that the gate was ajar, and he went through the garden along a path with box trees on either side. The shutters were closed, but the door opened with one turn of the handle.
He was surprised to find himself on a sort of inner terrace. This turned out to be the upper part of a stone staircase which led down to an enormous room via two semi-circular flights of steps. He was struck by the strange odour of something musty, like damp felt, cold incense and extinguished candle, added to which was an all-pervasive sweet, metallic and acid stench that Nicolas was unable to identify.
The young man contemplated the scene below him, of a tiled room with windows at either end concealed by heavy curtains and a fireplace opposite the staircase. The high ceiling consisted of exposed beams blackened by smoke. Wooden shelves covered almost all the walls. Above the fireplace a large crucifix offered the harrowing vision of a Christ made of ivory, his arms stretched upwards. It caught Nicolas’s attention: his guardian, the canon, would have required, if not a certificate of confession, at least a true and complete profession of faith from any parishioner owning one like this.1 In a corner of the room, Descart, a blood-spattered apron covering his coat, was finishing the process of bleeding an elderly woman whose right arm, held in position by bandages and splints, appeared to be broken. The contents of a metal bowl in which a crimson pool shimmered darkly revealed that several basins of blood had already been drawn. The ashen-faced patient was leaning back in an armchair in a faint as Descart dabbed her temples with smelling salts. Nicolas cleared his throat and coughed. The doctor turned round.
‘Can’t you see that I’m operating?’ he said angrily. ‘Get out.’
The woman was coming round and she began to groan feebly, taking up all the doctor’s attention.
‘Monsieur,’ said Nicolas, ‘when you have finished what you are doing, I should like to speak with you. To question you in fact.’
Once again he was annoyed with himself for having been unable to find the right word in the first place, like a horse shying at an obstacle.
‘To question me?’ exclaimed the doctor. ‘To question me! A flunkey to question me! I demand you leave.’
Nicolas, white-faced, rushed down the staircase and stood firmly in front of Descart, who stepped back a pace, his face twitching.
‘Monsieur,’ said Nicolas, ‘I would ask you not to insult me. You may come to rue it in several ways. I shall not leave and you will hear me out.’
The woman, still dazed, looked at each man in turn.
‘I shall unleash my dog and then you will leave, I guarantee it,’ growled Descart.
He lifted his patient to her feet, supporting her on her good arm, and led her towards the door.
‘Madame, go home. You need complete rest and a strict diet. I shall see you again tomorrow. Further bleedings will be necessary. Everything depends on the reaction between opposites. Go.’
*
No one had heard a man enter noiselessly who, for some moments, had been looking down at the scene in the semi-darkness.
‘At this rate, honourable colleague, you’ll soon have no patients left alive.’
Nicolas immediately recognised Semacgus’s 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.
