by Robert Merle
“Oh, Monsieur Rondelet!” I laughed. “I understand! Rondelet and Rondibilis are the same after all and Rabelais has Rondibilis expressing your thoughts!”
“Very good! You understood perfectly,” said the chancellor. “But, when you think about it, what do you think this character is saying?”
“That the two sexes are, in this respect, equals: man also harbours an animal inside his body and this animal is also pungent, biting and ticklish, and seeks exactly what you were just saying.”
Hearing this, the chancellor, raising his arms heavenward, cried, “Crede illi experto Roberto!”‡‡
And looking at each other, the chancellor and I burst out laughing again.
“Ah, Siorac, I like you! You’re just the sort of funny and hard-working son I would have wanted to comfort me and lighten my old age. Alas, my first wife died. And so did the daughter she bore me and whom I’d been able to marry off to Dr Salomon d’Assas. And as for the four sons I had from my two marriages, the Lord has called them back to Him one after the other.”
Rondelet’s head fell to his chest after he said this, and he was overcome with sadness. Astonished to see him pass so quickly from hilarity to sorrow, I maintained a respectful silence, and Fogacer gave me a quick look to let me know that this would soon pass. And, indeed, Rondelet suddenly sat up in his chair with an “Umph!”, squared his shoulders as if ready to take on the world and opened his eyes, which flashed with energy and combativeness.
“Siorac,” since you’re taking a little informal exam for me, here, before enrolling in our illustrious college, I’m going to ask you a difficult question: twenty years ago, my second son having died of the same strange and unknown sickness that had carried off his elder brother, I sent my wife, my daughters and my servants off to our country home and remained here alone with the body of my poor little son, and dissected him.”
“Oh, Monsieur,” I cried, overcome with the memory of how, after little Hélix had died, my father had sawed off the top of her skull to determine the cause of her death. “What great courage it took to do such a thing!”
“The greatest,” sighed Rondelet, his eyes full of tears. “And all the more since, to educate my more timid fellow physicians, I published what I had done. A great clamour arose against me, urbi et orbi,§§ and I was assailed by a hailstorm from those you would expect, a host of libels and hateful pamphlets, which continue to this day, in which I was called a pagan, a Turk, a blasphemer… Well, Siorac, what do you think? Did I do the right thing or the wrong thing? Speak without fear of offending me and in the sincerity of your heart. But don’t just say yes or no: make your arguments and present them in order.”
“Ah, Monsieur,” I cried. “I’ve already thought it all out. You did the right thing and there are two reasons why. Primo, since your second son died of the same symptoms as the first, you had to discover the causes of this death to protect your third son.”
“But, alas,” sighed Rondelet, “I didn’t succeed. He died too.”
“But at least you tried to save him by attempting to find the cause of his illness. Secundo, by publishing the dissection of your son that you’d performed in the secrecy of your lodgings, you wanted to demonstrate that, as painful as this was for you, it was necessary. And so you struggled, in the teeth of considerable risk to your person and your reputation, against the unreasonable interdicts of the papists.”
“Excellent!” cried Rondelet. “Well thought-out, well supported and well argued. Fogacer, we’re going to make a handsome doctor out of this young man from Périgord.”
“So I believe,” agreed Fogacer.
“But let us continue,” said Rondelet, rubbing his hands in excitement. “Siorac, a few more questions. In what year and by whom was the medical amphitheatre in Montpellier founded?”
“In 1556, Monsieur, by yourself and the doctors Schyron, Saporta and Bocaud.”
“Which of these doctors belong to the reformed religion?”
“All of them, yourself included.”
“And is there a connection between the foundation of this theatrum anatomicum and our religious affiliation?”
“Certainly!” I said with some heat. “In their practice of free examination, the doctors in question placed themselves above the prejudices of the priests of secular superstition.”
“Bene, bene.” So saying, he rubbed his hands together more vigorously, as happy with my answers as if I’d been his son, so much did he already like me. And this feeling was certainly mutual since he was a man of such good-naturedness, wisdom and love of humanity.
“Fogacer,” he continued, “I cannot myself imbibe, given my recent illness, but please offer a glass of muscat to this young scholar and help yourself as well.”
“Great thanks!” replied Fogacer. “It’s very hot and I’m exceedingly thirsty.”
Like a long black insect, he leapt up on his long legs, filled two goblets from a bottle on the table, handed me mine and then drank his slowly but in one continuous draught. “Not a bad wine,” he said, smacking his lips.
Rondelet smiled, visibly happy at the pleasure that we were taking and that he was denied: “My son-in-law, Dr d’Assas, has a very pretty vineyard near Frontignan, and gives me two barrels each year. But serve yourself another, drink up! Don’t sit there thirsting for this excellent muscat!”
“A thousand thanks,” said Fogacer, who didn’t need to be prodded. He offered me a second glass as well, but I refused, wanting to keep a clear head for the rest of my exam. Fogacer raised his goblet high in the air and said with great pomp, “Ad maximam gloriam domini d’Assasii et venerandi cancellarii nostrae collegiae regis.”¶¶
“Amen!” added Rondelet.
And standing there on his interminable legs, Fogacer poured this precious velvet down his throat. “Monsieur,” he said, his eyes sparkling, perhaps aided by the wine, “as I stand before you as the only representative in this house—though unworthy and of little faith—of the Holy Roman Catholic Church, I would like to remind the two Huguenots here present that Pope Boniface VIII allowed, as early as 1300, the practice of dissection by some doctors in Rome and Boulogne.”
“Ab uno non disce omnes,”|||| replied Rondelet, making a gesture as if to swat away a swarm of flies. “What does one Pope’s generosity mean if two and a half centuries later a swarm of priests continue to pester us? Siorac, have you drunk your thirst? Shall we continue?”
“I am at your command, Monsieur.”
“Fogacer,” said Rondelet, “did you give him your notes on my Methodus ad curandorum omnium morborum?”
“Indeed I did, and though he’s only arrived very recently, he has diligently studied your treatise on syphilis.”
“Holy of holies!” exclaimed Rondelet, laughing. “This rascal is prudent and is well advised to consider the dangers he risks in sowing his seed to all winds! So, Siorac, please, no frowns! I’m not preaching at you. Just a little fatherly joke.”
“Which is how I understand it, Monsieur.”
“So, let’s move on and see to what profit you’ve put my study of syphilis. Siorac, is syphilis a dry, cold inclemency?”
“On the contrary, Monsieur, that is the grave mistake made by the learned Montan. Syphilis is, rather, a hot and humid inclemency.”
“Bene, bene. And is its origin, as many doctors claim, in the conjunction between Mars and Venus?”
“Excuse me, Monsieur, but that’s pure astrological fantasy. It’s absurd and without any foundation whatsoever.”
“Does one contract this disease by breathing it in?”
“No, by venereal contact. The infected person only infects another by a liqueur that flows from one part of the body to another body. Though the infection can also be spread by infected linen.”
“How do we recognize this disease?”
“After intercourse, the phallus is covered with pustules, pimples and ulcers.”
“And how does one guard against syphilis if one suspects he has had intercours
e with an infected person?”
“By purgation and bleeding.”
“What is the principle of this cure?”
“Since the disease comes from repletion, it will be cured primo by depletion: enema, purgation and bleeding.” At this point, out of the corner of my eye I noticed that Fogacer was frowning and looking unhappy, as though he doubted these remedies.
“And secundo?”
“One must apply to these ulcers sublimated quicksilver, and have the patient take aloe pills so that the aloe can cure the disease from inside by drying it out.”
“Should ointments be used?”
“Yes, derived from pig grease and quicksilver.”
“Though,” corrected Fogacer, “Maître Sanche has replaced the pig grease with chicken grease.”
“It works just as well,” smiled Rondelet, “and is surely more acceptable to our worthy chemist. But let’s move on. If the syphilis patient complains of terrible headaches, what should be done?”
“He should be given theriacal water to drink.”
“What should be done if the ulcers are large and putrid?”
“Sublimated mercury should be applied, since it is an active agent against that which is rotten.”
“What relief can be given to patients who cannot remain at home but must go about their business on horseback?”
“Give them mercurial pills.”
“Wonderful!” exclaimed Rondelet throwing open his arms from his wide body. “You’ve got it all, learnt it so quickly! Fogacer, if by St Luke’s Day in October your pupil has satisfied your expectations in philosophy and logic, then you may enrol him in the Royal College. Dignus est intrare.”***
“Oh, Monsieur,” I cried, blushing to the roots of my hair from happiness, “how can I thank you?”
“You don’t owe me any thanks. Your merit alone is responsible for this decision. Monsieur scholar,” he said, pronouncing for the first time my new title, which made my heart beat even faster, “have you thought of a choice for your doctor-father among the four professors of the college?”
“But, Monsieur,” I blurted out, forgetting in the heat of the moment Fogacer’s advice, “may I not ask you to serve in that role for the duration of my studies?”
“You should not make this request,” said Rondelet, suddenly growing sad and looking at me gravely. “I am old and infirm, my stomach is wrecked by some disease and, stricken with fever, I am growing weaker every day and, alas, near the end of the skein the fates have woven for me.”
“And yet,” cried Fogacer with some heat, “you’re leaving tomorrow for Bordeaux! Monsieur, this is madness! I’ve told you a hundred times!”
“Easy now, don’t scold me, Fogacer,” said Rondelet, “my brothers-in-law badly need my help.”
“What about you? Don’t you need it?”
“Ah, my friend, to die there or somewhere else… If I were master of my destiny I wouldn’t raise my little finger to prolong my life by a year. I’ve suffered abominably in my personal life, devastated by more losses than the face of a hanged man is by pecks of the crow. Death has ravished too many of my family, dismembering me alive, taking such beautiful children. And all I dream of today is to be reunited with them in heaven, if the Lord in His pity allows me in. I’ve lived long enough on this earth.”
At this Fogacer fell silent, feeling, I guessed, as I did, his throat knot up to hear such melancholy. But Rondelet, seeing our discomfort, managed a smile and, recovering the glint in his eye, he said to me, “Siorac, take Dr Saporta for your doctor-father. He’s not an easy man to get along with,” he laughed, “but he’s an excellent physician, exact and diligent in discharging his duties.”
“Monsieur,” I replied, “I shall do as you bid me.”
Having arranged this, and being no doubt fatigued by the interview and the many preparations for his voyage to Bordeaux, Rondelet rose from his chair with some difficulty, and gave us our leave, after embracing each of us tenderly.
“Siorac,” he said, placing his hands on my shoulders, “listen carefully: the practice of medicine should never forget study. All your life you should study. Engrave this word ‘study’ in your brain with a golden pen. It will only be through unceasing and indefatigable effort that we will vanquish one after another the diseases that kill us and ravish our loved ones. But remember, too, not to overdo it. Don’t work to the point of wearing out your brain. You are a man and will retain your vitality if you exercise all of your faculties, and I mean all of them: mental, corporal and erotic. But for these last,” he added with a delightful smile, “I’m sure you don’t need urging. Vale, mi fili.”††† And embracing me one last time, he sent me on my way.
“Siorac,” said Fogacer, with a long face as we walked along through the crushing heat of the Provençal sun, “think about Rondelet’s example: if you cherish a wench, don’t marry her! She’ll die in childbirth and your children in their youth. Maître Sanche, as great a pharmacist as he is, has lost, despite his great knowledge of cures, two wives, and of the ten children they’ve given him, only four have survived. As for Rondelet, of his seven children, five are no longer with us. This is our miserable lot on this earth: whoever marries gives hostages to death. Adieu, Siorac, I see there’s no use in sermonizing you—you love women too much, and with too much tenderness. You will suffer greatly.”
This said, he abruptly turned on his heels and walked away, leaving me quite astonished at his mood. But what should we do? Should we live like monks because of the frailty of women, and have no children because they might die in the bloom of their youth? We are all going to die and are headed to death from our swaddling clothes on, though no one thinks about mourning when he’s young. Long after my student days, I heard Michel de Montaigne tell me in his library, “I lost two or three children when they were still nursing—not without regret, but without anger.” That Michel de Montaigne didn’t even know the exact number of children he’d lost really surprised me. And that he learnt “without anger” of their passing recalled by contrast the bitter tears that Rondelet wept at the loss of his three sons, so quickly and so early gone to their maker. I’m not trying to make a parallel between them. Montaigne was a philosopher, and as such, for better or for worse, managed to detach himself from human events. If he’d been a philosopher, Rondelet wouldn’t have chosen to spend his life struggling against death, which is the lot of the doctor, and, I believe, his honour.
Coming back to Fogacer’s bitter advice, I still found it very strange, and would have thought more about it, had not Miroul suddenly appeared at my side as if out of the ground.
“Well, Miroul,” I said, “is it really you? What are you doing strolling around the rue de l’Espazerie?”
“Monsieur,” he replied without turning his head, “step into the next shop; I need to speak with you without anyone seeing or hearing us.”
I did as he requested, and found myself in an enormous shop in which knives, swords and daggers were for sale. Behind a counter, two assistants were busy with customers, and other customers were waiting to be served—there was so much demand for weaponry in these troubled times. I got in line, and Miroul stood just behind me.
“Monsieur,” he whispered, “you were followed from the pharmacy to the rue Bout-du-monde by a beggar who looked very desperate and bloodthirsty. He waited for you the entire time you were visiting there, hidden in an entryway. When you came out, he followed you all the way here. Here’s your short sword, which I’ve wrapped in your coat. Take it without revealing what it is.”
“You’re a marvel!” I said, taking the coat and its contents. “Now I feel less naked. Tell me, Miroul,” I said over my shoulder, “should I confront this man here and now?”
“No!” he urged. “There are too many people in this street. He might take advantage of the crowd to flee.” And then, looking me in the eye with his brown eye twinkling and his blue eye cold as ice, he said, “Monsieur, are you heading to the needle shop?”
“I migh
t be…”
“Confront this beggar in the alley. It’s deserted. I’ll be behind him, dagger in hand. This way, when you confront him, he won’t be able to get away and we’ll take him dead or alive.”
“Alive, Miroul, alive! I want to know who’s put him up to this!”
After Miroul departed, I left in my turn, gripping the sword under my left arm, and pretended to be deep in thought, my nose in the air as if lost or just gaping at the scenery. But I managed to look around a bit, and caught sight of my shadow; strange to say, I recognized him, though I couldn’t for the life of me remember where I’d seen him.
I headed towards the needle shop, which I intended to reach not by the rue du Bayle or from the side of the Saint-Firmin church, but, as Miroul had suggested, through the narrow, winding alley that led to the back entrance.
The closer I got to my destination, the fewer passers-by there were, until, as I neared the shop, I found myself alone in the street, gripped the sword with my right hand and pricked up my ears for any sound behind me, guessing that my man was wearing some sort of matted sandals.
I was so tense that, with the midday sun, I was sweating profusely when I reached the little alley, and, following its curve, I turned my head just enough to see my assailant at the corner, only a dozen or so paces from me. I don’t know whether it was my imagination that misled me, but I felt, or thought I sensed, that he was going to attack me, and so, suddenly turning, I shouted as menacingly as I could, “Halt, you rascal! What are you doing following me around?”
The beggar was completely taken by surprise; he stopped dead about ten paces from me and stared at me with his little black eyes, which seemed more taunting than menacing. This done, he very civilly removed the dirty cap covering his dusty hair and said: “Monsieur, begging your pardon, but I have orders to kill you.”