The Silent Boy. Andrew Taylor

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       Chapter Three

      Charles is placed in the care of an elderly, half-blind woman. She lives in a room under the roof over the kitchen wing. Opening out of her chamber is a smaller one, which has a barred window. This is where Charles sleeps.

      On the second night, he has bad dreams and he wets the bed.

      On the third day, Monsieur Fournier summons him. He is in a salon overlooking the great courtyard at the heart of the Hotel de Quillon.

      He is not alone. Dr Gohlis is there. He is another gentleman who used to call on Maman in the old days. He is young and stooping, a German from Hanover. He has cold hands.

      In heavily accented French, the doctor asks Charles his name, and Charles does not answer. He asks Charles how old he is. Then he asks exactly the same questions in English and German, and all the while Charles stares out of the window at the weeds in the courtyard and imagines the words rising into the sky like startled birds.

      Dr Gohlis examines him, looking at his teeth and poking at his belly with his forefinger. He walks behind Charles and claps his hands, making Charles twitch.

      ‘There is no physical cause for his silence that I can see. Everything is perfectly normal,’ he says. ‘You tell me he eats and moves his bowels. I could try purging or bleeding, but I doubt it would answer.’

      ‘He has sustained a great shock,’ Fournier says, throwing an unexpected smile at Charles. ‘Could that have disturbed his faculties and made him mute?’

      ‘Indeed, sir – that may very well be the case. If the hypothesis is correct, then it follows that the best course of treatment may be another shock. If one shock has removed his powers of speech, then a second may restore them.’

      ‘They say he wet the bed the other night.’

      ‘Really? Was he beaten for it?’

      ‘I do not know.’

      ‘If it happens again, I would advise it, for his own good. He will achieve nothing without discipline.’

      ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Monsieur Fournier says after a moment. ‘I won’t detain you any longer.’

      Dr Gohlis bows and leaves the room. He does not look at Charles, who is still standing by the window.

      As the door closes, Fournier opens a bureau. He takes a sheet of paper from one of its drawers and a quill from another. He puts them on the flap and uncovers the inkstand. He places a gilt chair in front of the bureau.

      ‘Sit, dear boy. Take the quill.’

      Charles obeys. He dips the pen in the ink without being asked.

      ‘Good,’ says Fournier. ‘Your mother told me that you are an apt student. Pray begin by writing your name.’

      Charles bends his head. He writes. The quill scratches on the heavy paper.

      ‘Now write my name.’

      Charles writes.

      ‘Excellent. And now – write the names of those who visited your mother in your cottage in the Rue de Richelieu.’

      The pen moves again. The tip of the feather brushes Charles’s chin.

      Monsieur Fournier comes to stand at his shoulder. ‘Let me see what you have written.’

      Charles hands him the sheet of paper, the ink still glistening. He has answered each question with lines that go up and down, across and diagonally. They are black marks on white paper. They reveal nothing other than themselves.

      The following morning, Charles wakes with the light.

      Before he opens his eyes, he is aware of rustles and small movements which he thinks must be rats and mice, which come and go at will and treat СКАЧАТЬ