and at first Pierre didn’t recognize me. Françoise, in her nightshirt, sat at the table reading the newspaper by the light of the candelabra, a plate with the remains of a meal and a jug of wine pushed aside. Seeing me standing in front of her, she rubbed her eyes, blinked several times and, without a word, took me by the hands and pulled me into her lap. We talked and drank into the night. The Orphiles had moved to the faubourg Saint-Denis, as Marie-Louise was expecting a baby and it was simply too expensive for them to go on living on the Rue Saint-Honoré. To explain my disappearance, Françoise had told them I’d gone to the Languedoc to see to the matter of my inheritance. Lannes’s death had also saddened her. “War is shit. It doesn’t matter how many battles you win; in the end, you always lose,” she concluded.

Françoise led me to my old bed, overcome by my memories and the wine. I slept poorly. I had to get up twice and I had my recurrent dream of Robert. I spent Sunday morning with Françoise and Pierre and, after a lunch of a traditional Languedoc stew, I said goodbye, assuring them that whenever I felt lonely I would come to visit.