City of Wisdom and Blood

by Robert Merle

  “Oh, Monsieur,” cried Espoumel, “your kindness is infinite, but if I have to be here a month, or more than a month, to what conceivable use will you put all these petetas?”

  “Soldiers, Espoumel!” I laughed. “Some French and the others English. And with the two armies, set up one against the other, I can stage the siege of Calais where my father fought with such distinction.”

  And so, promising to visit him the next day, and to bring him the tools he needed and three pieces of soft wood, I took my leave, very happy with him and with myself, believing I could make a handsome profit with these carvings. Now, I realize I may be raising some eyebrows among my readers, who, having perhaps already found it unacceptable for a nobleman to study medicine, are now turning up their noses at the idea that he should try to make a profit from such an enterprise. For them, no doubt, the only noble way to live is, for the eldest son, to exploit the labourers on his lands, and, for a younger brother, to embrace the Church or the army. However, for me, my faith has closed the door of the Church, and, as for the army, must I enter the service of a king who, tomorrow, could declare that all Huguenots are outlaws?

  My father and Sauveterre have adopted Calvin’s belief that all money is good that is honestly earned, and that it’s a sure sign of God’s favour that He puts in our minds that which is most profitable to us. It is to this maxim, so faithful to the spirit of the Bible, that they owe the incredible prosperity of Mespech.

  As for me, inspired by these same ideas, I disliked costing the Brethren so many écus, just as I disliked having to depend on them at all, for in my view, any man who owes his livelihood to another—be it his own father—is nothing more than a child. Being a younger son, and thus able to count on no one but myself for the advancement of my fortunes, I found it lamentable to dress all in black since I was already in Joyeuse’s good graces—and would have been even more so if I could appear before him dressed in clothes that would enhance rather than demean my situation. May I say that I saw nothing in the blue satin suit that I hoped to acquire that could be described as “futile” or “frivolous”, as Sauveterre wrote, but regarded it rather as a means to an end, as these petetas would be, for certainly I would not open a shop on the public street to sell them, but would turn them to my advantage in a more subtle and honourable way, as I shall recount.

  While thus meditating on my fortunes, I realized my steps had taken me to Saint-Firmin, but it was not to the papist church, but to what stood opposite it, that I directed my particular idolatry. The workings of man’s brain are strange indeed! And how easy it is, no matter what some might say, to have two ideas at once! For, however absorbed I was in my schemes for the future, I had, nevertheless, the minute Espoumel had said the word peteta, begun to remember that the innkeeper in Castelnau d’Ary was called La Patota, which is the same word in a different dialect and means “doll” in our Provençal tongue. And remembering the delicious cakes that our good hostess had offered me as I left her inn, I arrived at the more recent memory of the pastries I’d swallowed at the needle-maker’s shop the night before, and slipped insensibly from the pastry to the pastry chef, the second no less succulent than the first, and was so overcome with desire and appetite for Thomassine that I had to satisfy them without delay.

  But I couldn’t. Thomassine was not there, wouldn’t be back all day, as Azaïs informed me, writhing like a little snake, attempting to provoke me, ticklish as she was. But I would have none of it—as ticklish as I might be myself—for I did not wish to be the cause of her dismissal: a scruple, however, that had not stopped me in my dealings with Fontanette.

  And so I left, quite dissatisfied by my own good behaviour, which for once was prudent. I make no attempt to hide, though, that prudence is hardly my cardinal virtue. For a month later, and in an arena that had not to do with wenches but with study, I committed, along with some other students from my college, an action that my father deemed, after reading my letter of confession, sacrilegious, stupid, and, to quote him directly (for his conclusion was written in Latin, to give it more weight) atrocissimo.||

  * “Nothing can be brought to perfection without sweat and labour.”

  † “The life Nature has given us is brief, but the memory of a life dedicated to good works is eternal.”

  ‡ “It is better to be ignorant of our future ills than to know them in advance.”

  § “What is spoken perishes, but the written word remains.”

  ¶ “I am not a doctor.”

  || “Most cruel.”

  8

  ON THE TENTH DAY of October, I set out on my mare, Accla, to visit Dr d’Assas in Frontignan, accompanied by Fogacer, riding Samson’s Albière, who would serve as my guide on these unfamiliar routes, but whose real interest in the journey was the schoolmaster’s muscat wine.

  This doctor, Fogacer explained as we trotted along the stony roads, was a Sephardic and was called, in reality, Salomon, but, finding that his name was too obviously Hebraic, he adopted the name of his property, d’Assas. At first this had raised some eyebrows among his Sephardic friends, especially since, after becoming a Huguenot, the good doctor had abandoned the secret rites to which many of them had remained faithful. D’Assas’s adoption of the noble “de” had elicited much ridicule among the papists of the town (but then hadn’t my grandfather ultimately done the same thing?), but everyone eventually got used to it. As for the reformists, who were too austere to laugh at his change of name, they were very disappointed that d’Assas was such a tepid convert, for he seldom went to their temple, claiming that the long ride made his backside too sore.

  When we dismounted and I saw him emerge from his lush garden under the sunny blue skies of a Provençal autumn, approach with arms outstretched and give me a warm hug, so full of goodwill and tolerance, my heart swelled with affection for the good doctor! Everything about him was round: his head, his face, his shoulders, his paunch—his heart and soul as well. And around these rotundities, so different from those of the late Chancellor Rondelet, the thorns of life seemed to have slipped by without scratching him, for d’Assas had endured a like number of funerals as his father-in-law, successively mourning two wives and four of his six children, but unlike Rondelet, at each loss, after many tears shed, his former serenity seemed to be reborn from those ashes. D’Assas appeared perpetually able to draw forth from himself a joie de vivre as sweet as the muscat he drew from his wine barrels.

  Indeed, the better you got to know him, the more you realized that the drinker shared a deep affinity with his drink. For d’Assas was personally sweet, suave and fruity, a true nectar of a man, self-indulgent, indulgent of others, tender with everyone, pardoning each one, wishing for no enemies, seeking accommodation with all. But of course, since every medal has its reverse side, he was also very little inclined to take pains, even in his art, since he had little trust in medicine, as became obvious very quickly, and instead was entirely devoted to the management of his Frontignan vineyards, which, if truth be told, he valued more than the king his kingdom.

  Having invited us to sit down in the shade of his lovely garden, Dr d’Assas showered us with compliments and ordered his valet to see to our horses, and his chambermaid to bring us wine and cakes. Which she did, all smiles and alluring glances. She was a pretty brunette, as long and supple as a creeper vine, her large green eyes speckled with gold. She was imbued with a languid Italian grace—as appetizing to look at as her cakes, which were spread out on a small table placed between our legs, and which I attacked with gusto, as did Fogacer. Dr d’Assas smiled benignly to see us so hungry and thirsty after our long ride. He sat at his ease in an armchair, his head bobbing gaily and—I hope my reader won’t take this amiss or be angry at my telling it—time and again baritoning from his arse. For, to tell the truth, and despite his otherwise perfect manners, he farted often and loudly, though not odoriferously, and expelled from his anus the air he breathed in excessively through his mouth, being accustomed, God knows why, to yawn mightily bet
ween each sentence like a fish out of water.

  When I was half full (for in the bloom of my youth I never discovered a bottom to my abyssal stomach), Dr d’Assas said, in between mouthfuls of cakes and wine: “Monsieur de Siorac—but let’s drop the formalities! I’ll just call you Pierre, since I already like you so much with your frank appearance and good manners—I hope you’ll forgive me.” (And here he gave a strange intake of air with a curious sound as if he were saying, “Haaamm”.) “Please, eat while we talk. Eating and drinking belong to the living, for the dead no longer have any appetite but for God, and since God is eternal, why should we be in a hurry to join him? Pierre, forgive me if I must ask you a few little questions about medicine, but I must since I must give my evaluation in writing to the chancellor (Haaamm!), so I’m going to ask you right off to tell me what you know about syphilis, since this disease is, it seems, your strong point.” (He laughed.) “Pierre, is syphilis a dry and cold inclemency?” (Here he abruptly… but if it please you, reader, I shall leave to your imagination the number of times he yawned or broke wind as we conversed, since it would be bad breeding to insist on these, the good doctor being a man of otherwise impeccable manners.)

  “No, Monsieur, it’s a hot and humid inclemency.”

  “Fogacer,” said d’Assas with a sly look at the tutor, “do you believe that? ‘A hot and humid inclemency?’ What the devil is this kind of talk?”

  “I’m really not sure,” said Fogacer, who was amused by the doctor’s scepticism. “But the distinction is classic.”

  “Very good then. Let’s distinguish. Zara,” he said to the pretty chambermaid, “come over here, my sweet, and stand on my right, next to me. Bene, bene. Pierre, how does the sickness spread?”

  To which I parroted back to him, “An infected person can only infect another by the passage of liqueur from one body into a part of the other body.”

  “Well that makes sense, though I’m not partial to the word ‘liqueur’,” said d’Assas, and with his left hand he brought his goblet to his mouth, with his right caressing his chambermaid’s back, at least that part of her he could reach since he had such short arms and she was so tall.

  “Pierre,” he said with a delectable smile, “we’ve worked hard enough for one afternoon, under such a bright sun and blue skies. One question more and we shall be done. How can we protect ourselves against syphilis when we suspect we’ve had relations with an infected person?”

  “By purging and having blood drawn.”

  “Fogacer,” said d’Assas with an even more ironic expression than before, “do you believe that?”

  “I don’t know, but that’s what they teach.”

  “Very good then. Let’s teach it that way. Pierre,” he continued, “you’ve said enough to convince me that you know the De morbo italico of Rondelet by heart. Dignus es intrare, mi fili.* I will write to Saporta soon.”

  “Venerable Doctor,” said Fogacer, who did not trust d’Assas’s lazy habits or his well-known tendency for procrastination, “why not write this note immediately? I’ll deliver it to the chancellor myself since I have a meeting with him this evening.”

  “As you wish,” sighed d’Assas. “Zara, fetch my writing desk!” And this said, as she rose to do his bidding, he accompanied her departure with his hand on her backside for as long as his stubby right arm would permit.

  Having wrapped up my examination in two easy questions, and disposed of his recommendation to Saporta in two short lines, d’Assas finished his wine, and rising with unexpected sprightliness, invited us to visit his vineyard, which he described in excruciating detail for an entire hour, punctuating his diatribe with you-know-whats, while Zara, as ordered, walked along on his right for his tactual enjoyment. She seemed so constantly necessary that I was surprised that, when he offered his lectures at the Royal College of Medicine, he didn’t bring her with him for his continued pleasure. As for the punctuation I’ve mentioned, he did not fail to display that particular habit during his lectures, which offered a subject of great merriment to his students, who enjoyed imitating his airy offerings. However, despite the jokes he inspired, his courses were well attended and were fairly good, and would have been better if he’d put more thought into them.

  “Make no mistake about it,” Fogacer told me as we rode slowly back to Montpellier, our pace determined by the amount of muscat wine we’d absorbed, “Dr d’Assas is extremely intelligent. In fact, he would have been the greatest doctor of his time if he’d only taken the trouble. But he is a true hedonist. His only care in life is to make the most of every passing moment since we don’t get another chance at it.”

  “And don’t we all do the same?” I asked. “Each in his own way, some through avarice, others though love, still others through austerity.”

  “I have an answer for that,” said Fogacer, “but my head is spinning, and I can’t seem to find it.” Having said this, he reined in Albière, grabbed the pommel of his saddle and, bent over double, burst out laughing uncontrollably. Seeing this, I broke out laughing myself, so happy to see this side of my wise mentor, and we remained lost in our mirth for quite some time.

  On 11th October, Chancellor Saporta sent his beadle to me to request payment of three livres for my inscription in the college register, and to remind me that I must not consider myself officially enrolled until I received written confirmation from Dr d’Assas; hence I should make no attempt to request in writing that Saporta serve as my doctor-father until I had in my possession d’Assas’s letter.

  But on the 16th—two days before St Luke’s Day, the first day of the semester—having heard nothing from Dr d’Assas, and attributing his silence to his proclivity for procrastination, I saddled Accla and went straight to Frontignan, partly since I enjoyed his benign presence, not to mention his cakes and wine and, I confess, Zara’s green eyes, with which she bewitched all the young men around her. And even if this non licet toccare† had been written in golden letters across her pretty forehead, and enjoying her favours was only a dream, who wouldn’t love to get lost in such a beautiful dream? As our stonecutter at Mespech, Jonas, would say, chastely ensconced in his cave and hence deprived of the sight of Sarrazine, “A fox likes to watch the chickens go by even if he can’t catch them.”

  In short, I had all the pleasures of sight, in seeing the pert chambermaid again; of hearing, since Dr d’Assas held forth on his various disquisitions; of taste, as I partook of his exquisite wine and cakes—and, to top it all off, I finally got my letter of enrolment, which was as prompt as it was bizarrely conceived:

  Descriptus fuit in albo studiosorum medicinae Petrus Sioracus, per manus, anno Domini 1566 die vero 16 octobris; cujus pater est Venerandus Doctor Saporta, nostrae scholae Cancellarius, qui ejusdem jura persolvit. Datum Monspessuli ut supra. Doctor Dassassius.‡

  I found these terms curious because they stated that Dr Saporta would serve as my doctor-father whereas it was precisely this document that was required before I could ask him to serve in this capacity. I dared to point out this anomaly to Dr d’Assas, but he, with a twinkle in his sly eyes, assured me that such a contradiction or absurdity would in no wise bother Dr Saporta, as long as it was stated in writing. As he said this last, he pronounced “in writing” in a perfect imitation of the tone and voice of Dr Saporta, which provoked a huge laugh from both of us.

  The school of medicine in Montpellier was situated on the rue du Bout-du-monde (the idea that we should be located at “world’s end” always amazed me) and, aside from the anatomical theatre that Rondelet had founded, consisted of but two large halls, one for lectures and the other, called the graduation hall, for examinations and assemblies, but where, for lack of space, some lectures were also given. Attached to these two halls was a large tower, whose solemn bells were rung by the beadle Figairasse to announce the beginning and end of each reading. I use this word advisedly, for our teachers, whether they were royal professors or ordinary doctors, invariably read selections from ancient texts, accompanied by
commentaries that varied enormously from reader to reader in both quantity and quality.

  Also attached to these two halls was a small but very precious garden, for, since the arrival of Rondelet, who was a great lover and observer of natural phenomena—and to whom we owe a book entitled Fish, which is an extraordinary study—a great variety of medicinal plants were cultivated there. We all took turns weeding this garden, but the most assiduous of us all was my beloved Samson, even though he was not a regularly enrolled student in the college, but was admitted to certain courses deemed relevant to his interest in the apothecary arts.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. What a grand occasion it was for Luc, Samson and me to hear the solemn bell ringing, announcing a plenary session of all of the teachers and students of the school in the graduation hall.

  Enthroned on a platform at one end of this great hall were the college’s four professors, sitting behind a long oak table, all equal in rank, but not in power or function. Neither Dr Feynes nor Dr d’Assas could claim to enjoy the same power or privileges as Chancellor Saporta and Dean Bazin—the first responsible for the school’s management, the second for its curriculum, the latter little disposed to give way to the former, or so it appeared. But since he was a thinly built, white-haired little man, bent over with age, Bazin looked like he had little chance of carrying the day against my terrifying doctor-father—for my “father” he now was, as the very laconic written attestation I’d received on the eve of this plenary reunion, and signed by Saporta’s abrupt hand, was, henceforth, ample warrant.

  As for Dr Feynes, a good man and a good doctor as I was to learn later, and the only one of the royal professors who was a papist (the only one that Bishop Pellicier had managed to impose on the school), he had thinning hair and watery eyes, and such wan, pale and indecisive features that he had no need of effacing himself any further as was his wont, since he lived in a state of perpetual terror in this Huguenot lair.