Nothing indicated that Cecile’s rooms had been searched. Saint-Lucq therefore performed this task with some hope of success, starting with the more obvious hiding places before narrowing his focus. Fortune smiled upon him. In a jewellery box, among various rings, necklaces, and earrings of no great value, he found a curved nail that caught his interest. He then had only to guess at what this nail might be used to dislodge. As it turned out, it was a small stoneware tile in a corner of the bedroom, beneath a small table which-having been moved too often-had left some faint scuff marks on the floor.
Saint-Lucq sighed upon discovering this cache, half pleased to exhume the handwritten documents within, half disappointed by the trivial ease of this paltry treasure hunt.
He was worth better than this.
7
At the Hotel de l’Epervier, Marciac had slept for less than two hours when he rejoined Leprat in the main room. The musketeer was still sitting in the same armchair near the fireplace, now gone cold, his wounded leg stretched out before him with his foot propped on a stool. Restless from inactivity, he continued to mope, but at least he had ceased drinking. He was still a little inebriated, however, and feeling drowsy.
Marciac, in contrast, seemed full of energy. He smiled, his eyes shone, and he displayed a vitality and joie de vivre that quickly exasperated Leprat. Not to mention the unkempt-but artfully maintained-state of his attire. The Gascon was every bit the perfect gentleman, dressed in a doublet with short basques and a white shirt, with his sword in a baldric and boots made of excellent leather. But he wore it all in a casual manner that betrayed his blind faith in his personal charm and his lucky star. The doublet was unbuttoned from top to bottom, the collar of his shirt gaped open, the sword seemed to weigh nothing, and the boots were desperately in need of a good brushing.
“Come on,” said Marciac in a lively tone as he drew up a chair. “I need to look at your wound and perhaps change the bandage.”
“Now?”
“Well, yes. Were you expected somewhere?”
“Very funny…”
“Grumble as much as you like, you dismal chap. I have sworn an oath that obliges me to treat you.”
“You? An oath…? In any case, my leg is doing quite well.”
“Really?”
“I mean to say that it is doing better.”
“So you aren’t downing bottle after bottle to dull the pain…?”
“Haven’t you anything better to do than count bottles?”
“Yes. Treat your leg.”
Sighing, Leprat surrendered and with ill grace allowed Marciac to get on with it. In silence, the Gascon unwound the bandage and inspected the edges of the wound, making sure it wasn’t infected. His touch was gentle and precise.
At last, without lifting his eyes toward his patient, he asked: “How long have you known?”
Leprat stiffened, at first surprised and then upset by the question.
“How long have I known what?” he said defensively.
This time, Marciac looked into his eyes. He had a grave, knowing expression that spoke louder than any words. The two men stared at one another for a moment. Then the former musketeer asked: “And you? Since when have you known?”
“Since yesterday,” explained the Gascon. “When I first treated your leg… I noticed the obatre mixed in with your blood. There was too much for you to be unaware that you have the ranse.”
According to Galen, the Greek physician of ancient times whose theories provided the basis of all Western medicine, human physiology was derived from the equilibrium of four fluids-or humours-that impregnated the organs: blood, yellow bile, black bile, and phlegm. The predominance of each of these humours determines the character of an individual, resulting in sanguine, choleric, melancholic, and phlegmatic temperaments. Everything is for the best when the humours are present in their proper amounts and proportions within the organism. People fall ill whenever one of these humours is in excess or is tainted. Then it becomes necessary to drain off the malignant humour by means of bleeding, enemas, and other purgings.
Avant-gardist for their time, the doctors at the University of Montpellier-where Marciac had studied-believed that the disease transmitted by the dragons came from contamination by a fifth humour peculiar to that race, called obatre. This substance, they claimed, perturbed the balance of human humours, corrupting them one by one and finally reducing victims to the pitiful state observed in terminal cases of ranse. Their colleagues and traditional adversaries at the University of Paris would not hear of any talk about obatre as it was not mentioned by Galen, and his science could not be questioned. And the quarrels between the two schools, although unproductive, went on and on.
“I have been ill for the past two years,” said Leprat.
“Have there been any symptoms of the Great ranse?”
“No. Do you think I would even let you come near me if I thought I was contagious?”
Marciac avoided answering.
“The Great ranse has perhaps not yet set in,” he declared. “Some people live with the lesser version until their death.”
“Or else it will set in and make me a pitiful monster…”
The Gascon nodded sombrely.
“Where is the rash?” he asked.
“All across my back. Now it’s beginning to spread to my shoulders.”
“Let me see.”
“No. It’s useless. No one can do anything for me.”
As a matter of fact, whether the doctors of Montpellier were wrong or right, whether obatre actually existed or not, the ranse was incurable by any known medicine.
“Do you suffer?”
“Only from fatigue. But I know there will eventually be pain.”
Marciac found he had nothing further to add and redid the bandage on the musketeer’s thigh.
“I should be grateful if…” Leprat started to say.
However, he did not finish.
The Gascon, standing up, addressed a reassuring smile at him.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I never actually took the Hippocratic oath, since I never became a physician, but your secret is safe with me.”
“Thank you.”
Then, firmly planted on his legs and smiling again, Marciac declared: “Well! Now I’ll go and make sure that our protegee lacks for nothing. But since Nais has gone out, I can also make a trip to the kitchen and bring you back anything you like…”
“No, leave it. I believe I shall sleep for a bit.”
Upon reflection, Marciac told himself that in fact he was somewhat hungry and went to the kitchen. He found it empty, but searched out a dish of pate and half a loaf from the bread bin, and made himself a small repast at the corner of the table. Leprat’s potentially fatal disease concerned him, but, aware that he could do nothing, he forced himself not to think about it. He could only hope to offer the musketeer some comfort by sharing his secret. If he desired to speak of his illness, he now knew who he could turn to.
The Gascon was drinking straight from a bottle when Cecile entered and greeted him.
“Good morning, monsieur.”
He almost choked, but managed a charming smile instead.
“Good morning, madame. How are you feeling, today? Can I be of service?”
She was looking pale and drawn, but nevertheless remained exceedingly pretty. And perhaps her weakened state and large sad eyes even added to her fragile beauty.
“In fact, monsieur, I was looking for you.”
Marciac hastened to pull out a chair for the young woman and sat in front of her attentively.
“I am listening, madame.”
“I beg you, call me Cecile,” she said in a timid voice.
“Very well… Cecile.”
“I want, first, to thank you. Without you, last night…”