The Reinvention of Love

forever. They were gone the instant after they happened.
    So what am I remembering?
    Perhaps I am not remembering; writing is not a memorial.
    This is just what lives in me.
    I walk through the streets of Paris. It is winter. A cold wind funnels down from the north. I have dressed inadequately. By the time I get to the asylum gate I am freezing. I should have taken a cab, I’m too old for this.
    I ring the bell, stamp my feet, ring the bell again.
    The attendant comes out of his hut and stands on the other side of the heavy iron gate, not bothering to open it.
    We regard each other for a moment.
    “I’ve come to see one of your inmates,” I say.
    “Which one?”
    “Adèle Hugo.”
    The guard eyes me suspiciously. “It’s not the usual visiting hours,” he says.
    I reach into my pocket for some coins, pass them through the bars of the gate. “For your trouble,” I say.
    The asylum is a tumble of voices. It reminds me of the Académie française. A nun leads me up a stone staircase. “Herfather pays for her to have her own room,” she says. “Such a generous man.”
    I say nothing. Little Adèle would never have been put into an asylum if her mother were still alive. This is Victor’s generosity. This is how Victor takes care of his children. He is still living in the Channel Islands, but he is as powerful as ever. I am not surprised that he has thought Adèle’s actions insane, that he has no sympathy for her obsession with Albert Pinson.
    Love, to Victor, is insanity.
    We stop before a locked door.
    “I will wait outside,” says the nun. “Knock on the door when you are done.” She produces a large iron key from a belt around her waist and unlocks the door for me.
    The room is small. There is a barred window at one end, a bed along the wall, a washbasin against the other wall. The sparse furnishings remind me of the Hôtel Saint-Paul and I have to work hard to suppress a memory of Adèle lying naked on the bed there.
    Little Adèle resembles her mother. She has the same dark hair and strong features. She sits in a rocking chair by the window, her head bent over a book. She looks up when the door closes behind me.
    “Adèle,” I say. “I am Charles. Your godfather.”
    She stares at me blankly. I move towards her and she shrinks away.
    “Keep to your side of the room,” she says.
    I do.
    “Charles,” I say again. “I used to come to your house. I knew you when you were a little girl. I was a friend to your mother.”
    At the mention of her mother, Adèle’s face brightens. “Maman,” she says. “What will we do today, Maman?”
    “I’ve brought you some things.” I carefully hand over a copy of
Livre d’amour
. “This is a book of my poetry. Some of the poems are about you.” As Adèle takes the volume, I see, on thefloor by her chair, a pile of small pieces of paper and the empty covers of another book.
Les Misérables
by Victor Hugo.
    “I look forward to them,” she says, quite lucidly, giving no clue as to whether she plans to read my poems or shred them.
    “And I have this for you.” I reach into my coat pocket and bring out the square of lace, untie the ribbon and shake out the veil. “It was your mother’s. She gave it to me once. I wanted to bring it for you. I thought you should have it.”
    Adèle takes the wedding veil, carefully examining the lacework with her long, slender fingers. She has her mother’s hands, but her concentrated gaze is entirely Victor’s. How could he ever have doubted that she was his?
    Adèle arranges the veil over her head, making sure there is an equal length of lace hanging down both sides of her face.
    “Am I pretty?”
    “Very.”
    My legs are tired from the walk and the climb up the asylum stairs. I have been trying to present a calm demeanour to Adèle, but I suddenly feel overwhelmed.
    “May I sit?” I ask. “I have come a long way.”
    Adèle waves a hand towards her single bed and I perch on the edge of it. I can feel the metal frame through the thin mattress.
    “Is Maman coming soon?” she asks.
    I don’t know what to say, so I lie. “Yes. Soon.”
    “And are you really Charles?”
    “Yes.”
    Adèle closes her eyes and rocks in her chair for a moment. “Charles,” she says. “Charles is coming to see me. Let’s open the windows, children, so that I can hear his little footsteps on the pavement.” She opens her eyes, looks straight at me.
    I think of myself hurrying towards the Hugo house on