Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers (38 page)

She looked down at the notebook once more and smiled.

‘But a prince is something else. As a rule, a prince is too well known to masquerade under a
nom de guerre
. Besides, he likes to be treated royally, whatever the circumstances. He is so accustomed to it that he cannot cope if you do not curtsy. It’s in the blood.’

She ran her finger across the next four names on the list.

‘These names, I know. Not the page, but the equerry – Monsieur Wilson – and the two princes. I have met them and Lulu knew them well.’

‘Lulu was fond of the Prince of Wales?’ enquired Oscar.

‘She adored him – and he adored her. He came to see her every spring. He came here, to Paris, to Pigalle – to the Moulin Rouge. He loved Lulu –
very much
. He came five years in a row – at least.’

‘They were lovers?’

Jane Avril laughed. ‘They were lovers, Monsieur. There is no doubt of that.’

‘And Prince Albert Victor?’ asked Conan Doyle.

‘They were lovers, also – but that was different. The father brought the son to break him in. That’s not unusual. That happens all the time.’

‘Good grief,’ murmured Conan Doyle.

Oscar laughed and took a sip of calvados. ‘Yes, Arthur. We’re a long way from Southsea now.’

‘The young prince came only the once,’ Jane continued. ‘According to Lulu, he is not the man his father is.’

She smiled. Oscar poured her another drink.

‘And Tyrwhitt Wilson?’ he asked.

‘Monsieur Wilson made the arrangements,’ said Jane. ‘He brought the money – and the presents. The Prince of Wales was always generous – always a gentleman in bed and always generous afterwards. He has a fine reputation in France.’ She raised her glass and said, in English: ‘God bless the Prince of Wales!’

‘And was there ever a falling out between the prince and Mademoiselle Lavallois? Were there disagreements? Did you hear of problems of any kind?’

Jane slammed her glass upon the table. ‘No, no, no. Between Lulu and the prince there was only ever the most perfect
entente cordiale.
That’s what he called it, I remember. Theirs was a wonderful friendship. When you saw them together you saw only happiness. The prince adored Lulu. He would not harm the smallest hair on her head. He worshipped her. He is not her murderer. I stake my life on it.’

‘Which leaves us with Lord Yarborough,’ said Oscar, picking up his notebook and holding it up for Jane to inspect. ‘Do you recognise his name?’

‘It is a peculiar name,’ said Jane. ‘I have never heard it before. Perhaps he is another English milord who comes to Paris under a different identity. Perhaps when he is here he calls himself “Monsieur Smith”.’ She laughed and sipped her brandy. ‘One night, I recall, we had six Monsieur Smiths come to visit us in our dressing room.’

Oscar smiled. ‘Lord Yarborough is a physician,’ he explained, ‘and very distinguished – a medical doctor and also what they nowadays call a “psychiatrist”. I believe he comes to Paris regularly – to visit his colleague, Professor Charcot at the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital.’

‘Ah,’ said Jane, raising her glass once more, ‘Professor Charcot – the
great
Professor Charcot. Of course. I know him well.’

Conan Doyle sat forward. ‘Jean-Martin Charcot – you know him?’

‘I know him
very
well. I know all his secrets.’

‘You were his mistress?’ asked Oscar.

‘I was his
patient
, Monsieur Wilde. I was brought up at Pitié-Salpêtrière. Horrible as it is, for much of my girlhood the hospital was my home. Has Robert not told you my story?’

She looked across the table to me and shook her head sadly.

‘Perhaps he was not listening. He is a man, after all.’

‘I have forgotten nothing,’ I protested – but, in truth, I had forgotten.

Jane turned towards Oscar and Conan Doyle. ‘Professor Charcot was like a father to me – and to Lulu. We loved him, we feared him – eventually, we hated him. I never knew my real father. My mother said he was an Italian nobleman, but, in drink, my mother would say anything. In her cups, my mother was a monster. She beat me, so I ran away from home. I lived on the streets – a mad thing, a wild child, a beggar and a tart – until the authorities picked me up and put me away at Pitié-Salpêtrière.’

‘And Mademoiselle Lavallois was at the hospital, too?’

‘Yes, that’s where we met. She was older than me – but her story was my story. She did not know her father and she despised her mother. Her mother was a dancer, from Lyons, but Lulu was born in England. Her mother worked at one of the big London theatres and took up with a young nobleman who promised her everything and gave her nothing – apart from a dose of the clap, a baby and ten pounds. When Lulu was eleven or twelve, her mother brought her back to France – to beg and work the streets. But Lulu ran away – and went mad – and, eventually, found herself at Pitié-Salpêtrière. There were hundreds of us there, all with the same story.’

‘I remember,’ I said.

‘When did you leave the hospital?’ Oscar asked.

‘Six years ago, when I was sixteen. We were thrown out, Lulu and I – together. We broke the rules.’

‘What rules?’ asked Conan Doyle, his brow earnestly furrowed, his whole face a touching mixture of anxiety, pity and concern.

‘Pitié-Salpêtrière is a municipal cesspit, Doctor. It’s where the authorities dump the dregs – the lunatic and the lame, drunkards, prostitutes, opium-eaters and petty thieves, the homeless and the hopeless. Those who have nowhere else to go and are a disgrace to the fine streets of Paris are gathered up and deposited at Pitié-Salpêtrière.’

‘Is it not also a hospital?’

‘Of course it is, and the great Professor Charcot is the man in charge. The inmates are his patients and his creatures – and he can do with us what he wills. He uses us
for his experiments. When we die, he cuts us up. While we live, he studies us as he pleases – he pokes, he prods. We dance for him.’

‘I do not follow you,’ said Conan Doyle. ‘Did you dance at the hospital?’

‘Yes, we danced. We loved to dance – in the refectory, on the tables – and at Christmas and on special feast days for the visitors and staff. But that’s not what I meant. I meant that we danced to Professor Charcot’s tune. We did his bidding. We did what he told us to do. We had no choice.’

‘And what did he tell you to do?’ asked Oscar.

‘He told us to play our parts.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Conan Doyle. ‘I am confused.’

‘Professor Charcot treats madness with hypnosis. If you are having a fit of hysteria, he will calm you – he will
cure
you – by putting you into an hypnotic trance. He is famous for it. Every week the doors of the Pitié-Salpêtrière are thrown open for
les leçons du mardi
– when the great man demonstrates his skills. Young women – dressed in nothing more than night slips – are brought into the lecture theatre to entertain the crowd. We are his patients – girls gripped by hysteria. We dance for him in our bare feet. We cry, we scream, we shout. We contort our bodies and fling our arms into the air. The audience leans forward in silent, rapt attention, as we moan and writhe and lift our nightshirts to demonstrate the extremes of intimate ecstasy. And as we twist and turn and groan and sigh, the great professor describes what is occurring in the minutest detail – and then, with a few words softly spoken and the simplest gestures, he
brings calm to our troubled spirits and, miraculously, restores our sanity.’

‘And is this treatment all fakery? Is that what you are telling us?’

‘No, the treatment does work – on some girls, sometimes. It does not work on all girls, always. But every Tuesday, the show goes on. The audience arrives – all Paris turns out – and Professor Charcot requires results. His favourites supply them, without fail. We do not let him down. We are mad to order. We counterfeit our fits. We act out our paroxysms. We make-believe our ecstasy. In short, we play our parts – and he rewards us.’

‘With money?’ asked Oscar.

‘With sweets and food and wine – and softer beds and acts of kindness.’

‘You say he was like your father,’ said Conan Doyle, nervously holding the tip of his moustache between his thumb and forefinger as he spoke. ‘Did he treat you at all times with respect?’

Jane laughed, letting her head roll back and closing her eyes. I could see that she was quite tipsy now.

‘You mean – did he touch us? No, he never touched us – but he allowed others to do so. When we were on display, supposedly under hypnosis, supposedly in the throes of ecstasy, he would invite members of the audience to step forward to inspect us at close quarters. He would expose our breasts to them and allow them to place their hands between our legs to feel our ecstasy.’

‘This is outrageous,’ whispered Conan Doyle.

‘This is France,’ murmured Oscar.

‘Did you not object to this disgraceful behaviour?’
asked Conan Doyle, his fingers now pressed against his temples in his distress.

‘We did, but he would not listen. He told us to count our blessings. He reminded us that we were “under his protection”.’

‘What did that mean?’

‘The professor’s favourites – the girls like Lulu and me – were well treated at the hospital. The rest – “the unprotected” they were called – were treated no better than slaves. They could be taken by any man who wanted them: the hospital guards, the medical students, other patients, anybody. While I was at Pitié-Salpêtrière at least three of the young girls in our dormitory contracted syphilis. All three of them died – horribly. Professor Charcot would not allow them mercury treatment – he wanted to use their bodies for his experiments. And he did. And when Lulu and I threatened to report what had happened to the board of the hospital, he laughed at us and told us we had broken the rules for the last time. Then he threw us out, back on to the streets.’

‘The man is a monster,’ gasped Conan Doyle.

‘And a national hero,’ said Oscar. ‘He is one of the great scientists of our time.’

‘He is a murderer,’ said Conan Doyle.

‘But his English friend – how do you call him? – Lord Yarborough: he may be a very different kind of man.’

Curious Questions

70
Telegram from Oscar Wilde, Gare du Nord, Paris, to Lord Yarborough, 117 Harley Street, London W., despatched at 1 p.m. on Thursday, 20 March 1890

URGENTLY REQUEST MEETING TO DISCUSS DEVELOPMENTS IN MATTER OF ALBEMARLE AND LAVALLOIS. PLEASE ADVISE SOONEST CARE OF CONAN DOYLE LANGHAM HOTEL. RESPECTFULLY OSCAR WILDE

71
Telegram from Oscar Wilde, Gare du Nord, Paris, to Constance Wilde, 16 Tite Street, Chelsea, despatched at 1 p.m. on Thursday, 20 March 1890