The patio cloister was utterly deserted. There were large pines beneath which grew tall and unkempt grass mixed with rampant weeds. The walls enclosed a square of stagnant sunlight. Vincent turned to his left and knocked on the door of the private house in which Doctor Peyron and his family lived.
Doctor Peyron had been a
“You see, Vincent,” said the Doctor, gripping a corner of the desk with each hand, “formerly I took care of the health of the body. At present I take care of the health of the soul. It is the same
“You have had experience with nervous diseases, Doctor. Can you explain why I cut off my ear?”
“That is not at all unusual with epileptics, Vincent. I have had two similar cases. The auditory nerves become extremely sensitive, and the patient thinks he can stop the hallucinations by cutting off the auricle.”
“. . . Oh . . . I see. And the treatments I am to have . . .?”
“Treatments? Well . . . ah . . . you must have at least two hot baths a week. I insist upon that. And you must stay in the baths for two hours. They will calm you.”
“And what else am I to do, Doctor?”
“You are to remain perfectly quiet. You must not excite yourself. Do not work, do not read, do not argue or get upset.”
“I know . . . I am too weak to work.”
“If you do not wish to participate in the religious life of St. Paul, I will tell the sisters not to insist upon it. If there is anything you need, come to me.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“Supper is at five. You will hear the gong. Try to fit into the pattern of the hospital, Vincent, as quickly as you can. It will speed your recovery.”
Vincent stumbled through the chaotic garden, passed the crumbling portico at the entrance to the third-class building, and walked by the row of dark, deserted cells. He sat on his bed in the ward. His companions were still sitting about the stove in silence. After a time he heard a noise from another room. The eleven men rose with an air of grim determination and stormed down the ward. Vincent followed them.
The room in which they ate had an earthen floor and no window. There was just one long, rough, wooden table with benches about it. The sisters served the food. It tasted mouldy, as in a shoddy boarding house. First there was soup and black bread; the cockroaches in the soup made Vincent homesick for the restaurants of Paris. Next he was served a dish of chick peas, beans, and lentils. His companions ate with all their might, brushing the crumbs of black bread from the table into their hands, and then licking them off with their tongues.
The meal finished, the men returned to the identical chairs about the stove and digested their food with intense concentration. When the supper had gone down, they rose one by one, undressed, pulled the curtains and went to sleep. Vincent had not as yet heard them utter a sound.
The sun was just setting. Vincent stood at the window and looked over the green valley. There was a superb sky of pale lemon, against which the mournful pines stood out in designs of exquisite black lace. The sight moved Vincent to nothing, not even the faint desire to paint it.
He stood at the window until the heavy Provençal dusk filtered through the lemon sky and absorbed the colour. No one came into the ward to light the lamp There was nothing to do in the darkness but think of one’s life.
Vincent undressed and went to bed. He lay there wide-eyed, staring at the rough beams of the ceiling. The angle of the bed pitched him downward toward the base. He had brought Delacroix’s book with him. He fumbled in the box, found it and held the leather covering against his heart in the darkness. The feel of it reassured him He did not belong with these lunatics who surrounded him, but with the great master whose words of wisdom and comfort flowed through the stiff binding and into his aching heart.
After a time he fell asleep. He was awakened by a low moaning in the bed next to his. The moans became louder and louder, until they broke into cries and a flood of vehement words.
“Go away! Stop following me! Why do you follow me? I didn’t kill him! You can’t fool me. I know who you are. You’re the secret police! Well, search me if you like! I didn’t steal that money! He murdered himself on Wednesday! Go away! For God’s sake, leave me alone!”
Vincent jumped up and pushed aside the curtain. He saw a blond haired young boy of twenty-three, tearing at his nightgown with his teeth. When the boy saw Vincent, he sprang to his knees and clasped his hands fervently before him.
“Monsieur Mounet-Sully, don’t take me away! I didn’t do it, I tell you! I’m not a sodomist! I’m a lawyer. I’ll handle all your cases, Monsieur Mounet-Sully, only don’t arrest me! I couldn’t have killed him last Wednesday! I haven’t the money! Look! It isn’t here!”
