The man Euphrosyne had attacked was not dead. As a result, he insisted on justice. We had humiliated him and his friends, and he insisted he wanted only an apology from her and it would all go away. At the women’s detention center, he appeared with the police to accuse her. His head had an elaborate bandage that contrasted intensely with the conservative black suit he wore.
I didn’t recognize him. He was not, at the least, a regular, or hadn’t been. I wondered what it was he could have done to offend Euphrosyne enough that she would do this. Either way, she refused him an apology after all.
She’s a filthy wretch of a whore, isn’t she? the policeman said to the accuser. He shook her by the arm. Come on, you don’t want to go to the magistrate now, do you? Apologize and we’ll let you go.
There’s things you can pay me to do, Euphrosyne said quietly, but that’s not one of them. The policeman laughed.
You’re a wit, I’ll give you that. We’ll see if the magistrate likes it.
The magistrate we saw the next day. He eyed her tiredly as he detailed the case. You are the one called La Frénésie, also called Euphrosyne?
She nodded her head yes, defiant.
In the end, he charged her with not just the assault but also with the corruption of an unregistered woman, me. He sentenced her to six months and to pay fines, and she screamed before being led away. Then it was my turn to take the stand. I was surprised to learn I was to be charged with my own corruption—for being unregistered in the company of a fille en carte.
Do you understand the charges against you? he asked.
I shook my head no—they seemed spiteful.
He ran through it again.
Is she to have no friends, then? I asked.
This interested the judge. She may have friends, he said. You may be one of them. Though you may not be in her company.
Her friend but never to be with her? I asked.
That is correct, he said. A woman of virtue is a precious thing. Rare as she is, he added.
If I am unregistered and caught with her again, then I will be brought here again, charged again with my own corruption?
Yes, he said drily. Charged with solicitation and forcibly registered, I might add.
This is impossible, I said. But you will never catch me again.
I assure you we will, mademoiselle. How else can we protect you?
I laughed at this, which annoyed him.
Then let it be done, I said, suddenly very tired.
The officer behind me chuckled as the judge looked up at me very intensely.
My dear, you realize you are still . . . you are still a maiden? You have your virtue intact. You could marry.
I will never marry, I said. And she is my only friend. If it is a crime, with me unregistered and her not, if I am to be registered the next time we are caught together, then I can see I have no choice, I must register.
All around me, the other women in the court gasped. Previously muttering on or giggling at my attempt to reason with the judge, they grew still, everyone holding their breath.
I will ask you to consider one more time.
I must, I said.
You must, he said. Very well, then. You are a fool. I look forward to your next visit when you beg to be let off the registry and I will refuse. Let the court record the voluntary registration of one . . . And here he peered into the record. Jou-jou Courrèges. He sat back at this.
I do not think you understand what it is you do. This is the end to your life as a virtuous woman, he added.
I shrugged. It was as if he had said I would never be a butterfly or any other impossible thing. And besides, that name was nothing to me. They would be registering a joke.
Very well, he said. Since it is your wish to be registered, follow this officer, and he will undertake it.
It was such a hard thing, this virtue, it seemed to me. Keeping it was like having to grip the knife by the blade and defend yourself with the hilt. Ever since I’d been old enough to know about virtue in a woman, it had seemed like a bull’s-eye painted on my head in rouge. I was sure, as I was led away, I would be better off without it. It was better to be done with it and be gone.
§
Euphrosyne and I had different cells; we could not see each other but we could hear each other, and sometimes she would sing our song, and I would pick up with it until the other girls yelled for us to be quiet and the guards came to threaten us with beatings, shouting into the hay-strewn cells.
This place, Saint-Lazare, was my real hell, this woman’s prison. I discovered myself with lice; I had food served to me too foul to eat, with maggots at times, the others laughing the first few times I retched. The other girls were uninterested in me except mostly as a figure of fun. A week went by, an eon, and then I heard my name at the door from the guard.
Euphrosyne stood there, dressed again as she had been. A brief hope filled me until I saw the caution in her expression.
La Lune, I guessed, her little boy prince, and said so. She nodded, a hint of a smile. Yes, she said. I had his card; they called for him and, on orders from his father, released me at once.