Tears of the Nile

Paris, 1806

“I can suggest mercury pills,” said Alexandre. He amazed at the wonderful control of his emotions. He congratulated himself on his professionalism. “I can write you a prescription. It will be ready this evening.”

Esme stood by the window, her figure silhouetted against the gray Parisian sky. Her dress, a finely stitched garment of soft blues and subtle creams, lay unbuttoned at her back, revealing a hint of pale skin that seemed almost translucent under the clinic’s austere lighting. She reached behind her with slender, graceful fingers, slowly fastening each button with meticulous care, her movements betraying none of the turmoil that Alexandre’s diagnosis had just stirred within her.

“There’s no doubt at all, then? About the diagnosis, I mean?”

“I’m afraid not. The symptoms are classic for syphilis. The stage is advanced, and the neurological symptoms you have begun to experience will accelerate, most likely, but it’s worthwhile to attempt to treat. I will leave it up to you to tell Frederic,” he continued, again marveling at his self-possession.

“There will be no need for me to tell Frederic anything,” she said.

“But Madame…this disease is contagious, and disabling. It’s probably the reason you and Frederic have not conceived.”