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 Montpel-lier—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.