Eslée was constantly amazed by the miracle of human endurance. Nothing in his training had prepared him for it; no theorem or formula provided for its infinite capacity, or lack of it. An ordinary hangnail turned gangrenous and slew a brawny stable hand in the prime of life. A stone cornice fell bang upon the skull of a consumptive clerk and left him with a buzzing in his ears only.
When the idiot serving girl, who could neither read nor write nor even sweep a floor with any show of competence (but who worked cheaply), led the way back to the doctor’s quarters, shaking all over and raising clouds of dust with the hem of her skirts, he’d suspected more was afoot than a simple fracture, but since she was as incapable of a coherent explanation as she was of cooking a simple egg, he was left to speculate: Perhaps Linoc, the woodsman, had managed at last to lop off one of his feet with the double-bitted axe he handled so carelessly, or that drunken druggist Planchet had filled a prescription for a physic with arsenite of lead.
He had not considered a gunshot wound.
Such things were common enough among hunters; but there was no game to be had. Bonaparte’s soldiers had scoured the country round on their way to defend the borders, and no one Eslée knew had the time to waste scraping for leavings. What little livestock remained, once the game vanished, had been hidden in barns.
Nor had he expected the severity of the injury, or the bare thought that a man who had taken a musket ball in the hip should have made his way to the house of the nearest physician without fainting.
Human endurance? No; the man was a bull on two legs.
A strange cart and horse stood at the end of the sunken-stone path to the front door of the hovel Eslée called home, without affection. He was always eager to flee its bleak walls to play a losing game of chess with Marianne Deauville.
And to do more, perhaps. But he’d reached that measure in life where a spirited competition of wit and will was recreation enough. To mesh the flesh with the widow was a contest of another sort. The physical pressure upon his member between her loins; well, suffice it to say the woman might have inspired the guillotine. Had her poor León joined the Revolutionary Army for a holiday?
His patient awaited him in the horsehair armchair in his consulting room, which doubled as a parlor. Novels were shelved next to medical journals in the glazed bookpresses, and bottles of Cognac stood among the tubes and retorts on a bench.
The doctor heard then the drip-drip as of a leaking pipe, and saw the scarlet puddle at the foot of the chair.
The man in the chair followed the track of his vision with glazed eyes. Muscles tugged at the corners of his well-shaped mouth.
“My apologies, Doctor,” said he, in court French. “I’ve defiled your rug.”
He fainted then.
Eslée took him gently by the shoulder and eased his body away from the arms of the chair. That was when he discovered the source of the bleeding.
He sent the girl home. She was no nurse, and was barely a servant.
The man came around.
“I haven’t any opiates,” the doctor said. “They’re a smugglers’ staple and too dear.” It occurred to him the fellow may be a smuggler himself. “I’ll dull your senses with Cognac.”
“No. I’ll stay awake.”
“I don’t think you know what you’re saying. The pain—”
“Awake, I said.”
A belt of some kind, made of buttoned canvas pouches reinforced with leather, held a bloody fold of cloth to the wound. When Eslée leaned in to unfasten it and examine the injury, something prodded his belly. He looked down and saw a pistol clamped in a bloody hand.
A criminal, definitely; or some kind of official messenger, which came to much the same thing. Paris fought pirates with pirates.
“I’m not a thief, monsieur.”
The pistol didn’t move.
“You’ll faint again, and who will defend your property then? Trust me with your life, trust me with your purse.”
“Where will you put it?”
“I’ll lock it in my desk, how’s that? I have the only key.”
“Let me see you put it there.”
Eslée removed the belt, produced the key attached to his watch fob, and made a broad business of opening the drawer, placing the belt inside, and locking it after. The belt was both heavier than it looked and lighter than expected. He started to return the key to his waistcoat.
“Give it to me.”
“But where will you put it? I must undress you.”
He repeated the command, lowering his weapon only when the key was in his fist.
“My valise is outside. Bring it in.”
“I am not a footman.”
The muzzle came back up.
Eslée folded his arms across his chest.
“And what will you do once I’m shot?”
The wounded man was silent for a moment. Then he lowered the hammer gently and rotated the pistol, offering the handle.
The doctor took it and laid it on his desk.
“Put it out of sight. You don’t know what a danger it is in ignorant hands.”
“I know about firearms.”
“Not this one, I assure you.”
The doctor opened a bookpress and placed the pistol behind Diseases of the Stomach, a weighty volume. He closed the door gently.
“The valise, now.”
“No. The bleeding needs to be stopped.”
“Please. It contains everything I own.”
Which was not the case, or there would have been no nonsense about the belt. But it was the first sign of supplication; plainly he was at the end of his strength.
A distraught patient was hard to treat. The doctor went outside, brought in the large piece of luggage, and slid it inside the kneehole of his desk.
He found the man docile after that. Eslée helped him to his feet and through the door into the next room, depositing him on the worn leather couch he used for an examining table.
The patient drifted in and out of consciousness as Eslée stripped him, but the key remained in his clutches; the will was stronger than the man.
The bleeding gash was a hideous flaw in an impressive example of male anatomy.
Eslée probed the wound. The man flinched, but made no sound.
“The ball isn’t deep, but removing it will cause more damage, and more pain. It can’t be helped. Will you take Cognac now?”
“I suppose I may as well.”
He went back for it, but found the stranger insensate when he returned. The doctor put aside the bottle, picked up his forceps, and burrowed until the jaws closed on a leaden ball the size of a walnut. The flesh recoiled, but the man didn’t wake up.
Eslée shook his head at the bloody lump he’d extracted: the things Man came up with to destroy his fellows, as if nature weren’t ruthless enough. He flung it ringing into an enamel basin, cleansed the wound with alcohol, and applied a patch. He was holding it in place when he saw the patient’s eyes were open, looking at him.
“You’re lucky, monsieur. There’s no bone damage and the ball didn’t separate.”
“When can I leave?”
“You’ll be here a week at least.”
“Too long.”
“You won’t think that when you try to stand. You’ve lost a great deal of blood. There’s nothing to be done about that except rest and broth—and prayer, if you’re a religious man. I can treat infection: alcohol, fresh dressings. I don’t subscribe to the popular theory that filth is a barrier against disease. Quite the opposite.”
“I’m inclined to agree. Otherwise, certain men would live forever.”
“Your sense of humor is a good sign, like a healthy appetite.”
“Spare me your bromides. A man can die laughing and with a bellyful of beef.”
“That would depend upon the quality of the beef.”
He unrolled three yards of muslin round the abdomen. The man obliged him by sitting up with a grunt. The effort cost him. He paled, and sweat pricked out on his forehead and upper lip. His skin was clammy to the touch.
“No one must know I’m here. Tell your girl I left after treatment, and give her a week’s holiday.”
“It won’t work. She’s far from bright, but she knows you’re too badly injured to have gone away on your own.”
“Would she go to the authorities?”
“She’d be afraid not to, I think. The times—”
“Yes, one can’t travel more than a mile without being reminded. Tell her I was hurt when my cart overturned, and give her the holiday.”
“That may work. After a week she’ll forget the whole business.”
“For her sake I hope so. You’ll need to conceal the horse and cart. I’ll pay you well for the inconvenience.”
“Are you sought by the police?”
“They don’t know I exist, and I intend to keep it that way, with your help.”
“I can’t be an accomplice.”
“Very well. I’m a courier, charged with a mission of international importance.”
“A very old story.”
“You’ll find a letter in my coat that will identify me. My mission must remain secret. I can’t tell you anything beyond that.”
“Whoever wounded you must share the secret.”
“There was no one. I was careless. I caught the hammer of my pistol on a nail while climbing a fence and it discharged.”
“So far I’ve seen no evidence of carelessness on your part. Quite the opposite.”
“Give me a reason to believe you won’t betray me.”
“I saved your life. I shouldn’t want to think it was a waste of time.”
“Try again.”
“If I told you the real reason, a man like you wouldn’t understand.”
“You consider yourself bound by your oath?”
“It isn’t a matter of consideration, but of fact.”
The stranger’s lids were heavy. He was keeping them open with visible effort.
“I’m a desperate man, Doctor. If you betray me, I’d have nothing to lose by tearing off my bandages and opening my wound with my bare hands. My death won’t sit well with your creed.”
“You’re quite mad.”
“Madmen are invariably truthful, isn’t it so?”
“I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t trained in diseases of the mind.”
The man smiled then. The expression brought no warmth.
“You shouldn’t have admitted you cared about your work. I owned you from that moment.”
Then he slept. The fist holding the key to Eslée’s drawer remained clenched tight.
No, the man was not human; but neither was he a bull. Something more nocturnal and closer to the ground.