LITMIR.BIZ

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voice.

      ‘All we need now is for the devil himself to put in an appearance,’ exclaimed Descart, pushing the woman out of the room.

      Semacgus went down the stairs and greeted Nicolas with a wink. He walked up to Descart.

      ‘Dear colleague, I wish to have a word with you.’

‘You, as well! But to say “colleague” is going too far. You put on your airs and graces, Monsieur Journeyman Surgeon.2 One day I shall succeed in having you banned. A man who rejects bleedings, who lets nature follow its course and who treats people without having the qualifications.’

      ‘Leave my qualifications out of this – they are just as good as yours. As to bleedings, in this enlightened century you are a throwback to the past.’

      ‘Throwback to the past! He’s insulting Hippocrates and Galen. “The teaching of the wise man is a source of life.”’

      Semacgus took hold of a chair and sat down. Nicolas sensed that in doing so he was seeking to contain the violence of his temperament. This position, he had observed, was a protection against excessive behaviour; anger comes upon one less quickly when seated than when standing.

      ‘Your own teaching is a cause of death. When on earth will you understand that bleeding, though useful in cases of plethora, is harmful in many others? How can you treat this poor woman’s fracture by weakening her? More than this, you starve her whereas you should be prescribing her good food and burgundy. That would help to cure her.’

‘He blasphemes against the Scriptures,’ yelped Descart. ‘“The wicked is snared by the transgression of his lips.” If your trivial reflections were to be examined seriously, you would know, as Batalli3 teaches, that “blood in the human body is like water in a good spring: the more you draw, the more there is.” The less blood, the more blood. Everything is expelled and dissolved; the fevers, the humours, the bile, the acrimonies and the viscosity. The more one bleeds, the better one is, you poor ignoramus.’

      Traces of foam began to appear at the corners of his thin lips. He had instinctively taken hold of his lancet and was tracing scrolls on the shiny, bloodstained surface of the pan.

‘Let’s stop there, Monsieur. This is a very bad example. Poor Patin4 demanded to be bled seven times and died. As far as authors go, I prefer to follow our friend Sénac, the King’s doctor, whom you presumably know. When the intention is to divert blood from the head it is in fact diverted from the heel. You are neither learned nor polite nor honest, and I’m of a mind to ask you very directly …’

      Nicolas decided to interrupt this argument which was beyond him, although he dimly understood that Semacgus’s arguments bore the hallmark of common sense. This response was probably unfair because his judgement was clouded by his personal preference. But he was also embarrassed to see Semacgus fall for this game, reacting to Descart’s provocations and becoming involved in this ridiculous quarrel.

      ‘Gentlemen, that will do,’ he interjected. ‘You will debate this matter another time. Monsieur Descart, I am here on behalf of Monsieur de Sartine, the Lieutenant General of Police, from whom I have full powers to investigate Commissioner Guillaume Lardin’s disappearance. We know that you were among the last people to have seen him.’

      Descart took a few steps and poked the fire, which crackled and flared back to life.

      ‘Anything can happen in this sinful world,’ he sighed. ‘This young fellow …’

      ‘I await your answer, Monsieur.’

      ‘I did indeed dine at the Lardins’, ten days ago.’

      Semacgus made a movement but Nicolas held him back, putting a hand on his arm. He could sense the anger building up inside him.

      ‘And you haven’t seen him since?’

      ‘You have my answer. “You are my witnesses, oracle of God.”’

      ‘Have you met with Lardin since?’

      ‘Certainly not. What is the reason for this inquisition?’

      Semacgus could not stop himself speaking out, but his question was not the one that Nicolas feared.

      ‘Descart, what have you done with Saint-Louis?’

      ‘Nothing at all. Your negro is of no interest to me. He sullies the Lord’s earth.’

      ‘I’ve been told …’ Nicolas intervened.

      He was again surprised by Descart’s reply.

      ‘That I shot at him, on St John’s Day. The devil was stealing cherries from my garden. He got no more than he deserved – a dose of grapeshot.’

      ‘A dose that took me more than two hours to remove,’ said Semacgus angrily. ‘My servant did not steal from you, he was going past your house. Now he has disappeared. What have you done with him?’

      Nicolas was interested to note the turn in the confrontation. Hitting two flints together produces a spark. Let’s leave them to it, he thought to himself, and the truth might emerge.

      ‘Explain then to this young man what you do with the slave’s woman!’ sneered Descart. ‘“Their faces are darker than soot.” Everybody knows what filthy business you get up to with her. The jealous beast threatened you and you killed him. That’s all there is to it.’

      Semacgus stood up. Nicolas squeezed his arm hard; he sat down again.

      ‘It would seem that insolence and devoutness go hand in hand, Monsieur Ten Commandments. You may rest assured that I will not give you a moment’s peace until I find my servant, who incidentally is not a slave but a human being like me, like Monsieur Le Floch, and perhaps even like you, Monsieur Bleeder.’

      Descart was still obsessively gripping the lancet. The three men remained silent until Nicolas, in an icy voice and with an authority that took them by surprise, brought the curtain down on the scene.

      ‘Dr Descart, I have listened to you. Rest assured that your statements will be checked and that you will be summoned to appear before a magistrate who will question you not only about Commissioner Lardin’s disappearance, but also about that of Saint-Louis. Monsieur, I must bid you goodbye.’

      As he quickly led Semacgus away, he heard Descart proffer a final biblical quotation:

      ‘“I was a reproach among all mine enemies, but especially among my neighbours, and a fear to mine acquaintances.”’

      The cold air did them good. Semacgus’s naturally florid face was by now bright red and a purplish vein was throbbing hard at his temple.

      ‘Nicolas, I did not kill Saint-Louis. You believe me, don’t you?’

      ‘I do believe you. But I would also like to believe you about Lardin. You understand that you are among the suspects.’

      ‘Now you, too, are talking as if Lardin is dead.’

      ‘I didn’t mean to.’

      ‘But why did you stop me talking to him about the evening at La Paulet’s?’

      ‘You said it yourself: there’s nothing to indicate that anyone recognised him. It would be your word against his. I await further evidence from witnesses to corroborate your statement. But why does he hate you so much, apart from your disagreements about medicine?’

      ‘Don’t underestimate them, Nicolas. They play a part in the long-standing rivalry between doctors and surgeons. I treat some of the poor; he believes that I am trespassing on his territory and losing him custom.’

      ‘But

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