by Robert Merle
Chancellor Saporta wore a doctor’s four-cornered bonnet—which, I imagined, he removed only when he went to bed—and he had a thin, bony and hard face, with hair as black as a crow’s wing, black eyes that sat far back in their sockets but bored into you with unbearable intensity. Two bitter and disdainful wrinkles framed his mouth and disappeared into his thick black beard. Standing there, prey to these piercing eyes, I was all the more troubled to find his countenance so bilious and tyrannical since I had agreed with Rondelet, before his departure, that I would ask this ogre to serve as my sponsor for the duration of my studies. What a haven of grace he would be! What sort of father would he be to me, as a replacement for my natural father, who, except when he was angry, treated me so sweetly and tenderly?
We had risen when the chancellor had slipped into the room and Fogacer and I had, each in our turn, greeted him in Latin, to which he replied not a single word, but kept us standing during his long and minute inspection of my visage, before seating himself, without inviting us to do the same. Then, continuing to hold me in the pincers of his gaze, he said in Latin, in clipped tones: “Tell me who you are and what you want. Be brief. I don’t have much time.”
“Monsieur,” I replied, “my name is Pierre de Siorac,” knowing that in naming myself I wasn’t really telling him anything, but very surprised that he would adopt such a rude manner for our interview. “I would like you to consent to serve as my doctor-father for the duration of my studies.”
“Have you enrolled in the college?”
“Not yet, Monsieur.”
“Then I can’t be your doctor-father,” he said in a way that brooked no response.
An unbearable silence followed, and, seeing my predicament, Fogacer intervened. “May I speak, Monsieur?” he said with abject humility—a tone that astonished me, coming from him.
“You may.”
“I have tutored Pierre de Siorac in logic and philosophy, and can attest that he is worthy of admission to the college.”
“I cannot so declare this until I have a signed document from you to this effect.”
“I shall provide you with such a document.”
“Nor can I accept him into our college without his having been examined as to his medical knowledge by one of the four royal professors.”
“Dr Rondelet carried out just such an examination before his departure for Toulouse, and found him well qualified.”
“But Dr Rondelet is dead,” said Saporta without moving a muscle in his face. “Therefore the good doctor cannot provide a written report.”
Although there was no disputing the logic of this assertion, its insensitivity, under the circumstances, left us flabbergasted—all the more so since Dr Saporta’s ensuing silence seemed to be burying my application to the college along with Rondelet.
“So what should we do?” said Fogacer finally in the same obsequious tone, which I already guessed was the only tone to take with the chancellor.
“Let me tell you,” said Saporta. “You will take Siorac to Dr d’Assas, who, after examining him will send me in writing” (raising his voice with these words) “his opinion. If Siorac is worthy to be admitted, he will receive from my hand a document” (again raising his voice for emphasis) “ordering him to pay 300 livres for tuition. This done, Siorac will receive from Dr d’Assas a document apprising him that he is now a student in our school. When he is in possession of this document, Siorac will send me a document requesting that I serve as his doctor-father. And whether my reply is positive or negative, you may be sure that it will be in writing.”
Having practically roared this last word, Dr Saporta sat down, not deigning to cast his eyes on my poor being—I did not yet exist since I hadn’t yet enrolled in writing in his college—but instead scrutinized Fogacer with his beady, penetrating black eyes.
“If I understand correctly,” said Fogacer in the same submissive tone, “you have decided to remedy things, and from now on everything will be in writing that, under Rondelet’s administration, was done by word of mouth.”
“Exactly. Vox audita perit, litera scripta manet.”§ Then, passing from Latin to French, Saporta continued, “Fogacer, the good management of a school requires that the chancellor keep a written record of everything. But,” he said quickly and with an evil gleam in his eye, “that is but one of the innumerable abuses that I need to rehabilitate here. When I have restored order to the anarchy of our enrolments, I will rain down fire and brimstone on the counterfeiting of diplomas. Every year I will change the chancellor’s seal so that it can’t be copied by miscreants and fakers. I will make sure that no doctor may practise medicine in Montpellier who does not have a diploma from the Royal College and who has not demonstrated his knowledge and competence to me personally, Fogacer—even if he holds a doctorate from Paris, whose school of medicine is, as everybody knows, empty, scholastic, full of superstition and infinitely mediocre.”
What astonished me was Saporta’s passionate and unreasonable disdain, which those in Montpellier heap on the capital—a scorn enthusiastically endorsed by Fogacer. Of course, I kept this opinion to myself, knowing full well that a straw can’t hold back a torrent. And anyway, what would be the point of saying anything at all since, not yet being enrolled in his college, I didn’t even exist in Saporta’s eyes?
“I shall severely punish,” continued the chancellor-elect, “all those who dare to practise our art without a diploma, and I shall revive the healthy custom that fell into disuse under Rondelet, whereby, every time we catch one of these charlatans, our students parade him though the streets of the city tied backwards on an ass, and then forcibly throw him outside our walls.”
“Bene! Optime!” applauded Fogacer with total sincerity, as far as I could judge.
“But above all else,” Saporta went on, “I’m going to put firmly in their place (which is secondary) all of these apothecaries who have taken advantage of Rondelet’s notorious weakness to commit secretly innumerable abuses.” Catching his breath, and raising his meagre torso to its full height, he continued, now directly addressing Fogacer with his black eyes gleaming, “I respect Maître Sanche for his wisdom and science. I’m honoured that I shall soon be his son-in-law. But I will no longer tolerate the way that, in the secrecy of his laboratory, he performs examinations of urine. It is a heretical and damnable encroachment of the prerogatives of the doctors! Maître Sanche conducts urine tests!”
“But every chemist does the same, Monsieur!”
“It will no longer be tolerated!” yelled Saporta in anger with a cutting gesture. “Urine belongs to the doctor! Fogacer, remember this inviolable principle! Everything that comes from the patient belongs to us as doctors, and only to us: urine, excrement, blood, pus, humours—all of these substances, given their natural origins, fall infallibly under the jurisdiction of the doctor. And let no apothecary dare touch them! Of course, I take nothing away from those who manufacture remedies, though they hold master’s degrees and not doctorates, and thus belong more to a mechanical trade than to a real art. But if the chemist, is, as has always been acknowledged, the servant of medicine, the servant should never attempt to arrogate to himself the rights of his master. I’ll make this quite clear to all these asses in aprons!”
“Monsieur, may I speak?” said Fogacer in his most submissive voice.
“You may.”
“Monsieur, would you grant me permission to plead Maître Sanche’s case?”
“You may.”
“Monsieur, what doctor would ever disagree with you? There is no doubt that it is a damnable abuse on the apothecary’s part to study urine. But Maître Sanche is, in fact, more than any other chemist in Montpellier respectful of our rights. He never, even when his practice would seem to require it, applies leeches or does bloodlettings, as certain of his colleagues do, and do in secret.”
“Oh, I’m fully aware of these diabolical abominations, and I’ll raise my sword against them!”
“Maître Sanche,” continued Fogacer,
“never does diagnoses or prognoses, is always saying ‘Non sum medicus’¶ and never fills an order without a signed prescription from a doctor.”
“This is true,” said Dr Saporta. “Maître Sanche is not one of the worst offenders. And yet, he studies urine! This is a capital crime and such a horrible infringement on our rights that I could not tolerate it even from Maître Sanche and even if he had ten thousand daughters to give me in marriage.”
I would have laughed at this if I’d been of a mind to laugh, seeing the horrible face of our angry chancellor. Frowning fiercely, his black eyes throwing sparks, all his features contracted into an awful grimace, his pale nose pinched, his breath coming in gasps, he seemed to be condemning not only the abuses that so angered him, but the people who committed them as well. “What a sad and choleric personage!” I thought. “My heaven preserve me if he accepts me as his student and I do anything to anger him!”
Fogacer, who had the most marvellous ability to keep his mouth shut when it mattered, didn’t pursue his defence of Maître Sanche any further, and, bridling his feelings, fell silent. As for me, I’d neither spoken nor moved a muscle during this conversation, since I was in limbo, as behoved my status as a nonexistent being. The sum of our two silences finally weighed enough for Saporta to notice them despite the fire and brimstone he was emitting. But as his flashing eyes suddenly noticed us, he seemed surprised to see us still there, and said very abruptly and rudely in Latin: “Our conversation is over.” And, without responding either by look or by gesture to our words of adieu, he summarily took his leave.
It was no mean accomplishment to find our way out of Saporta’s stingy quarters and to negotiate “the slide”, so large and boisterous were the crowds of snot-nosed good-for-nothings who were out in force, playing at marbles and tops with shouts that would make a deaf man cringe, banging on pots and pans of all sorts, defiling the pavements with their offal, pissing on passers-by or shaking their members at them, singing filthy songs or throwing their hoops or sticks under their legs to trip them up—not to mention that we had constantly to be jumping out of the way of their sleds as they hurtled down the hill fast enough to break our arms and legs if they’d bumped into us.
“Oh,” I cried, “now I know what hell must be like!”
“’Tis worse at night,” said Fogacer. “During the day all you see here is shit and piss, but come night-time it’ll be blood. No wench can pass through here without getting raped, nor man escape without being traitorously stabbed in the back and left as naked on his last day as he was on his first.”
“What about the nightwatchman?”
“These ruffians would beat him bloody if he ever showed up here. They fear no one but Cossolat and his archers, and perhaps a few rich merchants in town, who, if their serving girl has been molested or a valet has been dispatched, swear vengeance, arm a small platoon, swoop in on the area, grab a few of these rascals and send them, boots and all, to their maker. But that’s merely a nobleman’s pastime; the anthill is still there, active as ever.”
“It’s a living hell! How can Saporta manage to live here, unless he’s a veritable Pluto? Oh, Fogacer, he’s a terrifying specimen! Why does he have to be my doctor-father? Wouldn’t I have done better to choose Dr d’Assas, who’s reputed to be so nice?”
“Hah! Not on your life!” returned Fogacer. “You know that his late wife Catherine was Rondelet’s daughter (all of these physicians and apothecaries intermarry, as you’ve noticed). D’Assas would have invited you to his beautiful estate in Frontignan, amiably served you some of his wine and meat pastries, and talked your ears off about his vineyard. But that would be it. Saporta is a man of iron, Siorac, but you can use this iron to stand on and move forward. What’s more, he’ll be a much more effective director of the Royal College than Rondelet, who was a great doctor, but allowed incredible abuses to spread within his walls without any retribution. Don’t judge Saporta by his looks, or by his avarice, or by his moods, but by the advantages he can bring both to the school and to you.”
Having offered this explanation, which comforted me somewhat, Fogacer stopped in front of No. 32, rue du Bras-de-fer. “Shall we play a game of tennis? Would you enjoy that?”
“I must decline. I have another appointment.”
“Aha!” smiled Fogacer, raising his satanic eyebrows. “Doubtless you’re going to offer your devotions at Saint-Firmin?”
“No, no!” I laughed. “For once you’re wrong! I’m going to visit Espoumel in his jail cell.”
“’Tis strange that you should have developed such affection for this rascal, and go visit him so faithfully.”
“I owe him my life.”
“He owes you his. You’re even.”
“Oh no! My life is so much more beautiful than his: I’m still in his debt.”
“Ah, Siorac! Siorac!” sighed Fogacer. “Despite your unbridled habits, one just can’t help liking you!”
Thereupon, with a sly smile, he skipped away, leaving me quite perplexed, for he clearly knew everything about my habits though I knew nothing at all about his. I had no idea that his more basic desires might be as well tended as my own.
I was given free access to the Montpellier jail thanks to Cossolat, who had said a good word for me to the superintendent, who, in turn, had spoken to the jailer, who continued to open the door to me because I generously greased his palm. And so I’d managed to get Espoumel moved from the dark and fetid dungeon into which he’d first been thrown, to the cell where those condemned to the noose would spend their remaining days. This room had a large window, well defended by strong iron bars, of course, but which nevertheless admitted the sun, since these miserable creatures were given the privilege of seeing the beauty of the sunrise on the very day when they’d be deprived of it forevermore.
After the jailer had admitted me to this cell and relocked the door behind me, Espoumel stood, dominating me by a full head, being tall and thin, though his meagre frame disguised his great strength since he was made all of muscle and sinews. He would have been handsome enough if one had hacked away his voluminous beard and cut his long tangle of thick dirty hair. He greeted me warmly, his little black eyes full of a canine gratitude, while I set out on the table a store of meats and provisions which I’d purchased on my way here.
“Ah, Monsieur!” he gushed. “What would I do without your help? I’ve been here a month already, eating the bread of grief and drinking the water of anguish, plunged in remorse for my terrible sins! I had a pleasant companion to keep me company, but the archers took him off this morning, and hanged him in the olive grove for having stolen ten écus from his master. I can’t help thinking that there’s no justice when you take an honest lad’s life for such a paltry crime… while here I sit, who’ve committed so many robberies and murders, awaiting the king’s pardon.”
“Espoumel,” I said, “man’s justice is flawed by the infirmity of his nature, but in heaven all will be righted by the grace of God.”
“And who’s come back to tell of it?” sighed Espoumel, freezing the words in my mouth with this naive but heretical question. “Oh, Monsieur, if you could only have seen this nice fellow as he readied himself for death, tender-hearted as you are, you would have given the hangman an écu to strangle him before he was hanged.”
“But isn’t it the same death?”
“Not at all! When the hangman is putting the rope around your neck he can crush your throat bone with his thumb without anybody seeing, and you die instantly. But when you’re hanged alive, it’s your own weight that suffocates you little by little. It takes a long time to die and so ’tis a horrible death.”
“And how do you know all of this?” I asked, quite amazed that Espoumel knew more about it than a medical student.
“Because I was born a villain,” replied Espoumel, “and that’s the fate of men who are hanged.”
I had nothing to answer to this, and sat down on his little stool, but at some distance from him, as my father had advised in
such cases, so as not to catch his lice, and, to tell the truth, because he smelt like a skunk in a cage, having no water in this cell except an occasional cupful to drink.
“Espoumel,” I asked, “what’s that you’re holding?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said, “just an image of my jailer that I carved in a piece of wood to keep from pining, since the days are so long.”
“Let’s see it,” I said. He handed me a little statue about four inches high, beautifully worked and proportioned and looking a lot like its model. “Espoumel, this is beautiful work!”
“It’s not too bad, is it?” he confessed, smiling with pleasure at the praise I’d given him. “But I could do better if I had a better knife, a chisel, a rasp and some wood that was easier to work.”
“You’ll get them.”
“Oh, Monsieur Siorac, if you like my little peteta so much I’d give it to you, but I promised it to my jailer. But I can carve another for you if you’d like.”
“Could you carve it from a model if I drew it for you?”
“Yes I could, if the drawing has the right dimensions.”
“And how much time would it take you to carve your peteta?”
“About a day, if you give me the right wood and the right tools.”
I thought about this for a moment, for I’d conceived a plan that held out great promise. “Espoumel,” I said, “I tell you what. You will give me the first peteta you carve, but I’ll pay you for the others, and I want you to make one every day that God has made and that you spend in here waiting for the king’s pardon. That way, you won’t while away your time with nothing to do, and when you get out, you’ll have some money for your food and drink.”
