About the Author
The Mad Women’s Ball, Victoria Mas’s debut novel, has won several prizes in France (including the Prix Stanislas and Prix Renaudot des Lycéens) and was the bestselling debut of the year. Victoria has worked in film in the United States, where she lived for eight years. She graduated from the Sorbonne in Contemporary Literature. The Mad Women’s Ball is now an Amazon Prime Video Original Film starring Mélanie Laurent and Lou de Laâge.
Also by Victoria Mas
The Mad Women’s Ball
Victoria Mas
THE ISLAND OF MISTS AND MIRACLES
Translated from the French by Frank Wynne
She told me nothing, yet I understood everything.
Alphonse Ratisbonne
All things are filled with day, even the night.
Victor Hugo
18 July 1830
The convent is silent. No rustling habit stirs the hallways. The nuns in their cornettes have forsaken the cloisters and the galleries. As they do every evening after Compline, the Daughters of Charity have retreated to their dormitory without a word; for silence, too, is prayer. The windows are open. The air is still warm. Out in the gardens, an owl stirs on its lofty branch and looks about for rodents. A distant echo of hooves serves as a reminder that the town is just outside the convent walls; landaus clatter along the Rue du Bac, drawn by horses that trot past the Mother House. Not a breath of wind cools the July night. Suddenly, from deep within the convent, there comes a clamour as the steeple bell tolls eleven o’clock. The chapel bell marks the rhythm of a time that does not belong solely to the profane. The sombre note echoes through the dormitory, hangs in the air, yet does not make the beds stir: the bodies lying beneath the sheets sleep on. Nothing will wake them. The order teaches the sisters not to allow themselves to be distracted by worldly things.
‘Sister Labouré!’
Catherine, a young novitiate, opens her eyes and peers out through the white curtains that surround her bed. There is no one. She listens intently to the hushed dormitory. A few faint coughs. The drone of regular breathing. No one called out her name; she has mistaken her dream for wakefulness. She pulls the sheet around her shoulders and closes her eyes once more. Ever since she entered the Convent of the Daughters of Charity, she has had no trouble falling asleep, drifting off with the serenity of those embarking on their apostolic life.
‘Sister Labouré!’
She sits bolt upright, holds her breath. This time she knows she heard a voice call out her name. Soundlessly, she leans forward to part the drapes that curtain off her bed. Her hand freezes in mid-air. A young boy is standing there, calmly staring at her, as though this is normal, as though his presence here in the sisters’ dormitory at this late hour is unremarkable. The motionless novice studies the boy waiting by the foot of her bed; this child is Light.
‘Sister Labouré, come to the chapel; the Blessed Virgin is waiting for you.’
All around, the bedsheets are still and silent; she alone has been woken by this boy. Without questioning the child’s words, Sister Catherine glances towards the door: the old wood creaks the moment it is pushed, a disagreeable sound that hinders all attempts at discretion. It would be unwise for her to leave the dormitory; she would surely wake the others. Hearing her thoughts, the boy smiles.
‘Have no fear, they are all asleep. Come.’
Then, without waiting, he turns on his heel and walks away. Sister Catherine jumps out of bed, hurriedly pulls on her habit; not for a moment does she yield to doubt, since there is no merit in doubting the miraculous. She puts her wimple over her hair and slips out of the dormitory.
Outside, the night seems startlingly bright. Every star that spangles the cloudless sky is as visible as it would be in the heart of the countryside, the waning moon silvering the rooftops of Paris. The blue glow that streams through the windows disperses the shadows of the hallway. Without pausing to marvel at the night, Sister Catherine moves through the convent, her footsteps feverish. The slightest sound causes her to catch her breath and peer into the gloom; at any moment, she might be surprised by the nuns who take over the watch at midnight. On her left, the boy walks on serenely, knowing they will encounter no one, confident that his halo will ward off all things contrary to his will. His whole body, from his curly locks to his bare feet, is enveloped in a soft glow, and Sister Catherine refrains from wondering about its source. Truth be told, she does not question anything: this is the surest way to remain calm.
At the foot of the stairs, the chapel is closed. Without slowing his gait, the boy touches the door with one finger, and it opens. When she reaches the threshold, the young novice stops, frozen; the tiny chapel is illuminated by hundreds of candles. A vigil. She has forgotten. She will have missed the opening liturgy, and her tardy arrival will disturb the silent prayer. Such carelessness will surely warrant a sanction from the Mother Superior. She glances around the nave, looking for novitiates at prayer. But the pews are empty. The altar is deserted. From the doorway to the chancel, the chapel flickers with countless flames, but there is not a living soul within. Sister Catherine sees that the boy is standing next to the sanctuary, waiting for her. She moves to join him. The floorboards creak beneath her feet. The chapel is spartan, devoid of all embellishment; only the sisters of the Mother House worship here.
Tonight, as she steps into the chantry, she once again remembers the dream that first called her to the faith some years ago, when she was still a laywoman: on that night, a face appeared to her, the face of an old man wearing a black skullcap, a white collar highlighting his wrinkled face, his warm and selfless smile. ‘One day, you will be happy to come to me. Almighty God has great plans for you.’ Shortly afterwards, she happened upon a portrait of Saint Vincent de Paul and recognized the face, the black skullcap, those eyes devoid of pride or scorn: the priest of whom she had dreamed was the founder of the Company of the Daughters of Charity. Dreams were never anything other than encounters.
As she reaches the foot of the altar, Sister Catherine looks around and, seeing the child, hopes that he will say something – yet like the statues, he utters not a word but simply contemplates the empty nave. Not knowing what to do, Sister Catherine kneels before the altar. She listens. The groan of the ancient wooden balconies. The crackle of an altar candle as it slowly gutters out. The whisper of a draught beneath the door. Suddenly, the bell tolls, a rumbling that fills the chapel like a thunderclap. Twelve peals announcing midnight. The last echo fades, and once again the night is silent. The novice counts the minutes. Her eyelids droop only to flick open again. Her body wavers, tips forward, rights itself in a struggle against weariness that seems lost before it has begun. Her eyelids close once more. She is about to yield to the night when, close by, she hears the boy whisper:
‘The Blessed Virgin is at hand.’
Sister Catherine feels herself stiffen. Her clasped hands fly to her chest. Her breath is suspended. From behind her, a swishing sound. A mantle. Unmistakably the rustle of fabric drawing nearer. Sister Catherine presses her hands more tightly to her bosom; she can feel a presence next to her: here, on the altar steps, a silken flash of a white unlike any she has ever seen, whiter than a snow-shrouded winter landscape or the marble interior of some fine lady’s dressing room, a white that seems incongruous here on earth – and this immaculate silk is covered by a mantle of blue, yet this is not the blue of sea or sky, but an azure that summons another world, something that she has been striving towards ever since she postulated with the Daughters of Charity.
Having ascended the altar steps, the figure sits upon a velvet chair.
‘Behold the Blessed Virgin.’
The child’s voice provokes no reaction. Surely, the Queen of Heaven could not arrive in such a simple fashion, as if she were just one of the nuns from the convent, sitting down on this dusty, threadbare chair amid the tremulous glow of candles. Sister Catherine studies the stranger’s face, vainly searching for some feature, some sign by which she might recognize the figure to whom she has prayed since her childhood. Her bewilderment seems to vex the child, who takes a step closer to the chancel and, in a voice that is no longer a boy’s but the grave, commanding tone of a man, proclaims:
‘Behold the Blessed Virgin.’
The booming echo shakes the novice. Suddenly, as though until this moment she has been blinkered by her own fear, she sees. The face beneath the diaphanous veil. The halo that adorns the figure. The grace of her mere presence. She feels herself being thrust forward. Her legs, no longer numb with tiredness, propel her to the place where the noble figure sits enthroned. She feels her pulse pounding in her temples. Instinctively, she lays her hands on the hallowed knees, rests against this act of grace that has been granted her. She looks up into the smiling face bent over her.
She recognizes the vision now. The faithful always recognize her.
I
A HOLY SISTER
The present day
Gulls wheeled high above the old port. It was the last ferry of the day: already the skies over Roscoff had begun to grow dark. Winter was quick to sound the hour and summon people home. A traveller walked slowly along the quay towards the main road. The curve of a backpack above the shoulders, a hat shielding the face from the wind. The figure walked on, hands gripping the straps of the bag, past groups of children larking on the sand, peering into rock pools and pointing at the crabs’ legs and oyster shells left by the tide. Their grandparents had warned them, had reminded them that Man could not fall where he was born, for though the sea had once been his cradle, his home was now on dry land.
The traveller walked across to the bus stop, set the rucksack down next to the empty bench, arched his back and stretched, oblivious to the sound of approaching footsteps.
