by Robert Merle
Chancellor Saporta and Dean Bazin occupied the centre of the table, with Dr Feynes at one end and, at the other, my gentle Dr d’Assas, well rounded in body and lively in spirit, playing the toady but not missing an iota of what was going on, and, I would guess, inwardly laughing at the entire spectacle, yet able to respond with appropriate civility and modesty when addressed by his chancellor or his dean.
Opposite this august platform were seated, in order of their rank and importance, ordinary doctors in the first row, the masters of science in the second and the bachelors of science in the third, all in robes, with the doctors wearing a four-cornered cap of black cloth adorned with a tassel of red silk, each bearing a large golden ring on his right hand and girded with a gold belt. The reader will perhaps remember that Maître Sanche wore only a dark purple tassel and a silver belt… So the difference between a doctor and an apothecary was immediately obvious, even when the latter was as illustrious as Maître Sanche.
Behind the bachelors of science, the second-year medical students were seated, and these were a raucous and rowdy lot when compared to the more reticent novices, who sat humbly behind their elders, subjected to the dismissive and haughty stares emanating from the older students. Luc was terrified by their very presence, and pressed himself against me, seeking my protection. And behind all of these stood—and I emphasize the word “stood” even though there were vacant seats aplenty directly in front of them—the apothecary companions and the surgical apprentices who had no right to be there since they were not, properly speaking, medical students, but who had been specially granted admission to this ceremony by the chancellor, who deemed that it would be good for them to hear the statutes of the school since they’d been given permission to sit in on the lectures.
But in all this assemblage I don’t want to forget to mention the guarantor of the security of our institution, the beadle, Figairasse, and I have excellent reasons for remembering him. Between the platform where the four professors were aligned, and the general seating of the rest of us, Figairasse stood in all his power and glory, decorated with all his trophies from other St Luke’s Day ceremonies and plenary meetings, his head adorned with a helmet (a souvenir of his soldiering days) and clothed in a black vestment decorated with gold buttons, padded red stockings with black slashes and short, high-heeled fur boots, which contributed to his imposing, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested stature. He had a large face, bright and merry chestnut eyes, a round puffy nose, reddened, no doubt, by his love of drink, his left hand replaced by an iron hook, just like our own Coulondre at Mespech, his right hand proudly holding a long flexible staff that was both the sign and the instrument of his work at the college. I had no idea that I would feel its bite so soon and so painfully.
Although the royal professors had already taken their places on the platform and were deep in conversation with each other, the assembled students were making a great deal of noise. They loudly and shamelessly jeered at each other and their teachers, made merry, ate their bread and onions, drank noisily from their gourds, played hand games, dice or cards, or heads-or-tails with an old coin; some were even off in a corner singing dirty songs or exchanging anti-papist jokes, one of which (that I judged to be inspired by Rabelais) went thus: “Is it better to say ‘This fat woman who goes to Mass?’ or ‘This mad woman’s got a fat arse?’”
Still others of these turbulent rascals (among them a ruffian named Merdanson, who seemed to be their ringleader, a big red-headed devil, and who was seated directly in front of me) turned round and stared pointedly at the new students in a nasty way that I thoroughly disliked. Merdanson then shouted as if surprised, “Hey! Who are these rogues? What are they doing in here? They look scarcely human! Are they asses? Monkeys? Apprentice mechanicals? They’ve got ugly faces and their feet smell so bad I could vomit!” Then, holding their noses, Merdanson and his acolytes arrogantly turned their backs on us.
The chancellor, who had been in deep discussion with Dean Bazin, seemed suddenly to notice the racket that was going on, and, glaring at the assembly with his black eyes, his face twisted in a terrible grimace, struck three blows on the oak table with a wooden gavel, and, the hullabaloo subsiding only slightly, he said in a stentorian voice: “The first student who dares open his mouth without my express consent will be thrown out by the beadle, Figairasse, and will never be allowed to return. I am the chancellor of this college and it is my duty to assure that order reigns here and I will make it reign!”
This last was not so much shouted as bellowed, with such violence, accompanied by such a sharp rap of his gavel on the table and punctuated by the menacing whistle of the beadle’s supple staff, that the students fell silent immediately. Cards, onions and gourds disappeared. Songs and jokes were sucked back into throats and devils were transformed as if by magic into toadies.
“Aha!” whispered Merdanson to his henchmen. “What a difference from Rondelet! By St Vitus’s belly, my lads, the party’s over!”
Meanwhile, Saporta stood staring angrily at the assembly, looking everyone one by one in the eye, convincing each of us that his look had pierced us to the bone, and the silence became so profound that you could have heard a silkworm turning over in its cocoon.
“My scholars,” Saporta continued with an unbearable gleam in his eye, “I’ll have you know that every abominable abuse that has been tolerated in this school under Dr Rondelet is going to be quickly redressed. And to begin with, I’m going to remind you of the statutes that you swore to uphold a year ago, but which have been treated as dead letters. I tell you, I remind you and I shall herewith repeat these statutes: first, you are to attend every lecture, assembly and professional graduation and the cavalcades that follow them. Second, under penalty of immediate expulsion, you must not bear arms of any kind—daggers, swords, firearms or others—in the school, in the rue du Bout-du-monde or in the neighbouring streets.”
“Oh!” hissed Merdanson to his bullies. “This is going too far, and encroaches on our rights.” But, at this outburst, no one around him dared crack a smile.
“Third, any scholar who dines or drinks in the taverns of our city but is unable to pay his bill will be expelled. Fourth, expulsion will result if any student is discovered to be living in sin with a harlot in a brothel, supporting her in her sin or receiving money from her; the same applies a fortiori to any student guilty of stealing, even if it’s only a sausage or an onion. The whip will be administered to any student walking around the hall during lectures, talking loudly, eating, drinking, tapping his feet, rolling dice or urinating in the window recesses. The whip will also be administered to any who come to blows on the school premises, or injure others by blows, slaps, punches or kicks in the arse. The same whip will be exercised on any student who dares affront with dirty, ugly or outrageous language any of our royal professors, our tutors or the beadle, who shall henceforth be addressed as Monsieur in a respectful manner.
At this, Figairasse, delighted that he should be called “Monsieur” by the students, who, under Rondelet’s administration, had called him—at a prudent distance—“Fig arse” puffed out his chest with pride and made his switch whistle menacingly.
“Monsieur Figairasse,” said Saporta, “from now on, you will make your switch whistle only when I’ve rapped my gavel on the table.”
“At your orders, Monsieur,” said Figairasse bowing low, his entire face (and not just his nose) crimson with shame, and, though he looked chastened, not a single student dared smile, so much did their backsides begin to warm uncomfortably in anticipation of this terrible switch which, under Rondelet, had been left to droop ineffectually.
“And finally, I will remind you that in honour of our master Hippocrates, there will be no lectures on Wednesdays, except in a week in which we celebrate a…” And here I imagined he would say “a papist saint” but, catching Dr Feynes’s eye, who was sitting beside him, he said: “Catholic saint. In which case,” he continued, “it goes without saying that we’ll work on Wednesday
to avoid having two idle days in the same week.”
At this, Dr Feynes, who caught the polite nuance intended for him, made an amicable nod towards his chancellor, which made me realize that Dr Saporta was not such a madman as I’d supposed, but that he also knew how to govern with finesse.
“The returning students have already sworn to obey our rules,” continued Saporta, “but the new arrivals must now take their oath which they will each pronounce in turn. Master Fogacer, please take the roll call and write the results on the register.”
Fogacer rose from his bench to his full height, a long black shadow, and proceeded to the platform where Chancellor Saporta handed him the school register.
“Luc Sanche!” called Fogacer, who began by the last ones enrolled.
“What must I do?” asked Luc as he rose, his face deadly pale.
“Juro.”§
“Juro!” said Luc.
At this, Merdanson turned around to look at Luc and, glaring at him, said, “He’s got balls…”
“But they’re soft balls!” the chorus of his acolytes intoned quietly.
I would have bet that our chancellor was going to throw a thunderbolt and reduce these idiots to ashes, but, amazingly, he remained as quiet as a log in a forest, his eyes quite calm and his brow serene. I only learnt later that it was a tradition of the school (which even this chancellor was loath to correct) that the older boys would greet the new arrivals with this taunt, which was borrowed from the author of Gargantua and Pantagruel.
“Pierre de Siorac!” called Fogacer.
“Juro!” I said, raising my hand.
“He’s got balls,” said Merdanson.
“But they’re soft,” chanted the chorus.
There were thirteen of us novices and each was called in turn, responded “Juro” and was greeted in the same manner. After the thirteenth, the veterans, emboldened by the success of their chant, tried to humiliate us with other jokes, barbs and jeers, but Saporta suddenly banged his gavel down on the oak table and Figairasse made his switch whistle through the air, and a palpable silence reigned.
“Good students!” Saporta announced. “Dean Bazin will now speak to you about your studies.”
Dean Bazin, as I have said, was a small, thin gentleman, bent with age, who spoke in a weak voice, but his eyes were so sharp and viperous that he compensated for his lack of physical vigour with the venomous fire in his pupils. He spoke in few words as a man who is economizing his breath.
“I will speak first of all,” he said, “of the school library. In 1534 it could boast but fifty-two volumes. Today these number eighty-six. It has thus acquired thirty-four volumes in thirty-six years. This growth is of particular consequence given how dear these books are, but I would like henceforth to be able to purchase two volumes a year. We have therefore decided to exempt each student from the banquet he’s expected to provide the school on his graduation if he donates one écu to the library.”
Although for the most part contained, and nearly stifled, the indignation that followed this proposal was so lively and so unanimous throughout the students’ benches that Saporta was obliged to give a blow of the gavel to the table, and before Figairasse could whip his switch into a whistle, he growled, “Who would like to speak?”
“I would, begging your permission, Monsieur!” ventured Merdanson, not without some courage, as he rose from his seat.
“Merdanson,” snarled Saporta, “are you speaking on your own behalf, or are you mandated by your peers?”
It didn’t take me long to realize that Saporta had set an insidious trap for him, and Merdanson had stuck his nose in it like a simpleton.
“I am mandated by my peers,” he asserted. “They elected me to be the students’ abbot.”
“You are nothing of the sort!” screamed the chancellor with a voice so thunderous that the windows rattled in their lead frames. “The title and functions of the students’ abbot were eliminated by the Royal Council of Béziers, because some of these so-called abbots were abusing their power by leading the novices to the baths and introducing them to the sluts who frequent these places and having them robbed blind. Very abbot-like, don’t you think?”
“But I’m not guilty of any such abominations,” countered Merdanson, his face turning as red as his hair from shame and humiliation.
“Perhaps, but you were elected illegally, and now you challenge your professors by virtue of a title you cannot lay claim to.”
“But,” objected Merdanson, “the title of students’ abbot was reinstated here under Chancellor Rondelet.”
“I am the chancellor of this college,” thundered Saporta, drawing himself up to his full height, his eyes glowing like embers, “and under my governance no local custom will ever prevail against the law! Merdanson, you represent no one but yourself, so if you wish to speak, speak in your own name.”
“Monsieur,” said Merdanson, making a visible effort to get a grip on himself, since he’d been so thoroughly bloodied in the first skirmish.
“I’m listening,” sneered Saporta in a tone that made it abundantly clear he was listening with only half an ear.
“Monsieur,” continued Merdanson, “this is what we believe—”
“Merdanson!” Saporta interrupted. “Are you the king of France that you speak in the plural?”
“Monsieur,” Merdanson replied, once again brought up short, “it is my belief that it is against all traditions of this college to annul the banquet the graduating student has always offered to the school.”
“Unstop those big ears of yours, Merdanson,” scoffed the chancellor. “You misunderstood Dean Bazin. The banquet hasn’t been annulled. Each student has the choice of offering a banquet or, in lieu of a banquet, offering an écu to the library.”
By this cunning reply—since no student would choose to spend five livres on a banquet when he could get away with a donation of one écu to the library—Merdanson had his trap shut tight, and, defeated, sat back down. And although Saporta’s victory was not carried out by entirely irreproachable tactics, I had to admire his cleverness as well as the good sense of the royal professors. Indeed, as my father had often remarked, medical schools throughout the kingdom, like their sister law colleges, abused their students’ purses by requiring these ruinous celebrations that left no legacy other than latrines full of excrement the next morning, whereas the money that was thrown away on such excess would be much better spent on furnishing their scholars with books.
“Dean Bazin,” crowed Saporta, with a royal gesture that seemed to me to irritate his colleague, “please continue.”
“Secundo,” said the dean, “dissections are very dear both for the school and for the students. Under Chancellor Rondelet, we were abusing our quota by performing up to six a year, whereas the Royal Council of Béziers established a limit of four. As a cost-saving measure, we will return to this number.”
Again there was a great stir among the students, and, even though it was certainly more justified than the previous one, no one dared any insurgency against this baneful economy, not even Merdanson, still stinging from his defeat. I know not what demon possessed me, but I madly undertook to incite him to battle. “Friend,” I whispered, lightly tapping his shoulder, “now’s the time to fight back!”
Merdanson turned as suddenly as if he’d been stung by a wasp and frowned, his green eyes dismissing me with infinite scorn. “You little turd,” he spat, “you dare tap the shoulder of your elder?”
“Ah, Monsieur! If I’m a little turd then you’re a turd and a half since you’re bigger than I am!”
Merdanson couldn’t believe his ears. “Lads!” he hissed to his acolytes. “Did you hear this novice? This idiot? This conceited ass? When this assembly’s over, we’ll whip him like green barley to cure him of this madness.”
“My friend,” I replied, voice trembling with rage but still managing a whisper, “I crushed the Corbières bandits and I’ll crush you too!”
“Listen to this gentlemor
on!” hissed Merdanson. “If he’s interested in crushing, it’s his arse that will get crushed and his shit with it!”
“Silence!” cried Saporta, banging his gavel down on the table, which, of course set Figairasse’s switch to whistling, and the tumult died down.
“Who wishes to speak?” asked the chancellor, and, since no one dared confront him, he continued with the same princely condescension, “You may continue, Dean Bazin.”
“Let me continue then,” said Bazin, gnashing his teeth at being subjected to Saporta’s high-handed tones. “To conclude, my young scholars, I shall read you the ordo lecturarum¶ for this year—”
“But, before continuing,” Saporta said, shamelessly interrupting the dean with an incredibly superior attitude, “I will ask my ‘son’, Siorac, who has such beautiful handwriting, to come up here on the platform to write, from your dictation, the ordo lecturarum in the school register.”
I stood up.
“His son! By the belly of St Vitus, my brothers!” hissed Merdanson. “Our revenge promises to be all the sweeter since we can think about the father as we administer a good spanking to the son.”
“Monsieur,” I said, as I rose to leave, “however much your ears flop about, they’re nothing compared to the way your tongue wags, which would put every dog’s tail in France to shame.” Whereupon I walked up to the platform and took the stool the chancellor indicated at the end of the table. Dr d’Assas greeted me with a delectable smile, handed me the school register and provided me with a writing desk. You can imagine how, despite my quarrel with Merdanson and the apprehension it produced (for he was very solidly built and could undoubtedly land a strong blow), I strutted a bit as I ascended the platform and took my place in such illustrious company.
