by Robert Merle
“But do I have to take his course if it’s so dear? Will it be worth it?”
“Silly boy!” replied the wily Fogacer. “You are required to take his course even if it profiteth you nothing. Saporta is, with Rondelet, Feynes and Salomon d’Assas, one of the four royal professors, and when Rondelet, who is old and feeble, passes out of this world, Saporta will be elected chancellor. Would you disdain the private lessons of your chancellor?”
“Or those of my procurator? Let’s shake on it,” I laughed. “Let’s shake on it, Fogacer! I shall be your pupil in logic and philosophy. And ’sblood! However meagre this provender, I shall gulp it down with gusto!”
“Now you’re talking!” agreed Fogacer, happy with himself and with me. “I like a man with a big appetite. We’ll start tomorrow.”
Thereupon, he looked me up and down without a word, and I calmly returned his gaze. His lifeless black hair was thinning at the crown of his head so that he appeared to be older than he was (roughly twenty years old, as I learnt later). Under those impressive eyebrows gleamed two piercing chestnut-brown eyes, and his nose, as I’ve said, had the curve of an eagle’s beak. He would have appeared altogether severe had he not on occasion broken into a sinewy smile, particularly when he was spouting paradoxes, irreverent comments, jokes and veiled impieties, which he restricted to his private conversations, for in public he was as guarded with his tongue as a shepherd with his lambs, carefully separating out the black ones and displaying only the lily-white members of the flock.
“So, my young friend,” he said at length, feigning an air of gravity, “you’re a skirt-chaser.”
“Monsieur,” I replied in the same vein, “I do chase them, yes.”
“And, as fast as these skirts run, I doubt not that you catch up with them. You’re blonde, blue-eyed, fair-skinned and pretty vigorous.”
“Well, I’m not at all as handsome as my brother.”
“True enough, but he’s a mute, and you have a ready enough tongue. There’s also something lively, strapping and quick about you which must please the fairer sex.”
“Monsieur, I cannot complain.”
Here, Fogacer paused and, suddenly quitting his jocular manner, said with utter seriousness, “Siorac, this is just my opinion, but I urge you to take heed. There are in this house two damsels of very different status whom you must, for different reasons, give a very wide berth. The first is Typhème, who’s promised, as I’m sure you’ve been told, to Dr Saporta, a very good man twice her age. But he’s Sephardic, like Maître Sanche.”
“Sephardic?” I echoed.
“What? Didn’t your father explain this to you when he arranged for you to lodge with Maître Sanche?”
“He did not.”
“You must know that Sephardics are Spanish Jews—though some are Portuguese—who were forcefully converted and then chased out of their country by the stinking intolerance of the priests, but who were welcomed to Provence by Louis XI. Which was a very wise thing to do, for these Sephardics brought with them their knowledge of Jewish and Arabic medicine, without which the Royal College of Medicine in Montpellier would not be what it is today.”
“But Maître Sanche described himself as a Catholic.”
“He’s forced to. He is Catholic in the same wise as myself: a prudent and purely exterior and nominal adherent.”
Fogacer had given me much food for thought, but I decided against this discussion on such dangerous terrain, and said, “Is it because Saporta is Sephardic that Typhème is betrothed to him?”
“That’s one of the reasons,” replied Fogacer with a smile. “The other is that Maître Sanche is very well-to-do and Saporta even more so, possessing vineyards and farmland throughout the region, many fine houses in Montpellier and, what’s more, in the rue du Bras-de-fer—so steep and narrow that it’s called ‘the slide’ in Provençal—he owns a tennis court from which he makes a handsome profit and which you would do well to frequent.”
“But I’ve never in my life touched ball or racquet!”
“That’s nothing. I’ll teach you.”
Mercy! I thought. That’s city folk for you! They have both hands in your pockets. “But, Fogacer,” I said, “help me understand. The father of this house is Catholic. His son is of the reformed religion. Maître Sanche and Luc are thus mutual heretics each to the other. How is this possible?”
“It’s a purely sartorial question,” replied my teacher with his sinewy smile. “The father wears the coat of a papist; the son dresses in Calvin’s coat. That way each covers for the other. Which is very well advised in the uncertain times we live in. Siorac, take a good dose of this infinite prudence. Don’t go about Montpellier trumpeting your reformism. It’s true that there are many of your people here, but always remember that the king and his mother are papists and ultimately you will have to match our own beliefs to theirs, if only by force.”
This said, he laughed, as if all this—anything that wasn’t medicine—was a comedy of little consequence, and rising to the full height of his long, elegant legs with the agility of a greyhound, he went on, “I must go, Siorac. The sun is already up, and Rondelet, who’s leaving soon for Toulouse, has left me his patients to attend to.”
“But you haven’t talked about Fontanette.”
“Aha, I see the subject interests you! But we’ll speak of this another time,” he laughed over his shoulder as he descended the spiral staircase.
At the bottom of the stairwell, Fogacer having already disappeared from view, stood Fontanette, who was, I wagered, waiting to meet me to exchange a few meaningful glances.
“Fontanette,” I said, “is my brother up yet?”
“No, Monsieur, he’s sleeping like a marmot. I knocked several times but there was no answer.”
“I don’t like this,” I answered, feeling apprehensive, and went directly into Samson’s room without knocking. He was stretched out on his side and, given the heat of the morning sun, had thrown off his sheet, and was lying buck naked, so strong and muscular, his snow-white skin contrasting sweetly with the pink of his cheek resting on his hand; his eyes were closed, almost hidden by the tangle of his copper-coloured locks. At this sight, my anger and bitterness disappeared and, putting both hands on his shoulder, I shouted his name, shaking him so roughly that he finally came to his senses.
“My brother,” I said trying to appear angry but already overwhelmed by the tenderness I had always felt for him, “did you come to Montpellier to lounge about all day in your bed and wallow in your room? The sun is up, it’s almost noon and here you are lazing about!”
“Dear Pierre,” he replied in a piteous voice, as he got up and hugged me. “Please don’t scold me! I haven’t closed my eyes once this whole night! I feel like hell has loosed a thousand flames on me, so great is my distress at the resolution I’ve taken!”
“Resolution? What resolution? About what?”
“Not to see Dame Gertrude du Luc when she passes through Montpellier, or on her return from Rome.”
“And why ever not?”
“Because lust outside of marriage is a cardinal and mortal sin!”
“’Sblood!” I cried, raising my hands heavenward. “Who gave me this lovesick idiot for a brother? Have you taken vows? Are you a nun? A monk? A hermit? Are you a eunuch escaped from a harem? Are you going to remain stuck in the bile and vinegar of chastity until you marry? By the belly of St Anthony,” I exclaimed, raising my voice, “are you so presumptuous as to believe you’re more virtuous than your father?”
“Me?” he blushed, putting his hand on his heart. “More virtuous than my father? I wouldn’t think of it!”
“You must have! You can’t be ignorant of the fact that he fathered you outside of marriage, a sin that I bless since he gave me a brother whom I hold dearer than my legitimate brother.”
“Ah, Pierre,” he cried, throwing himself in my arms, “I love you too, with all my heart!”
“Perhaps,” I growled, pushing him away, “but I’m
not sure I mustn’t stop loving you since you’re beginning to smell of heresy.”
“Me?” he cried, open-mouthed and so visibly horrified that I almost felt guilty for taking such advantage of his pure heart, even if it was in his own interest.
“Don’t go imagining, Samson,” I said, frowning and getting very serious, “that in sacrificing Dame Gertrude to your monkish ideas you are going to achieve salvation by works, which, as you know very well, is contrary to Calvin’s doctrine.”
Poor Samson was brought up short by my empty sophistry, and, completely at a loss for words, just stood looking at me, unable to say a word in reply.
“But go right ahead!” I said, sensing that he was weakening. “You’re on such a high road. To heresy you can add cruelty! Refuse to see Dame Gertrude? You’re inflicting on this sweet and noble lady a barbarous punishment and on yourself a deep wound without either punishment or wound serving a living soul! Think about it! Whom are you hurting in loving her? She’s a widow, and mistress of her own person!”
“But, Pierre, God in heaven sees my abomination!”
“Which is a good deal less abominable than many sins I could name. And believe me, the Lord would have his hands full if He had to keep track of every grain of dust dancing on the earth’s surface. In these times of trials, executions, stinking betrayals, innumerable murders of brother against brother, do you really think He is interested in your peccadillos? And if He sees them, what do you think they weigh in the great balance of things?”
“It’s not a peccadillo,” Samson assured me, regaining his stiff manner. “The law is the law.”
“Then didn’t Christ break the law when He prevented the crowd from stoning the adulterous woman? Oh, Samson! You no longer want to see Dame Gertrude du Luc, this beautiful angel of heaven, this sweet and gentle creature! Will you ever have a sweeter sister? A more loving companion?” (At this he weakened all of a sudden and tears leapt from his eyes.) “You owe her a debt of gratitude for having taken care of you!”
“But,” he said from the depths of his naivety, “I wasn’t sick! I was only following your orders to pretend to be so.”
“You were so, Samson! Not from fever perhaps, but from a terrible lack. If it weren’t so, you would never have welcomed the attentions of Dame Gertrude with such appetite.”
This at least gave him pause, for he fell silent and began to get dressed, still weeping hot tears. I remained quietly at his side, for I wanted to let my words sink in, doubting not that they would find powerful allies in him to prolong their echo.
And isn’t it marvellous, when I think on it, that I had to battle tooth and nail with him, arguing from all possible angles to prevent him from undoing with his own hands his very happiness? “Ah,” I thought, “I wish I were in his shoes! If I had a Dame Gertrude du Luc, I would faithfully and worshipfully bend the knee before her instead of chasing from one skirt to another—which I do not without some pleasure, of course, but without ever finding anything spiritual or nourishing in these encounters.”
*
I left Samson’s room with my brother right behind me—his eyes dried and, it seemed to me, a good deal less upset and sullen than when he woke up—and, as you would expect, we passed Fontanette wiping the banisters, though I suspected that she’d been listening at our door, for she seemed to be turning something important over in her mind that brought a bright blush to her cheeks and heavy breathing in her bosom. To Samson she threw a most compassionate look and to me an even more tender one as she announced that her most illustrious master (for this is how his servants referred to Maître Sanche) wanted to see me in his office, adding, as if she feared I’d lose my way, that she’d be happy to take me there. I was careful not to reject this offer and so, leaving her dusting cloth on the railing, the lass preceded me down the stair, moving with such a lively step and so gracious a movement of her hips that my eyes must have warmed her for the entire descent.
The office was a large and beautifully appointed room, lit by two leaded windows filled with small diamond panes of real glass of different colours. Across the entire width of the middle of the room stood a counter of polished oak on which a large number scales of the reddest copper were displayed, all shining like a heaven of suns, so carefully were they polished. Behind this counter stood two assistant clerks and the chief clerk, Balsa, who bore some resemblance to the Cyclops, since he was one-eyed, with the chin, shoulders and hands of a giant, though in fact he wasn’t very tall since he had such short legs. He made a deep bow to me as I entered, which I answered politely, calling him by name with the cheerful familiarity my father always used with his soldiers. I couldn’t tell whether my behaviour pleased or displeased him, for his face remained as impassive as marble as he tapped with his pointer on the counter and the two clerks greeted me—to which I responded with a nod, not knowing what to think of these ritual civilities. Then with a very sweet voice, which I was astonished to hear emanating from such a hideous face, Balsa invited me to have a seat and my brother as well, adding that the very illustrious master would soon be here.
I sat down. Behind the counter, running the full length of the wall and from floor to ceiling, stood a set of dark-brown shelves on which were arranged an infinity of jars, some made of clay, others of clear glass, all of which bore labels with the Latin names of the drugs, condiments, medicines or spices they contained. This display somehow, I knew not why, awakened an intense interest in Samson, who, for the first time since his encounter with Dame Gertrude had cast its spell on him, suddenly opened his eyes and began inspecting each one of these jars with as much ardent interest as if they’d contained a treasure. And, although no apothecary in Sarlat could have rivalled the rich profusion that was displayed here, nevertheless Samson’s delight and the way his eyes lit up as he examined these curiosities wholly surprised me.
For my part, I confess that, rather than continue to survey the entire array on these shelves, my eye was arrested by a series of glass jars set way up on the top shelf and filled to the top with sweets of all colours, nougats, dried fruits and other delicacies, which seemed to me so beautiful and tasty that, both because of their arrangement behind this shiny glass and because of the hunger which never seemed to get entirely sated here, my mouth began watering almost uncontrollably. But that was the only way that I ever enjoyed them, for during my entire stay at Maître Sanche’s lodgings, none of the contents ever appeared on our table.
“Here is my illustrious master,” announced Balsa, tapping with his pointer on the counter. And Maître Sanche appeared on the threshold. He had quit his simple doublet of the previous evening and was now clothed, as I was to see him every day in his shop, in a resplendent black silk robe, decorated by a silver belt, and his head was covered by a cloth hat, topped by a tuft of amaranth.
He was holding, as Balsa did, a fine reed pointer, but, as was fitting for his status, much longer, more beautiful and finely worked than his clerk’s, being varnished and encircled at the centre and both ends by silver rings. Maître Sanche used this symbol of his power to emphasize each of his pronouncements, or to punctuate a command by tapping it on the counter, or else—and this was probably its original and primordial function—to indicate a particular jar on one of the higher shelves that his assistants were to climb up and fetch for him. But, though he waved this reed frequently in his wrath to reprimand one or another of his clerks, I never saw him use it, as the lictor of Rome did, to strike anyone, not even the drunken and disorderly rascal who ran errands for him. For however puffed-up and self-important he was, Maître Sanche was not of a hard-hearted or cruel nature.
The master crossed the room to greet us, and I must confess that the light of day did not favour him as much as candlelight, given his crossed eyes, long bony nose and… well, no need to revisit the rest of his body, which no sculptor, however drunk, would ever have taken as his model. But then, Socrates was also said to be ugly, and I could not help being impressed by the majesty of his apparel as he pa
raded towards us in his long black robe and tufted bonnet, holding his silver-ringed pointer as a king might wield his sceptre. I rose quickly to my feet.
“Te saluto, illustrissime magister,”† I said, bowing low. At the sound of my voice, Samson tore himself away from his awestruck contemplation of the pharmacist’s jars, and stood up as well, bowing silently in his turn.
“My good nephews!” trumpeted Maître Sanche, and, opening his arms, he enfolded us into them, rubbing his long grey beard against our cheeks.
He put so much warmth and good Provençal humour into his greeting that I couldn’t help feeling great tenderness towards him despite my unhappiness over his miserliness when it came to his kitchens. It’s true that he himself did not eat much and it was surprising, given how daintily he took his food, what a round and prominent stomach preceded him through the room.
After many compliments in Latin, French and Provençal, and a flurry of words of welcome, Maître Sanche declared: “My nephews, I’ve invited you in here to show you the secret laboratory in which we store, concoct and mix the medicines of my pharmacy. You should know that adeo in teneris consuecere multum est.”‡
At this offer, Samson’s eyes lit up prodigiously and I too felt enflamed by the thought of seeing so close up the rarities and infinite curiosities of which the drugs my father had spoken so much about were composed. I immediately expressed my gratitude to the master apothecary for his generosity, assuring him that for my brother and me it was an immense privilege to be initiated into his arcane science.
“You will learn, of course,” Maître Sanche continued with a mysterious smile, “only the most superficial aspects of this science, but that is already a lot. Except for the royal professor of the college who, once a year, is authorized a visit to this place, pauci sunt quos dignos intrare puto.”§
