by Robert Merle
“No. I’m not going. Women are false beings who lead our souls to hell! I would be a terrible merchant if I traded my eternal salvation for such short-lived joys.”
I was, as you can imagine, very impatient and angry with such silly words, but surmised that, during the service at our temple, Samson had become fortified in his resolution, and so I stifled my first angry reaction and, looking at him calmly, simply agreed, “Very well. Don’t go to see her since this is what you’ve decided.”
I withdrew into my room, and, as expected, he immediately rushed in after me. I pretended to be combing my hair with my fingers in front of my mirror and did not turn round.
“So?” he said after a fairly prolonged silence. “You’re not going to argue with me?”
I could have kissed him, I was so touched by his dove-like simplicity.
“Argue with you?” I threw over my shoulder. “Why should I do that?”
“So you agree with me?”
“Absolutely! And with all my heart! Dame Gertrude has such an angelic face that Satan himself wouldn’t dare harm her. Her voice, her eyes, her hair, her body—everything about her is entirely alluring. And she has more goodness in her little finger than in the longest of papist sermons. In short, she’s a flower, she is. So of course I approve of the fact that, straightaway, you begin tearing off her petals one by one, throwing them on the ground and stamping on them.”
“You’re joking!” he blurted out in a strangled voice. “You’re making a jest of my feelings! And while you make light of it, my soul hangs in the balance!”
“Ha!” I said as I looked at his pale and defeated features in the mirror. “Your salvation, is it? Your great concern for your own interests is more important than your lady’s pain?”
At that he seemed completely undone, and started pacing aimlessly around the room, sighing inconsolably.
“Ah,” he groaned, “I see that you don’t approve of me.”
“’Sblood! You’re mistaken! I entirely approve of your murderous ways. You used her for your pleasure, and now you’re strangling her. Kill, by God, kill!”
“What would you do if you were me?”
“Am I such a monster that I would accept to be in your shoes?”
“Be reasonable! Tell me what to do!”
“Would I reason with a mule?”
“Oh, my brother,” he said, impatiently pushing me away—something I’d never seen him do before, “don’t make light of this! I’m neither a monster nor a mule, but a Christian who must think about his salvation.”
“I’m also thinking about your salvation. But as for me, I’d never have such outrageous arrogance as to second-guess my sovereign judge.”
This brought him up short and seemed to leave him wracked by doubt and perplexity.
“But,” he said weakly, “the law says hell is promised to all who fornicate.”
“The Lord is above the law, since He made it.”
“But, my Pierre, are we to sidestep all thought of sin?”
“As for me, if the Lord wants to throw me into the flames because I love my mistress, let Him do it. You only burn once!”
“Oh no!” he cried, his beautiful face twisted in distress. “The tortures of the damned last for all eternity.”
“In that case I will be reborn from my ashes and get roasted all over again. I am no coward.”
At the word “coward” he looked quite surprised and then his face darkened dramatically, but he didn’t make a sound and stood looking at me, his gaze so pure and tender that I felt terribly sorry for him as I buttoned my doublet.
“Wait! Where are you going?” he gasped.
“To throw myself at Dame Gertrude’s feet and ask her forgiveness for your hateful cruelty”—he shuddered to hear this—“and tell her that I love her like a brother, but would be disposed to love her otherwise if she were so disposed.”
“What?” he cried, entirely beside himself. “You would do such a thing?”
“Certainly. If an ignorant savage from the East Indies found a pearl in an oyster and, having no idea of its value, threw it into the dust of the road, what would keep me from going to pick it up?”
“My brother,” he yelled, “you would break my heart!”
“You don’t have a heart!” I threw back at him, yelling even louder. “Oh, Samson, how can you bear the thought that, at this very moment, this noble and sweet lady, her beautiful hair strewn carelessly over her shoulders, is crying hot tears at the thought of having lost you?”
Her “beautiful strewn hair” carried the day, for I watched him rush about his room like a madman, return with his doublet, which he was drawing on any which way, and bolt down the stairs, his ruff in his hand.
“’Sblood, where are you rushing off to? Wait for me, I’ll follow you!”
“Oh no, you won’t!” said Fogacer, ripping open the door of his room and emerging into the hallway in his rumpled black robes, his long spider-like arms extended to block my passage. “No, no, my dear Siorac! You’re not going to follow your pretty Samson along the path you used so much fraternal cleverness to set him onto.” (So he’d heard everything from his room…) “You’ve got many more fish to fry than the ones you’re chasing after. No thread through the eye of the needle this afternoon, my son! And as for the needle itself, which you seem to have such a strident appetite for, your religion would prefer that she be aut formosa minus aut improba minus.”‡
“Improba!” I returned, stung by this insult.
“That’s what your minister would say, not I, who, being less austere”—and at these words he laughed heartily, raising his diabolical eyebrow—“absolve you of all sin in this matter. Allow me, however, Siorac, to tear you away from these beautiful needlepoints where you risk pricking your finger”—he laughed again—“in order to lead you to a person of the male sex who’s got a beard, snubbed nose, bony forehead, short legs, fat belly and stumpy arms—not a handsome man to be sure, but one who could nevertheless say of himself, ingenio formae damna rependo meae.§ In short, one of the most illustrious doctors of the kingdom and, what’s more, one of the best.”
“Rondelet!” I cried, overcome with joy, and hardly able to believe my ears, so great was the honour he was doing me. “Rondelet has asked to see me!”
“Ipse,”¶ replied Fogacer, with his left hand placed elegantly on his hip, his interminable right arm sketching an ample gesture. “Gulielmus Rondeletius, venerandus doctor medicus et medecinae, professor regis et cancellarius in schola Monspeliensi.”||
“But isn’t he a Huguenot? How is it that I didn’t see him at the temple this morning?”
“He has been very ill for three days with a stomach ulcer and terrible headaches. Nevertheless, having felt somewhat better towards noon today, he asked to meet you before he leaves for Bordeaux.”
“What? He’s leaving? Before he’s fully recovered? On such a long, uncomfortable and perilous journey?”
“I agree, it’s pure folly! But Rondelet is a man of infinite goodness and his two brothers-in-law have been asking him for the last three months to come to straighten out their affairs, so he’s decided to go.”
Saying this, Fogacer took me by the arm and led me towards the street, whose paving stones were already burning hot, though the sun wasn’t yet at its zenith.
“Siorac,” he said, “you’re walking like a country bumpkin, too fast. In the city, you have to stroll, looking here and there, studying and enjoying the spectacle of street life, not losing a single detail of the shops, the carriages or the passers-by. Isn’t this a pleasant spectacle with all these people coming and going, of different ages and conditions, each one thinking about his own business? Ah, humanity is so beautiful and diverse, and since we are humans we should treasure it and study it diligently, beginning with our mortal bodies, each of which is, in itself, a world that we’re only now beginning to explore. And if we hope to assuage some of the innumerable ills that assail it, shouldn’t we begin with the study of i
t? Have you read Rondelet’s memorable Methodus ad curandorum omnium morborum corporis humani,** which I gave you the notes for?”
“I’ve read and memorized the book De morbo italico.”††
Fogacer burst out laughing so loudly that all the passers-by turned to look at us, so he went on, but in Latin: “Young and brilliant Siorac! My young friend, you’re brilliant, but your brilliance is deflected towards Venus even in your studies! And you’re starting to look right where the shoe risks pinching you the most. That’s good! Rondelet will want me to test you in front of him.”
“Test me?”
He laughed and continued in French: “Don’t worry! A few little questions. It won’t be an exam or a debate.”
I fell silent and, for the rest of the walk, thought excitedly about meeting such a great man, whom I placed far above the Vicomte de Joyeuse, because the doctor possessed the knowledge and skill to heal his fellow men, not to kill them. I was so nervous about the idea that Fogacer would be grilling me in front of such a great doctor that I didn’t even notice the profusion of skirts in the streets, but walked with my eyes on the pavement trying to recall what I’d learnt about syphilis—or, as Rondelet called it, “the Italian disease”—not a very gracious label for our friends on the other side of the Alps. And, despite the painstaking work, I was glad I had copied On Syphilis line by line, according to Fogacer’s notes, since this learned treatise, despite being well regarded among the wisest doctors in the kingdom, hadn’t yet found a publisher, printing costs being so high and the audience for such a book being so uncertain.
Rondelet’s house was situated in the rue du Bout-du-monde—“end of the world” being a strange name for a street in the very centre of Montpellier. It was also situated conveniently close to the Royal College of Medicine where the chancellor taught. It was a beautiful dwelling, with mullioned windows and a little tower, in which a spiral staircase gave access to the upper floors.
As Fogacer stepped up to knock at the door, I ventured to observe, “Judging by his mansion, our chancellor must be very well-to-do.”
“Indeed,” replied Fogacer with a smile. “And would be even more so, if he weren’t obsessed by demolishing and rebuilding, changing square shapes into round ones, quadrata rotundis—squaring the circle—or vice versa. So this little round tower you see used to be square, but our chancellor had it knocked down at great expense and rebuilt it round for his particular pleasure. He affects a great love of everything round, including women and their finer parts.”
At this description, I knew I would like this man, and, indeed, when I saw him, although he was still recovering from a serious illness, I wasn’t disappointed. Fogacer had already provided an excellent portrait, saying that he had “short legs, fat belly and stumpy arms”. I immediately understood that Maître François Rabelais had used his appearance to describe the doctor Rondibilis in his Third Book of Pantagruel. Indeed, it wasn’t just his body that was round, but his very features, or as much as one could see of them, for a long grey beard hid the lower third of his face. And yet his ample forehead, twinkling dark eyes, full lips, robust neck and warm bass voice all appealed to me.
“Fogacer,” he said, “no compliments, please! Have a seat, and you too, Siorac, and let’s talk. Siorac, I did not have the honour of meeting your father since I was not in Montpellier when he was a student here and didn’t return until after he’d left under the unhappy circumstances I’m sure you’re familiar with. Doubtless you know that he was accused of murder, although everyone knew that he’d only acted in self-defence after a minor nobleman had provoked him to a duel. But everything I’ve heard from Maître Sanche about your father indicates he was an ardent student and an ardent lover—exactly what I’ve heard about you! Which is why I was so anxious to make your acquaintance and discover what you know about medicine.”
I began to thank him profusely but the chancellor stopped me with a wave of his hand and, settling into a capacious armchair, he eyed me with a most encouraging—yet also very penetrating—look.
“Siorac,” he said, “I see you have the inquisitive and restless eyes of a squirrel, who, snatching up here and there a thousand different things, lays them up as provender in his nest. So I don’t doubt that someday you shall become what François Rabelais recommended us all to be: ‘an abyss of science’.” (Here he laughed.) “However, I see that your mouth is presently more full of questions than provender that your good manners prevent you from asking. Go ahead, Siorac, be my guest! Satisfy the squirrel in you. However, I’m going to ask you to make a choice, which I consider most illuminating: of all the questions pressing on the back of your teeth, you must choose but one, and to that one and only to that one I shall respond.”
“Monsieur Rondelet, here is my question. Were you, in fact, the model on which François Rabelais based the character of Rondibilis?”
“Siorac,” parried the chancellor, “are you a good swordsman?”
“Not bad, and I’d be better if my defence were as good as my attack.”
“That’s exactly what I would have guessed from listening to you,” smiled Rondelet. “In order to discover my position, you’ve uncovered too much of your own.”
At this, Fogacer let out a quick laugh and arched his black eyebrows.
“Here is my analysis of your character,” announced Rondelet. “Primo, you’re a man of instinct and possessed of a generous disposition. Secundo, you walk through life with your head held high, giving and taking the blows that come your way. Tertio, you have great confidence in yourself, which is good, though you have an equal amount of confidence in others, which is not very prudent. Quarto, your curiosity about people overrides your curiosity about things.”
“Ha ha!” laughed Fogacer. “You’ve said a mouthful, my friend.”
“Monsieur Rondelet,” I replied, “I’m not sure I understand your fourth point.”
“Well, then, here it is: since you, by my orders, had but one question you could ask, you might have asked me some very ticklish question about medicine. Instead you preferred to get to know me better.”
At this I blushed and remained silent, having no idea whether this was intended as criticism or praise.
“Fogacer,” the chancellor continued, “take this stool and fetch me from the top shelf on the right my copy of The Third Book by François Rabelais, whom I knew quite well, for I was, in the bloom of my youth, in the same position in relation to him that Fogacer is today in relation to you. I was an advanced student and the procurator of the students when Rabelais, then in his forty-second year, came to enrol in our Royal College. And although I was his junior by four years, we became best friends and companions in feasting and drinking, and had many learned discussions and other entertainments at the Golden Cross tavern in Montpellier. A greater joie de vivre I never saw and I would call him very nearly divine for the love he bore humanity.”
“Master, here is your Rabelais,” said Fogacer, handing the volume to Rondelet, who, taking it on his lap, saw the book fall open to the same passage that, these last twenty years, its owner had so often reread.
“Siorac,” the chancellor continued, “you will remember that Panurge was going around asking everyone if, when he married, he’d be a cuckold. In response, the doctor, whom Rabelais named Rondibilis—ah, here it is—says yes, and opines that it is the common fate of any man who takes a wife. Here’s the end of the chapter, which I’ll read to you:
“Panurge approached Rondibilis and silently placed four gold pieces in his hand. The doctor took them easily enough but then said with great surprise, ‘Oh no, no, no, Monsieur! You didn’t need to pay me a thing. But, great thanks anyway. From the wicked I never accept anything. But I never refuse anything offered by good people. I am at your service.’
“‘But only if I pay,’ said Panurge.
“‘Of course!’ said Rondibilis.”
Rondelet closed The Third Book and, with his two hands resting on his stomach, asked, “Well, what do you thi
nk, Siorac? Is this Rondibilis me?”
I was brought up short by this question, as you could well imagine, and was plunged into complete confusion, unable to pronounce either way, and wishing I were a thousand leagues away. But, as Rondelet had observed, I have a lively temperament, and before you could count to five, and without thinking what I was doing, I’d leapt to my feet, drawn my sword and cried, “Ah, what treachery is this? You’re playing with fixed dice! You answer my question with a question!”
“Touché!” answered Rondelet, laughing.
Fogacer, too, was laughing.
“God in heaven, Fogacer, this young recruit fences well! Did you notice how well he parried my thrust and counter-attacked?” Laughing uproariously, he continued, “But since you won this round, my lively young friend, I’m going to provide an honest response to your question: this Rondibilis with his four gold pieces is not me, but some cagey, hypocritical and dishonest doctor, like so many of our profession, interested only in gold while pretending not to be. But if you were to portray me, it would have to be in a very different way. Rabelais would have had to change the doctor’s words to: ‘I’ll never take a sol from the poor, / It’s the rich who will pay more and more!’ Is this true, Fogacer?”
“’Tis God’s truth, Monsieur,” Fogacer replied with some emotion. “You’ve always cared for the poor for no fee and are, in this, a model for our entire art.”
Hearing this, I blushed to have had such an unflattering opinion of Monsieur Rondelet and was upset with Rabelais for having compromised the reputation of his friend from college days.
“But here’s another passage from the divine Rabelais,” said Rondelet, opening the book at another place.
“Aha!” I thought. “Divine! He called him divine! In his heart he must have forgiven him.”
“In this passage, Rabelais has Rondibilis say the following about women and their physical nature:
“Nature placed in a secret place inside their bodies an animal that is not found inside men, and which engenders salty, nitrous, pungent, biting, piercing, bitterly ticklish humours whose pricking and vibration (for this member is very nervous and quite sensitive) upsets their entire body, ravishes their senses and confuses their minds. If nature hadn’t also endowed them with a sense of shame, you’d see them running amok like criminals.”
