Huddled up beside the great hearth, the only source of heat in the immense study chamber, Joseph de Bologne and Clément were performing an exercise in smelling. The old physician had pushed a beaker containing a foul reddish-yellow liquid under his apprentice’s nose. He said impatiently:
‘Come on, be more precise. What does it smell like?’
Stifling a desire to retch, Clément replied:
‘Oh … I think I’m going to be sick …’
‘Scientists aren’t sick, they consider, they use their noses. More importantly, they remember what they smell,’ Joseph interrupted him. ‘Use your nose, Clément. It is the doctor’s best tool! Come on, what is it?’
‘Rotten egg, very rotten egg.’
‘And where do we find this unpleasant odour? For let us not exaggerate – there exist far more evil-smelling ones.’
‘In the faeces of patients suffering from digestive haemorrhage.’
‘Good. Let’s try another more difficult one.’
‘Master …’ interrupted Clément, whom these experiments were powerless to distract from his one obsession, which he thought about day and night, sobbing in his bed when he knew he was alone: ‘Master …’
‘You’re thinking about your lady, aren’t you?’ said Joseph, who had consciously increased the number of experiments and lessons in the hope of offering his brilliant student some reprieve from his torment.
‘She scarcely leaves my thoughts. Do you think … that I shall ever see her again?’
‘I would like to believe that innocence always triumphs over adversity.’
‘Do you really believe that?’
Joseph de Bologne studied the boy, and was overwhelmed by an infinite sadness. Had he ever witnessed the triumph of innocence? Probably not, and yet he was ready to lie for the sake of this young girl disguised as a boy whom he had come to love as his only spiritual son:
‘Sometimes … Though generally when it is helped along. Come, my boy, let us continue,’ he said, striving to give his voice a ring of authority.
He crossed to the other side of the vast room and poured some amber liquid into another beaker before submitting it to Clément’s olfactory expertise:
‘What do we smell? What does that pleasant odour tickling the nostrils suggest?’
‘Apple juice. Pestis!87 The smell on plague victims’ breath. Well, the majority, others smell of freshly plucked feathers.’
‘Try your best to remember both smells. I am telling you, that dread disease has not finished with us yet. And what must you do?’
‘If a bubo forms, I must cauterise it with a red-hot knife, taking care to wear gloves, which I must incinerate, and to scrub my hands and forearms vigorously with soap. If the plague has infected the lungs, then there is nothing I can do except to avoid going within two yards of the victim. In effect, the plague victim’s saliva forms tiny bubbles, which are expelled into the air and breathed in by the person to whom the sufferer is speaking.’
The old physician’s wrinkled face beamed and he nodded. A good master doth a good pupil make.
Suddenly they both jumped. It felt as if a whole army had just invaded the room. Artus called over:
‘May I draw near without fear of contracting some deadly disease? What is that evil smell?’
‘Rotten egg, my lord.’
‘You scientists certainly do engage in some extraordinary activities. Esteemed doctor, I wish to speak to your assistant urgently.’
‘Should I leave the room, my lord?’
‘On the contrary, I will leave you to your evil smells and take him to my chambers, which are protected from such noxious vapours.’
Once they were inside the little rotunda, Artus went straight to the point:
‘I need your help, my boy.’
Clément could tell by the Comte’s solemn expression that this related to Agnès. For a split second he froze with fear. No. No. She couldn’t possibly be dead. In that case he would be dead, too, for his life depended so much on that of his lady.
‘I-is it very bad news?’ he stammered, doing his best to stifle the sobs that were rising in his throat.
‘It is not good, but no worse than yesterday or the day before, so do not begin to despair yet. Madame de Souarcy is still alive … But the torture will begin shortly.’
Artus looked murderously around the room, searching for something he could break, something he could smash to pieces in an attempt to calm his fury. He brought his fist down on the table, upsetting the inkpot in the shape of a ship’s hull. Clément stood still, watching the ink run slowly along the grain of the wood and drip on to the floor. Artus stood next to him and they both looked on in awe as the tiny dark stain spread ominously across the floorboards. Black ink, not red, Clément kept saying to himself. Ink, not blood, just ink. Even so, he pulled from his belt the piece of coarse cloth he used as a handkerchief, and rushed over to soak up the inky pool.
Artus raised his eyes, as though Clément’s simple gesture had broken the evil spell riveting their gaze to the floor. He continued where he had left off:
‘Florin must die, Clément. There is no other solution. He must die, and soon.’
‘Give the order to saddle me a horse, my lord, and I’ll leave at once. I’ll kill him.’
The child’s blue-green eyes staring at him conveyed his fierce determination. And, strangely, Artus knew that he was capable of doing it, even if it meant being killed himself.
‘I will be the one to wield the sword, my boy. It is an old friend that has never failed me. What I need is someone to trail Florin, for he knows me. I thought I had found a little helper, but he vanished into thin air.’
Clément grew excited:
‘I can replace him. Just give the order, my lord!’
‘We leave for Alençon at dawn tomorrow.’
‘But it is more than twenty leagues+ from here … Will we arrive in … time?’
Clément stumbled over the last word, which sounded like a death sentence.
‘Twenty-three to be exact, and I’ll be damned if we don’t arrive in time! If we ride our horses hard, we’ll arrive the day after tomorrow at dusk.’