M. JOUY HAS NOT forgotten Madeleine. On Christmas Day, a brown paper package arrives from the hospital at Maréville; out of the package spills a fluttering array of drawings and charts. No message or holiday wishes enclosed. Mother walks into the village and asks the local chemist to decipher the contents.
Ahhhh, he murmurs. They have measured M. Jouy's brainpan! And he holds up the diagram for her to see.
It looks like the moon on its back, Mother observes.
His anatomy is quite regular, no signs of degeneracy, the chemist continues, peering at a new sheaf. Oh, but look! His scapula is protuberant.
Shuffling through the papers, the chemist hums to himself, his spectacles propped on the bald crest of his head. Mother furtively examines a bottle of whooping cough remedy that within days, it was rumored, could miraculously resuscitate even the most exhausted breasts.
So, she interrupts, are they ungodly or not?
Ungodly? the chemist echoes. He frowns briefly. Why, not at all!
Are you sure?
He clutches the drawings: These sketches are the work of medical professionals! It seems as if M. Jouy would like her to have them. As a keepsake, perhaps. This picture—he picks out a physiognomic chart—is a very good likeness.