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I AM DISTRAUGHT TO learn that my dear friend M’dame Drouet died on 11th May after suffering great pain in her stomach for some time. Since receiving the letter from M’sieur Hugo I have barely stopped weeping. She was as a mother to me and will be missed by many. M’sieur says he was so heartbroken he took to his bed for two weeks and was too overtaken to attend the funeral or pen any letters. She is buried with her daughter. His pain is evident from what he writes, and in spite of his indiscretions, I know he truly loved her and she devoted her life to him. I cannot but wonder how such a blow will affect his health. Now in his eighties, his strength must be waning. In his letter, he quoted the epitaph they had chosen for her grave.
When I am nothing but cold ashes,
When my weary eyes are closed to the light,
Say to yourself, if my memory is engraved in your heart,
The world has his thoughts
But I had his love!
His last words sent a chill through my heart:
‘It is true what they say, you only realise how important someone is to you when you lose them. Juliette was my confidante, my muse, my love and I am now lost without her. It cannot be long before I shall be with my beloved’.
Although I am not religious, I went to the Town church to say a prayer for her, taking my son with me. He has fond memories of her, too, being the grandmother he never had and he shed a tear at the news. Pierre offered appropriate words of condolences but showed no real emotion, which I have come to expect from him.
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23RD MAY 1885
What I have been dreading has happened. My beloved Victor Hugo died yesterday and the newspapers are full of the news, with his photo splashed across the front pages as the world mourns the loss of one they call the greatest poet and writer of the century. To me he was that and so much more. I cannot put into words what I have felt for him and how much pain I suffer knowing he is dead. Sophie alerted me to the news when she brought me the English newspaper and held me as I cried. Since this morning I have lain in my bed, unable to sleep, and unable to face anyone but her. My body has been growing weaker these past few years and I have little strength to deal with this loss. I allowed Victor to see me when he came home from school and we hugged each other in our mutual sorrow. Pierre no longer shares my bed since Victor, now a tall and muscular young man of fifteen, threatened to harm him if he lays a finger on me again. He had seen some of my bruises and I was forced to tell him the truth about his father. At the time he was ready to fight with him and would have won as Pierre has become bloated and out of condition, but I convinced him to desist, afraid he would lose his place at the College.
June 1885
I have received a letter from dear Alice, who even in her own grief has found the time to write to me. She assumed I would have heard about Victor’s death but wanted to offer her condolences, knowing how close we were. She describes the State funeral which took place some days ago now and how it seemed the whole of France had turned out to mourn her father-in-law. Amongst all the pageantry the incongruous sight of a pauper’s hearse caused the most astonishment, she wrote. But it had been his wish, in keeping with his reputation as a philanthropist, and no-one had dared to deny it. Alice said how affected Georges and Jeanne were, but both had been very brave. They are his main heirs and have inherited, among other assets, Hauteville House and I would love to see them here again. I know M’sieur Hugo spoilt them, but surely that is the right of a grandfather? Alice tells me I, together with my son, have been left a bequest in his will, which is to remain unknown to my husband. She does not query this and I wonder if she suspected what had been going on in my marriage. The bequest is generous and will see Victor through university and beyond and my portion will provide the few comforts I need for many years. More years than I am likely to live.
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MAY 1888
I am dying. Much against my will, Victor called for a doctor to attend me after I collapsed yesterday. The doctor is newly arrived from England and knows nothing of me and my history and I was obliged, under his kind but firm questioning, to tell him everything. He examined me with Sophie present and his face grew grave as the gentle touch of his hands caused me to cry out in pain.
‘Mrs Blondel, I am sorry to tell you that your organs have been damaged by the constant physical abuse you’ve received and are now failing. Even your heart is weak. I’m afraid there is little I can do except relieve your pain.’
Sophie gasped and clutched my hand.
The doctor’s verdict is not a shock for me, I have long suspected I am gravely ill.
‘How long am I likely to live, Doctor?’
He coughed and found it difficult to look me in the eyes. He’s young and will need to become tougher if he is to succeed in his profession.
‘It’s hard for me to say, but I think only...weeks.’
‘I see.’ Not long then. Perhaps it’s for the best as the pain has been particularly bad lately. My beautiful son, Victor, is eighteen and off to university soon and his future is assured. He is to study the law and plans to be an advocate in Guernsey. I can do little more for him.
Sophie started to cry and I tried to comfort her.
‘Don’t be upset, dear Sophie. I’m resigned to die and wish only to be free of pain.’
‘I can give you injections of morphine for the pain, Mrs Blondel, using the new hypodermic needle. We can increase the dose as necessary. Shall I prepare some now?’ The doctor lifted out a steel contraption with a long needle at one end and I agreed. I felt a sharp pain as the needle went into my arm, but it soon subsided. I began to feel woozy and must have fallen asleep.
I woke today to find Sophie and Victor beside my bed, both with tear-stained faces. The pain in my body is much reduced.
‘Oh, Mama, I cannot believe I’m to lose you. Please tell me the doctor is wrong.’ Victor raised my hand to his lips and his eyes pleaded with me to live.
‘My dear son, I’m afraid the doctor’s right. My body is worn out after...and it’s only my love for you which has helped me go on until now. I’m so proud of you and know you will do great things in your life. When the time comes I shall die in peace.’
I remember little of the rest of the day, except the doctor appearing with his hypodermic syringe filled with morphine.
This becomes the routine for days. I stay in bed and Sophie attends to my needs and shops and cooks when I sleep. I am never alone, as Victor takes it in turn to sit with me and my friend Florence calls round most days. I manage to continue writing my journal with Sophie’s help as she props me up in the bed, but do little else. Florence and Victor read to me when I’m in the mood to listen, but they tell me I often fall asleep.
Pierre knows I’m dying but I refuse to see him. The doctor says I could press charges against him, but what would be the point? Why bring disgrace on our family now? My husband is slowly drinking himself to death and Victor, although legally a minor still, is financially independent and mature enough to manage his own affairs. My dreams are filled with visions of the old days, when I worked for Victor Hugo and fell under his spell. My life has not turned out as I wished, but I have been blessed to enjoy a unique friendship with a man who was truly a literary genius as well as ahead of his time with his thinking. And dear Juliette! What a force they were together. I do miss them so much.
June 1888
My strength is fading and I can barely write. Sophie has to help me hold my pen. I’m trying not to be afraid, but it is hard. Perhaps after all, I shall meet the loved ones I’ve lost in some other world. Or there may be nothing. An eternal blackness. I shall soon know. Poor Victor hardly leaves my side and he is the one thing I can be proud of. My son. I hope he marries and has many children and regales them with stories of their grandmother and her friendship with the great Victor Hugo, their father’s godfather.
I have asked Sophie to place all my journals, together with everything connected to my time with M’sieur Hugo, in the cupboard in the attic where my desk is stored. My correspondence with M’sieur Hugo and M’dame Drouet and any other connected to the family, I have already hidden in a secret drawer in my desk. The cupboard door is to be plastered over to conceal it. This is to be done in secret and Sophie has arranged for this to be completed when neither Victor nor Pierre are at home. I do not want Pierre, or anyone acting on his behalf, to have access to what is so personal and private to me. On the other hand, I cannot bear the thought of it all being destroyed. My son knows all he needs to know and if, in the future, some descendant of mine or even a stranger should find it, then so be it. If it needs to be found, it will be...