by Robert Merle
I still believe this was a good thing, years later, although at the time it caused a lot of problems both for me and for others, as we shall see.
After formally closing this session of the assembly, the chancellor was the first to leave, which he did with great majesty, followed by Dean Bazin and the two other royal professors; next came the ordinary doctors in order of seniority, then the masters and then the tutors. Against this exodus, the second-year students, the novices, the apothecary students and the surgical apprentices all stayed in the hall to meet up with their various groups and clans. Fogacer returned, however, to announce that Saporta had ordered everyone to vacate the hall immediately and to return quietly to their various dormitories. The chancellor had expressly forbidden any of the initiation rites, to which, in previous years, the second-year students had submitted the novices. Of course, Merdanson and his henchmen loudly protested this order and became very noisy in their opposition to it.
“Listen carefully, all of you!” said Fogacer, raising his long spidery arms to quiet the tumult. “You’ve heard the orders of the chancellor. As for me, I’ve got little to say to you, since I’m not your abbot, nor your prefect—but at best your advisor. And yet, if I had any advice to give it would be this: if I were you I’d be very careful about obeying the chancellor’s orders. He’s looking for an excuse to make a strong statement on his first day and is itching to have a reason to use one among you to serve as an example for all the rest.”
“But, by the belly of St Vitus! Our traditions have been indisputably violated!” complained Merdanson, his face as crimson as his flamboyant hair.
“Ah!” said Fogacer, raising an eyebrow. “Traditions are like forced women. They cry but submit.” Which said, he turned on his heels and left, as the shouting echoed behind him.
In the midst of all this shouting and shoving, Luc slipped in next to me and, taking my arm, said in a soft and trembling voice, “Pierre, let’s obey the chancellor! We’ve got to get out of here as quickly as we can! Let’s go home!”
“What? Leave the field of battle? Flee from Merdanson? Oh no! I must stand up to him now whatever it costs and lance this abscess.”
To be sure, I wasn’t looking forward to this, since the churl was tall, broad-shouldered and strong, and we were going to have to fight bare-handed and without swords. Frankly, fear gripped my stomach at the very moment I was pretending to be so brave, but I was careful to pay it no mind, since it’s not our guts that should rule our conduct, but our brains.
Meanwhile, despite the order that Fogacer had announced (and, as I realized later, was arranged as a Machiavellian ruse by which the chancellor seemed to weaken his own command by having it carried out by another), the students refused to leave the hall: Merdanson and his henchmen because, though they didn’t yet dare set to it, wanted to “initiate” the novices and wreak their vengeance on me; the novices because they now regarded me as their champion and were grouped behind me, terrified by the tyranny of the older boys. In both groups, hurried discussions were being held in hushed voices and, considering the one and the other, you could have more easily got a fart out of a dead donkey than a resolution from either, since both were reluctant to countermand the orders of the chancellor.
While we were thus temporizing, two acolytes, Gast and Rancurel, the one round as a barrel, the other thin as a plank, whom Merdanson had sent off to reconnoitre the activities of the adults, came running back to announce that they’d seen Saporta get in a carriage with Dr d’Assas and that they were heading off to Frontignan to celebrate the new school year and drink sicut terra sine aqua.‡‡
“By the belly of St Vitus!” cried Merdanson, leaping onto the platform. “My boys, the school is ours! When the cat’s away, the rats will fornicate in the hayloft. Belly of St Anthony! You novices, apothecaries and surgeons, we’re going to make you the most harassed asses in creation.”
“What?” shouted an apprentice surgeon, whose name was Carajac—and he was well named, for he was built like a wagon with a pair of shoulders that didn’t fear God or the Devil. “So you plan to ‘initiate’ surgeons and apothecaries who aren’t even students in your school?”
“Lads!” cried Merdanson. “Did you hear this turd? Ever since that foetus Bazin decided to add that beggar Ambroise Paré to the ordo lecturarum, these filthy barbers don’t even know when they’re pissing. Confirmed turds that they are, they dare open their shitty little mouths and dare question the ancients!”
A loud murmur arose among the surgeons, outraged to be called barbers, and to hear their venerable master insulted. Carajac, raising his head, cried, “Monsieur, you haven’t answered me!”
“And here’s your answer!” shouted Merdanson, behind whom, on the platform, the second-year boys had eagerly massed, ready for a fight. “And the answer is yes! As the students’ abbot, legitimately elected by my peers according to the traditions of the school, and having the power to decide such matters, I will spare neither barbers nor remedy grocers. And you, you miserable little cowpat, I answer: eat my shit!”
I decided that it was time I entered the fray, so I stepped forward and said loudly and clearly, “Merdanson, though you pretend to be a second-year student, your knowledge of anatomical science is laughable and completely arse-backwards. For hearing so many ‘turds’, ‘cowpats’ and ‘shit’ fall from your mouth, I’m convinced you’ve got your anus where your mouth should be.”
This witticism left our novices, surgeons and apothecaries doubled-up with laughter, while the veterans on the platform howled with rage to see their abbot so rudely treated. Meanwhile, Merdanson was so stunned he couldn’t utter a word, so it was Gast (the lieutenant who was round as a barrel) who cried, “Lads! Are we going to let this earthworm insult our abbot? By God, we’re going to give them a historic hiding! Let’s rip the pants off this al-Razi de Siorac and paint his prick red!”
“And as for his balls,” shouted Rancurel, “which are so soft”—laughter from the older boys—“I’m going to rip ’em off with my teeth and either fry ’em with onions or eat ’em raw with vinaigrette!”
“Well said!” cried Gast. “I’ll eat some too!”
This disgusting joke bucked up the courage of the older boys, and they gathered to plan how to rush at me, when all of a sudden my beloved Samson stepped up in all his incomparable beauty and strength, God’s chosen angel that he was, and said, softly and with his usual lisp, “Whath’s thith, Monthieur? Are you talking about cathtrating my good brother here? If it’th jutht wordth, they’re ugly and dirty. But if you mean it, I’ll fight you.”
“Where did this idiotic sweetie pie come from?” cried Merdanson. “Who is he?”
“Friend,” said Samson in his dove-like simplicity, “I’m Thamson de Thiorac, I’m an apothecary’s apprentith and not so thtupid ath to countermand the chancellor’th orderth forbidding initiationth.”
This naive statement was not without some effect.
“Well said!” I cried, wanting to seize the ball and run with it. “Apothecaries, Merdanson has had the temerity to reduce your art to the sale of spices. Surgeons, he’s called you barbers. And you, novices, he’s telling you you’re going to be harassed like donkeys in a barnyard. Are you going to be cowards and accept the arrogance of these bullies, just because they started school a year before you did? Or are we going to unite and resist their insults and humiliations?”
Sadly, the idea that novices, who were, after all, medical students, should join with the apothecaries and surgeons was so new, and the respect in which the novices held their “elders” so strong, that my speech did not have the success I’d hoped among those it was intended to protect. From the silence of some of the novices and the catcalls of others, I could measure just how isolated I’d made myself.
“Courage, Monsieur,” said a voice from directly behind me, “we’ve been up against worse than this when we were fighting in la Lendrevie”
“What are you doing here, Miroul?” I hissed, turnin
g round. “Get out of here!”
“Oh no, Monsieur! Your father ordered me to stand by you through any and all dangers, and knowing your temperament, I figured your first day of school would be one of those dangers.”
“You were right, Miroul,” I conceded. “Stay here. Against these fifteen hardy rascals, three of us certainly aren’t in danger of out-numbering them!”
“Four!” said Carajac, the surgeon’s apprentice who had dared stand up to Merdanson. “I won’t tolerate this kind of tyranny in the name of school traditions.”
“Thanks, Carajac,” I said, admiring his strong frame, and much relieved to see one of his size and strength join our ranks. “Looks like we have a fight on our hands.”
At these words, as if I’d given the signal to attack, Merdanson and his acolytes rushed from the platform, down the centre aisle between the benches, shouting, “Kill! Kill! Kill!” and these madmen would definitely have killed us, I’ll wager, had they had swords or pikes, so extreme was their fury.
Our assailants had the advantage of numbers, but we had the better situation, for they were forced to climb towards us in the narrow passage between the benches, which restricted their numbers.
“Your feet, Monsieur! Use your feet the way you did with me the day I was caught stealing at Mespech!”
Excellent advice! As soon as Merdanson was within reach, his red hair and face glowing, his mouth spitting ugly insults, I unleashed a booted kick that knocked him screaming back into the arms of his henchmen. And although in the next few minutes I had plenty to do to defend myself, which I did like a stallion in heat (feeling sorry that I had only two boots instead of four hooves), I couldn’t help noticing that Carajac was doing some excellent work with the windmills of his arms, and Miroul better still, tripping some of his adversaries and using other sly tricks he had learnt on others. As for Samson, who was always slow to figure things out and to act, and of course very little inclined, given his angelic nature, to hurt his fellow men, it took an attempt by Gast and Rancurel, in their fury, to attempt to take him prisoner, to wake him up.
“Friendth, whatth thith?” he lisped politely. Lifting Gast with his left hand and Rancurel with his right, he knocked them one against the other and threw them bodily into the group of assailants. And what a pretty fall that was! In truth, I didn’t see it, but a year later there were still stories circulating in the rue du Bout-du-monde about it.
Meanwhile, Luc, who, given the weakness of his constitution, dared not enter the fray, but who did not lack the best kind of courage or eloquence, was exhorting his fellow apothecaries and surgeons to come to our aid, calling them cowards, cads, spineless milksops, sheep for the slaughter. “Look at you,” he jeered, “standing there in the corner trembling like jelly with not a thought for your champions! Isn’t Siorac a novice like you? What are you novices doing? Samson’s an apothecary, what about you? Carajac’s a surgeon. What are his brothers doing? Nothing! All three are fighting to save you from the humiliations of an initiation that Saporta has outlawed. And you miserable impotents, you’re letting them get crushed!”
Finally his eloquence began to have some effect, and Samson’s epic exploit so astonished them that it pushed them to action. And, as the older boys were attempting to surround us by leaping over the benches, the novices marched to meet them by the same means, and even though they fought a bit half-heartedly (perhaps still fearing the veterans) there were enough of them to keep the others from surrounding us. And these latter lost some of their ardour when they saw our flock of sheep heading their way.
We were in the thick of battle and it was slowly but surely turning to our advantage when we heard above the general din three thundering gavel strokes struck on the oak table. And turning towards the platform we beheld, standing behind the table, terrible in his wrath, Chancellor Saporta. He was flanked on either side by Dr d’Assas and Fogacer, while Figairasse, standing in front of the platform, was whipping the air with his switch with such fierce pleasure it was enough to send your heart into your bowels.
“Ah, you miserable scoundrel!” Merdanson hissed at Rancurel. “You said you saw them with your shitty eyes leaving for Frontignan!”
“By God, we did see them leave!” said Gast, as downcast as Rancurel. “They left and came back! It was a ruse to catch us!”
“Silence!” roared Saporta.
And a silence fell so deafeningly on the hall that I don’t have words for it since I’ve already used the metaphor (which I made up) of the silkworm turning over in its cocoon. And yet, how suddenly mute we’d all become! And aching all over! And bruised! And bloody! And to top it all off, more sheepish and abashed than thieves caught at a fair.
After having held us spellbound for a long moment under the fascination of his dark eyes, Dr Saporta cried angrily (though without sacrificing his usual rhetorical finesse), “Oh, you miscreants! Scarcely have you sworn to uphold our statutes and not to come to blows here before you’ve violated your oath! Where am I?” he continued with a majestic gesture that set his large sleeves flying. “In the medical college of which I am the chancellor? Or among Joyeuse’s stable hands? Or perhaps among the crooks of the rue des Étuves? Did I, or did I not, read you coram populo§§ the article of our statutes that states that anyone caught fighting or inflicting harm on another by blows or kicks will be subject to public whipping? From what I saw when I came in, you shall all be whipped!”
He shouted this “all” the same way he’d emphasized “in writing” during my interview, these sudden inflections being part of his customary method of terrifying his audience. And it worked very well, to judge by the anguished faces of our combatants, who were already turning the scarlet hue that our backsides would soon match.
“However,” Saporta continued, “not wishing to overtax the good offices of our beadle Figairasse—”
“One must never flinch before one’s duty!” interrupted Figairasse as his switch whistled through the air in anticipation of the pleasure to come.
“Figairasse,” said Saporta sharply, “remember, I beg you, that you are not to open your mouth unless I speak to you!”
“I beg your pardon, Monsieur,” said the beadle, “I’m at your service!” And though he spoke humbly, he looked at us proudly to let us know on whom and on which body part he would take his revenge for this rebuke.
“However, on this first day of my chancellery,” Saporta added, “it is my pleasure to show you all mercy”—at this Dr d’Assas smiled faintly, as though he knew quite well how to interpret this “mercy”—“and instead of punishing all of the soldiers, I shall punish only the leaders. Let them come forward and identify themselves, though I already know who they are.”
I had no choice.
“Monsieur,” I said immediately, “I commanded one of the sides.”
“Monsieur,” said Merdanson, “I commanded the other.”
“What distinguished captains!” sneered Saporta. “And which one started this tumult?”
“I did!” I said. “I antagonized the second-year boys.”
“I did!” said Merdanson. “I humiliated the novices.”
“You did worse than that, Merdanson!” thundered the chancellor in a terrible voice. “You attempted to reinstate the initiations that I had expressly forbidden!”
Here Merdanson, paling suddenly, nodded “yes”, without being able to articulate a single word, so much did he fear, as he told me later, to be expelled from the college, as he loved medicine with a great and passionate love, however loutish he may have been or appeared.
“Monsieur, may I speak?” I enquired, feeling that things were going very badly for Merdanson, and hoping to patch things up with him and make my peace.
“You may, Siorac.”
“I have to confess to you that I was responsible for greatly inflaming the dispute by my angry and biting words: I accused Merdanson of confusing his mouth with his anus.”
At this point something very strange happened: Chancellor Saporta smil
ed. Whether this smile was sincere or calculated I’ll never know. In any case, as if to encourage this lightening of the mood of the chancellor, d’Assas and Fogacer hastened to smile in turn, though we students, however comforted we might have felt, didn’t dare to imitate them.
“Siorac,” said the chancellor with a sort of good-natured scolding I’d never imagined he could feel or express, “that was a very unfortunate and regrettable joke and I will consider that it attenuates the charges against Merdanson. I will also consider as attenuating these charges the fact that, though Merdanson intended to reinstate the initiation, he did not in fact do so.”
Hearing these words, as captious and scholastic in form as they were clever and merciful in their effect, Merdanson heaved a great sigh of relief to have avoided the ultimate punishment.
“However,” said Saporta, with a brusque and apparent return to his implacable severity, “Merdanson can’t deny having provoked this tumult.”
“Monsieur,” said Merdanson with what very much resembled a rush of gratitude, “I do not deny it.”
“Hear my verdict, then,” said the chancellor, removing his doctor’s cap (which gesture d’Assas and Fogacer immediately imitated). “I condemn Merdanson to receive ten lashes from Monsieur Figairasse’s whip. To which, because he started this tumult, I add ten more. I condemn Siorac to receive an equal number of lashes, to which I add an equal number in addition because he is my son.”
“Ah,” I thought, “those ten additional strokes, however paternal they may be, won’t hurt any less!”
“Merdanson,” continued the chancellor, “do you accept my verdict?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” replied Merdanson.
“Siorac, do you accept my verdict?”
“Yes, Monsieur my doctor-father,” I said, but to myself I thought that the son was paying too dearly to help maintain the equilibrium the father wanted to establish in the punishments meted to the older students and the novices.