Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - XVIII. La Salpêtrière
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She was just twenty.
Was she fair and very good-looking?
“Her father says she looks exactly like me,”
answered the old mother simply.
The old man nodded approvingly.
“Are you sure she is working in the kitchen?”
I asked with an involuntary shudder looking
again attentively at the wrinkled face of the old
mother.
For all answer the old man fumbled about in
the immense pocket of his blouse and produced
Geneviève’s last letter. I had been a keen
student of calligraphy for years, I recognized at a
glance the curiously twisted and naive, but
remarkably neat handwriting, gradually improved
during hundreds of experiences in automatic
handwriting, even under my own supervision.
“This way,” I said taking them straight up
to the Salle St. Agnes, the ward of the grandes
hystériques.
Geneviève was sitting dangling her
silk-stockinged legs from the long table in the middle of
the ward with a copy of ‘Le Rire’ in her lap
with her own portrait on the title-page. At her
side sat Lisette, another of the leading stars of
the company. Geneviève’s coquettishly arranged
hair was adorned with a blue silk ribbon, a row of
false pearls hung round her neck, her pale face
was made up with rouge, her lips painted. To
all appearance she looked more like an
enterprising midinette off for a stroll on the Boulevards
than the inmate of a hospital. Geneviève was
the prima donna of the Tuesday stage
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