both to forgetfulness and to disdain.”
There would be no more lessons.
Dr. Itard wrote that he had decided to resign himself to failure and abandon his pupil to “incurable dumbness.”
At about that same time, Madame Guérin’s husband, Monsieur Guérin, fell ill. For years, he had sat down every day to meals with Victor and Madame Guérin, but now he was taken away from the apartment to be nursed back to health. Victor didn’t know that, so he kept setting Monsieur Guérin’s place at the table, only to be told to put it away. Then finally, Monsieur Guérin died.
That evening Victor set Monsieur Guérin’s place. When she saw it, Madame Guérin burst into tears.
Victor put Monsieur Guérin’s dishes back in the cupboard and never set his place again.
Then Madame Guérin herself got sick. For days, she lay in bed. The hour for Victor’s walks came and went, but he waited patiently. Two weeks passed, and at last, Madame Guérin was able to get up again.
“As soon as his governess [Madame Guérin] left her sick bed, his happiness burst forth, and became greater still when, on a very beautiful day, he saw her prepare to go out,” Itard wrote. Madame Guérin put on her bonnet and shawl . . . but she left the apartment alone.
When she returned, she sent Victor to the kitchen to fetch their supper. He loped down the stairway and into the courtyard.
Just then, on the busy streets on the other side of the wall, a carriage rattled and came to a stop. The gatekeeper swung open the heavy wooden doors, and the carriage drove into the courtyard.
In the instant before the gates closed again, Victor slipped through and was gone.
A CLOSE OBSERVER might have noticed something odd about the silent, neatly dressed young man hurrying down the street called the rue d’Enfer. His gait, perhaps, was a little heavy. But soon, Victor was just one more figure in the crowds on the busy streets.
He hurried past the Luxembourg Gardens, where he’d once scampered with Dr. Itard. He passed the Observatory Gardens, where he’d gone for his walks with Madame Guérin and been taken, years ago, for rides in a wheelbarrow. What did that matter now?
At the end of the rue d’Enfer stood a massive stone gate known as the Barrière d’Enfer, one of many gates set in the wall that encircled the city of Paris. It was guarded by men in stiff blue-and-red coats and shiny boots.
Perhaps Victor stopped there and gazed uneasily, remembering the policemen who had once taken him by horseback to the orphanage. Perhaps he turned away from the gate. But in any case, he was not caught.
Days went by, and no one had any idea where Victor was. Perhaps Madame Guérin and Dr. Itard asked people in the neighborhood if they’d seen him. Maybe they went by carriage from police station to police station, asking if he’d been picked up. But beyond that, there was little they could do but wait for news that might — or might not — come.
Victor was free now. He was on his own.
The city all around him held many places to hide, for in those days, inside the walls of Paris, many leafy, sheltering places still remained. “From my window on the rue d’Enfer,” wrote one man, a playwright remembering Paris then, “I used to cast my eyes, as far as I could see in every direction, over a wealth of foliage.”
Behind the houses that lined many of the streets of Paris lay tree-shaded courtyards and sunny gardens separated only by low fences. In some parts of the city, not far from the Institute for Deaf-Mutes, it was almost like being in the country.
“Along all the left bank of the river [Seine],” the man wrote, “there were only scattered dwellings amidst orchards, kitchen-gardens, trellis-vineyards, farmyards, groves, and parks planted with century-old trees.”
Surely Victor would have preferred quiet, leafy places. It’s possible he worked his way from one green, wild place to the next, searching for a way past the city walls. But whether he
There would be no more lessons.
Dr. Itard wrote that he had decided to resign himself to failure and abandon his pupil to “incurable dumbness.”
At about that same time, Madame Guérin’s husband, Monsieur Guérin, fell ill. For years, he had sat down every day to meals with Victor and Madame Guérin, but now he was taken away from the apartment to be nursed back to health. Victor didn’t know that, so he kept setting Monsieur Guérin’s place at the table, only to be told to put it away. Then finally, Monsieur Guérin died.
That evening Victor set Monsieur Guérin’s place. When she saw it, Madame Guérin burst into tears.
Victor put Monsieur Guérin’s dishes back in the cupboard and never set his place again.
Then Madame Guérin herself got sick. For days, she lay in bed. The hour for Victor’s walks came and went, but he waited patiently. Two weeks passed, and at last, Madame Guérin was able to get up again.
“As soon as his governess [Madame Guérin] left her sick bed, his happiness burst forth, and became greater still when, on a very beautiful day, he saw her prepare to go out,” Itard wrote. Madame Guérin put on her bonnet and shawl . . . but she left the apartment alone.
When she returned, she sent Victor to the kitchen to fetch their supper. He loped down the stairway and into the courtyard.
Just then, on the busy streets on the other side of the wall, a carriage rattled and came to a stop. The gatekeeper swung open the heavy wooden doors, and the carriage drove into the courtyard.
In the instant before the gates closed again, Victor slipped through and was gone.
A CLOSE OBSERVER might have noticed something odd about the silent, neatly dressed young man hurrying down the street called the rue d’Enfer. His gait, perhaps, was a little heavy. But soon, Victor was just one more figure in the crowds on the busy streets.
He hurried past the Luxembourg Gardens, where he’d once scampered with Dr. Itard. He passed the Observatory Gardens, where he’d gone for his walks with Madame Guérin and been taken, years ago, for rides in a wheelbarrow. What did that matter now?
At the end of the rue d’Enfer stood a massive stone gate known as the Barrière d’Enfer, one of many gates set in the wall that encircled the city of Paris. It was guarded by men in stiff blue-and-red coats and shiny boots.
Perhaps Victor stopped there and gazed uneasily, remembering the policemen who had once taken him by horseback to the orphanage. Perhaps he turned away from the gate. But in any case, he was not caught.
Days went by, and no one had any idea where Victor was. Perhaps Madame Guérin and Dr. Itard asked people in the neighborhood if they’d seen him. Maybe they went by carriage from police station to police station, asking if he’d been picked up. But beyond that, there was little they could do but wait for news that might — or might not — come.
Victor was free now. He was on his own.
The city all around him held many places to hide, for in those days, inside the walls of Paris, many leafy, sheltering places still remained. “From my window on the rue d’Enfer,” wrote one man, a playwright remembering Paris then, “I used to cast my eyes, as far as I could see in every direction, over a wealth of foliage.”
Behind the houses that lined many of the streets of Paris lay tree-shaded courtyards and sunny gardens separated only by low fences. In some parts of the city, not far from the Institute for Deaf-Mutes, it was almost like being in the country.
“Along all the left bank of the river [Seine],” the man wrote, “there were only scattered dwellings amidst orchards, kitchen-gardens, trellis-vineyards, farmyards, groves, and parks planted with century-old trees.”
Surely Victor would have preferred quiet, leafy places. It’s possible he worked his way from one green, wild place to the next, searching for a way past the city walls. But whether he
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