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Geneviève closes the window, picks up the oil lamp, sits at the console table and sets down the lamp. In this room where she has lived ever since she first arrived in Paris, the only luxury is a stove that gently heats the space. In twenty years, nothing here has changed. The corners are marked by the same narrow bed, the same wardrobe containing two smart dresses and a housecoat, the same coal-fired stove, and the same console table and chair that afford her a small space in which to write. The pink wallpaper, yellowed by the years and blistered here and there by the damp, offers the only splash of colour amid the dark wooden furniture. The sloping ceiling forces her to bend her head in places as she moves about the room.

She takes a sheet of paper, dips her pen in the inkwell and begins to write:

Paris, 3 March 1885

My Dear Sister,

It has been some days since I last wrote to you, I hope you will not hold it against me. The patients have been particularly unsettled this week. If one of them should have a fit, all the others follow suit. The long winter often has this effect on them. The leaden sky above our heads for months on end, the icy dormitories that the stoves do little to heat – to say nothing of the winter ailments: all of these things have a profound effect on their mood, as you can imagine. Happily, today we had the first rays of sunshine. And, with the Lenten Ball only two weeks away – yes, already! – they should begin to feel calmer. In fact, very soon we shall take out the old ball gowns from last year. That should do something to raise their spirits, and those of the doctors too.

Dr Charcot gave another public demonstration today. Young Louise was his subject once again. The poor girl imagines she is already as famous as Augustine. Perhaps I should remind her that Augustine so enjoyed her success that she ran away from the hospital – and dressed in men’s clothing, no less! She was a thankless wretch. After everything we did to try to help her, especially Dr Charcot. As I have always said to you, a madwoman is mad for life.

But the session went very well. Charcot and Babinski were able to induce an impressive fit and the audience were satisfied. The lecture hall was full, as it is every Friday. Dr Charcot deserves his success. I dare not imagine what discoveries he has yet to make. Every time, it brings it home to me – a little girl from the Auvergne, the daughter of a humble country doctor, and here I am, assisting the greatest neurologist in Paris! I confess, at the very thought, my heart swells with pride and humility.

It will be your birthday soon. I try not to think about it, it fills me with such sadness. Yes, even now. Perhaps you will think me foolish, but the passing years have had little effect. I shall miss you all my life.

My sweet Blandine. I must go to bed now. I enfold you in my arms and kiss you tenderly.

Your sister, who thinks of you, wherever you may be.

Geneviève re-reads the letter before folding it; she slips it into an envelope and writes the date on the top right-hand corner: 3 March 1885. She gets up and opens the wardrobe, in which several cardboard boxes are stacked next to the dresses on their hangers. Geneviève picks up the topmost box. Inside are more than a hundred envelopes like the one she is holding, each inscribed with a date. With her forefinger, she examines the most recent – 20 February 1885 – then slips the new envelope in front of it.

She replaces the lid, puts the box back where she found it, and closes the wardrobe doors.

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