by Robert Merle
“The punishment will take place here within the hour,” announced Saporta, “before the assembled students and in the presence of Dr d’Assas and Fogacer.”
A silence followed this sentence, which, I’ll wager, the chancellor savoured greatly, and which I enjoyed a good deal less than he did, but it was suddenly broken, to the prodigious astonishment of all, by my brother Samson.
“Monthieur, may I thpeak?” said he in his soft voice, his beautiful visage reddened as though he were surprised at his own marvellous audacity.
“Who are you?” demanded Saporta, who knew very well who he was, but who seemed to be astonished by the radiant appearance of my beloved brother.
“Monthieur, my name ith Thamson de Thiorac, and I’m an apothecary apprentith.”
“What?” said Saporta. “You’re an apothecary apprentice and you ask to speak to this assembly?”
“In all due humility,” replied Samson, and so powerful was the effect of his beauty that Saporta didn’t manage to remain angry, even though he was itching to. “Well, say your piece,” he conceded.
“Monthieur,” said Samson, “I led the group of apothecarieth in the tumult. I demand to be treated like my brother.”
“Young man,” said Saporta, barely repressing a smile, “cognisant as I am that you are not a student in our college, I cannot, to my great regret, apply statutes to you that you have no reason to obey. You shall therefore not be whipped, however much you desire it.”
He then put on his doctor’s cap and smiled, which had the effect of eliciting from the assembled students laughter and applause, which continued and increased, making Chancellor Saporta’s intervention a huge triumph, especially since the older boys and the novices in their heart of hearts were infinitely relieved that everything had worked out so well, and that the punishment would be meted out on other backsides than their own.
After his verdict, Chancellor Saporta was able to leave the college for the second time, and this time with no plan to return, his spirit hovering over the college that he now dominated and inhabited in all its parts.
“Merdanson, and you too, Siorac,” said Figairasse, his big face red with anticipation as he paraded back and forth on the platform, tapping the handle of his switch on the iron hook that served as his left hand, “before you undress and kneel against this bench, I must remind you that you owe me a few sols as the price of your punishment.”
“What?” I replied. “I’m supposed to pay to be whipped, to have my purse suffer along with my flesh?”
“’Tis the custom, I’m afraid,” confessed Dr d’Assas, who appeared very chagrined to have to preside over this execution. “Custom dictates that the patient reimburse the beadle for his labour.”
“Well, then, Monsieur Figairasse,” I said, affecting a lighthearted tone, “since pay I must, I’ll pay. What’s your price?”
“There’s more than one,” said Figairasse, “there are two, depending on the degree of whipping you choose.”
“Venerable Dr d’Assas, is this also part of the custom?”
“I’m afraid so,” sighed d’Assas, who appeared quite distressed to see me suffer such indignities. I appreciated his concern all the more since I noticed that Fogacer’s eyes were unusually bright, but I doubted it was due to any compassion, for I noticed this same expression in the eyes of all of the students who gathered around Merdanson and me, who were shamelessly fighting over front-row seats, so avid were they to observe the spectacle of our punishment.
“All right, then,” I said to the beadle, “what are your prices?”
“The prices,” said Figairasse, who took his time, spoke well and loved to hear himself speak, “are set according to the degrees of whipping, which are in number, two: the first bloodies you, which is what I’m supposed to do, according to the school tradition.”
“Bloodies you?” I asked, surprised that I was the only one involved in this dialogue, since Merdanson didn’t say a word, but just sat there looking very sombre.
“You heard me.”
“But isn’t that cruel?”
“It is,” said Figairasse. “And only the students whom I’d call miserly and stingy ever choose the first degree because it costs only five miserable sols. But I don’t like it since it’s so brutal and lacking in finesse.”
“And the second degree?” I asked.
“Ah,” said Figairasse, raising his switch towards the heavens, “that requires very great skill—”
“Get on with it, Figairasse,” said Dr d’Assas.
“All right, venerable Doctor,” said the beadle, “but I must explain why. Considering only the well-being of the patient, the second degree has many advantages. The patient gets off with only a few welts and bruises, which make it painful to sit down for a few days. However, this method is very tiring for me since it demands extreme care in the application of the whip. And so it costs ten sols and not a denier less.”
“Samson,” I said, “give the beadle ten sols.”
“You’re a good lad,” said Figairasse, as Samson, tears in his eyes, counted out ten sols into the beadle’s large palm, “you’ve acted nobly, paid cash in hand with no bargaining. I’ll treat you as well as I can. Your turn, Merdanson.”
“Figairasse,” said Merdanson emerging from his brown study, “I regret I must disappoint you, but yesterday I accompanied my friends to the brothel in the rue des Étuves and the bitches took everything I had. I’ve not a sol to my name.”
“In that case,” said Figairasse, his face darkening by the minute and his eyes full of anger, “tradition dictates that if you’ve no money the punishment is doubled. I’ll have to give you forty lashes instead of twenty and all first degree.”
“But couldn’t I pay you at the end of the month?” begged Merdanson, whose face was losing colour as he contemplated this frightful menace. “I get my pension then.”
“Oh no!” said the beadle. “I’m not a rich man, my friend, I can’t afford to reduce your punishment on credit!”
“Samson,” I broke in. “Give ten sols to the beadle for Merdanson. He has to be punished in the same way I am. Otherwise the equity of the verdict wouldn’t be respected.”
“By St Vitus’s belly!” gasped Merdanson, looking at me as if he’d never seen me before. “Siorac, you’re an honest fellow, novice though you are! I’ll pay you back your money.”
“No! I’m offering you this gift for the love that should reign between novices and second-years.”
“Well said, well said!” cried Dr d’Assas, his eyes growing moist.
All the students broke into applause as if they were at the theatre, though the best comedy was yet to come, as they no doubt knew.
“Undress, my lads, and kneel next to each other to facilitate my task.”
We did as he directed and were very ashamed to expose our hidden parts to the curiosity of all.
“Ah, what nice arses you have!” laughed Fogacer as he leapt from the platform and approached us. “My mouth waters at the sight of you!” Although his words elicited belly laughs from the crowd, I found his words ugly and inappropriate, and it hurt me that Fogacer would say such a thing.
“Siorac,” whispered Merdanson, as he knelt next to me, “have you ever been whipped?”
“Oh yes! By my father!”
“That’s nothing! Listen, take my hand, and when the beadle strikes squeeze it as hard as you can. Grit your teeth as well and flex your muscles. The pain will be less severe.”
“Lads, are you ready?” said Figairasse, making his switch whistle over our heads.
“Get on with it,” said Dr d’Assas.
“And so I am, venerable Doctor,” replied Figairasse, “but I must follow the ceremony. Boys, I’ll strike two blows to one and two to the other alternately. Are you ready?”
“Yes! Get it done!” I said.
“Oh, my boy,” replied Figairasse, “I’m only beginning, and the time’s going to pass very slowly for you before I’m done.”
“Begin, I beg you,” said d’Assas.
And I received two lashes so strident and burning they took my breath away. But I refused to open my mouth or make any sound.
“Belly of St Vitus!” said Merdanson. “Don’t keep quiet! Yell! It helps!”
And when he received his ration, he yelled.
“Ah, that’s great!” said Figairasse. “Here’s a boy who knows what it’s about! I like it when they yell! It soothes me too!”
I received two more blows, which seemed even more painful than the first, but didn’t flinch—but when my third turn came, I realized that I wouldn’t make it to the end without fainting unless I let out the beast in me, so, seizing the hand offered by Merdanson, who’d never seemed so friendly, I screamed to wake the deaf.
“Well now, our second gentleman is getting into it!” said Figairasse. “I like that better! It’s only natural!”
Of course, he was right, and right, too, about the way time stood still. I thought I’d been at the pillory for an hour when we were only at the tenth lash.
“Hold on, Figairasse!” broke in d’Assas. “I think you’re losing your touch. These last two lashings seemed to me to be first-degree punishment, not second.”
“Ah, no, venerable Doctor, that’s not possible!” replied the beadle, quite annoyed to be criticized about his speciality. “I give the patient exactly what he paid for, and when I’m done you’ll see blood very near the skin but you won’t see a drop spilt. I’m very careful!”
“I hope so, for your sake, Figairasse,” said d’Assas with a hard and menacing tone, which very much surprised me since he was normally so benign.
“Venerable Doctor,” said Figairasse, “I’m being very careful.”
Their dispute (as d’Assas must have hoped) provided a bit of a respite, which I took advantage of to catch my breath, for during the lashings I thought my lungs would give out and venom fill my heart. But when Figairasse started in again, his lashes, despite d’Assas’s warning, didn’t seem any lighter, quite the contrary.
“Stop, Figairasse!” shouted d’Assas. “How many lashes is that for each boy?”
“Fourteen, venerable Doctor.”
“No, it’s sixteen.”
“Venerable Doctor, I’m sure of my count.”
“And I’m certain of mine.”
Since Figairasse dared not contradict d’Assas’s affirmation, and d’Assas refused to back away from a number he knew to be false, there was a moment of silence.
“So what shall we do?” said the beadle bitterly while making his switch whistle in the air over our backsides.
“Let’s wager,” said d’Assas.
“Aha!” replied the beadle, suddenly changing his tone of voice and, though my backside was turned towards him, I thought I detected a gleam in his eye. “Let’s wager! What shall we wager?”
“Whoever loses, wins. If I’m right, I’ll give you a flask of my Frontignan wine.”
“Two,” countered the beadle.
“All right, two. But it must be in good faith. Search your memory carefully, my friend. You’re up to sixteen.”
“Venerable Doctor, now that I think about it, there’s no doubt. You’re absolutely right—and I won: I’m up to sixteen.”
“Shake on it!” said d’Assas. “You won! And make sure you lighten your hand for the last four.”
He didn’t, since the beadle never gave anything for nothing. But suddenly it was all over. Stunned and bruised, I got up and dressed quietly but I did not feel totally undone, and the first faces I saw were Luc, Samson and Fogacer, tears streaming down their cheeks. Yes, Fogacer! And may Satan himself whip me in his infernal kingdom if I ever understand this devil of a man!
“Merdanson,” I said, “since we suffered together, let’s recover our strength together. I invite you to join us for dinner at the Three Kings. A wounded ass should not go about on an empty stomach!”
“What?” gasped Merdanson. “Did I hear you right? Novice, you’re inviting me to eat and drink with you?”
“Friend, you heard right.”
“Belly of St Vitus, Siorac, you’re the most polished novice I’ve ever met! It wasn’t enough to pay ten sols to get me out of the first degree! You’re feeding me! I, who’ve got no money after the bitches wiped me out yesterday! Siorac, you’re a noble fellow! Give me your hand! A novice you may be, but I’m your man! And shit on this shitty beadle! May his shit go back in where it came out and climb right up to his throat so he suffocates in his own excrement and his anus grimaces in agony.”
On our way to the inn, Samson shed hot tears as he thought about what we’d endured, but smiled through them to see me whole and not too hobbled by my execution (though my backside was dragging). He kept hugging me, taking my arm, throwing his arm over my neck and kissing my face.
“Aieee!” I cried as I tried to sit down at the Three Kings.
“Aieee!” cried Merdanson as he sat down next to me. “My poor arse! You shitty beadle, may it please God to make you a cuckold as many times as I have welts on my backside.”
“Merdanson,” said our hostess, “in the meantime, take your hands off my arse or I’ll give you a slap that will uncurl your red hair. Try this wine instead, it’s our best.”
“It’s not bad. And as bent, broken and messed up as I am, I drink to the very exalted and very farting Monsieur d’Assas for having, by ruse and by Frontignan, got us off two lashes. But my good hostess, to proffer a glass instead of your arse is such a pity! What’s life without a little sex?”
“Merdanson,” said our hostess, “I like you well enough, but besides the fact that you’re as foul-mouthed as any stable boy in Toulouse, your manners are rude and crude. You should take Siorac for a model. He caresses with his eyes and waits until he’s invited to move from eye to hand.”
“Siorac,” agreed Merdanson, “is the most perfect gentleman in all creation. I love him like a brother. Thanks to him I’m able, despite those bitches in the rue des Étuves, to eat my fill and bibere papaliter.¶¶ What’s more he’s got a beautiful brother, even if he is only an apothecary’s apprentice.”
At this, the hostess, Merdanson and I all sat in silent contemplation of Samson, for he was indeed so beautiful that just looking at him made you infinitely happy.
“Good hostess,” I said, “bring us one of your crispy roast pork dishes that I saw on the spit as I passed the kitchen. And add to that a flagon of your best—no, two, since there are three of us. But, good woman, you’re playing with me. As for your ‘invitations’, I don’t see any coming!”
“Patience!” she laughed. “Here’s a little down payment.” And passing behind me she ran her fingers along my neck. But I didn’t move a muscle, for I knew all too well that she belonged to Cossolat. Yet I knew she liked me. So she would give me saucy looks and I would tease her but that was enough to create an understanding between us that added extra flavour to her succulent roast pork.
But listen to this! No sooner had this delectable roast arrived at our table, been carved and served up, and no sooner had Samson brought his fork to his mouth, than he let it fall onto his doublet. Open mouthed, he turned crimson, then paled and seemed if he were going to pass out: Dame Gertrude du Luc, her blue eyes more beautiful even than I remembered, was standing there looking as though she’d suddenly emerged from beneath the ground, dressed to kill. A veritable vision!
That Samson should have been unable to utter a word was no surprise, but I, who never lack for words, was completely tongue-tied, literally bewitched to see her so beautiful in all her finery. Merdanson, too, fell silent, and this silence might have lasted longer if Dame Gertrude hadn’t been the first to speak; she went right to the point: “Good friends,” she said, her eyes shining while maintaining an air of formality, “I’ve just arrived here from Rome where I finished my holy pilgrimage, and finding you here is a rare coincidence. But as happy as I am to see you, I am distressed not to be able to speak further with you: I am on my way to the Sain
t-Firmin church to thank God for the success of my enterprise.”
And, looking Samson directly in the eye in a way that fooled no one (for she knew that he was slow to understand things), she brought her black veil over her hair, adjusted her mask and departed in a majestic sweep of her dress.
* “You’re worthy of admission, my son.”
† “No touching permitted.”
‡ “Pierre de Siorac has been inscribed by my hand in the book of scholars in medicine on 16th October in the year 1566. His doctor-father is the venerable Dr Saporta, chancellor of our school, who has authorized this action. Montpellier, on this day (as inscribed above). Dr d’Assas.”
§ “I swear.”
¶ “The list of lectures.”
|| The Book of Maladies and Symptoms.
** On the Composition of the Human Body.
†† “As if he were infallible.”
‡‡ “As if the earth were without water.”
§§ “In public assembly.”
¶¶ “Drink like a Pope.”
9
THE PAIN I SUFFERED at the hands of Figairasse didn’t simply make for “some difficulties sitting down” but for difficulties of another kind, which the reader will easily understand, since my arse hurt with every movement I made. And since, every night, Fontanette slipped the bolt of her door and came into my bed, she was every bit as distressed as I was.
“Oh, Pierre,” she whispered, her eyes glowing in the darkness, “you never should have taken my virginity. Now I’m so anxious to make the beast with two backs with you, however great a sin it may be, that I could no more do without it than do without my daily bread. I go wandering dreamily about during the day, which is spent only in waiting for night to come, and as soon as I’ve left your embrace, I start dreaming of it again in my own bed.”
“But, Fontanette,” I answered, “isn’t it sweet to dream thus, and to anticipate such pleasure?”
“It would be, Monsieur, if I liked my work. But alas! She’s watching my every move and especially now that my heart isn’t in the work as much as it was before. Dame Rachel is forever quarrelling with me and nagging my master to get rid of me.”