Whenever I saw Dr Valentina my blood began to simmer. This glamorous blonde with her reassuring patter and the eyes of a cashier was forever appearing on television talk shows, putting forward the paradoxical notion that mental illness did not exist but nonetheless was the creation of the patient’s family, friends and even, unbelievably, his doctors. Irritatingly, Dr Valentina had managed to score up a number of authenticated successes, no doubt facilitated by her recent well-publicised audience with the Pope. However, I was confident that she would receive her comeuppance. Already there had been calls within the medical profession for a discreet inquiry into her reported use of LSD and other hallucinogenic drugs.
Nonetheless, it appalled me that someone as deeply ill and as vulnerable as Christina Brossard should fall into the hands of this opportunist quack.
You can well understand, therefore, that I felt a certain satisfaction, not to say self-approval, when I received an urgent telephone call from the Mother Superior some three weeks later.
I had heard no more in the meantime of the Hospice or of Christina. Dr Valentina Gabor, however, had appeared with remorseless frequency on Radio Monte Carlo and the local television channels, spreading her unique brand of psychoanalytic mysticism, and extolling all the virtues of being ‘reborn’.
In fact, it was while watching on the late evening news an interview with Dr Gabor recorded that afternoon at Nice Airport before she flew back to Paris that I was telephoned by the Mother Superior.
‘Dr Charcot! Thank heavens you’re in! There’s been a disaster here Christina Brossard has vanished! We’re afraid she may have taken an overdose. I’ve tried to reach Dr Gabor but she has returned to Paris. Could you possibly come to the Hospice?’
I calmed her as best I could and set off. It was after midnight when I reached the sanatorium. Spotlights filled the drive with a harsh glare, the patients were unsettled, peering through their windows, nuns with torches were fruitlessly searching the grounds. A nervous Sister Louise escorted me to the Mother Superior, who seized my hands with relief. Her strong face was veined with strain.
‘Dr Charcot! I’m grateful to you — I only regret that it’s so late..
‘No matter. Tell me what happened. Christina was under Dr Gabor’s care?’
‘Yes. How I regret my decision. I hoped that Christina might have found herself through a spiritual journey, but I had no idea that drugs were involved. If I had known…’
She handed me an empty vial. Across the label was Dr Gabor’s florid signature.
‘We found this in Christina’s room an hour ago. She seems to have injected herself with the entire dosage and then driven off wildly into the night. We can only assume that she stole it from Dr Gabor’s valise.’
I studied the label. ‘Psilocybin — a powerful hallucinogenic drug. Its use is still legal by qualified physicians, though disapproved of by almost the entire profession. This is more than a dangerous toy.’
‘Dr Charcot, I know.’ The Mother Superior gestured with her worn hands. ‘Believe me, I fear for Christina’s soul. She appears to have been completely deranged — when she drove off in our oldest laundry van she described it to one of the patients as "her golden carriage".’
‘You’ve called the police?’
‘Not yet, Doctor.’ A look of embarrassment crossed the Mother Superior’s face. ‘When Christina left she told one of the orderlies that she was going to "the ball". I’m told that the only ball being held tonight is Prince Rainier’s grand gala in Monaco in honour of President Giscard d’Estaing. I assume that she has gone there, perhaps confusing Prince Rainier with the Prince Charming of her fairy tale, and hoping that he will rescue her. It would be profoundly awkward for the Hospice if she were to create a scene, or even try to..
‘Kill the President? Or the Rainiers? I doubt it.’ Already an idea was forming in my mind. ‘However, to be on the safe side I’ll leave for Monaco immediately. With luck I’ll be there before she can cause any harm to herself.’
Pursued by the Mother Superior’s blessings, I returned to my car and set off into the night. Needless to say, I did not intend to make the journey to Monaco. I was quite certain that I knew where Christina Brossard had fled — to her father’s mansion above Vence.
