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Plans for the future
“I know: I’m going to make some matzo,” Reynière
said breezily in reaction to all the heavy plans for
the future. “Want to help me, Michel? Then you could
tell me what you’ve been up to in Montpellier at the
same time,” and the young physician willingly went
with her. In the kitchen they mixed water with some
flour.
“Okay, tell me,” she commanded, and her son began to
tell her all about his student days.
“Oops, I still have to stoke the fire in the back
garden,” she interrupted him. “You go ahead and
start kneading; I’ll be right back.” A few minutes
later, she returned, covered in soot and Michel
continued his narrative, as if he hadn’t noticed
anything. Many college stories later the scent of
the unleavened bread filled the whole house. Father
cut the crunchy matzo at the table and in this way
they celebrated the homecoming of their successful
son.
“Would you visit a sick acquaintance of mine?”
Jacques asked afterwards.
“That’s the city chirurgeon’s job, isn’t it?” Michel
asked.
“Well, I don’t have a lot of faith in him. Mr.
Delblonde’s health is steadily declining.”
“Okay, I’ll go and have a look,” his son promised.
“By the way, the municipality of Arles is looking
for a physician,” Reynière just remembered. “You
should go and apply there.”
“I will Mother, thanks for the tip.” The next day he
visited Mr. Delblonde, who had been in the medical
care of Villain for some time. This chirurgeon took
care of your wounds, cut away swellings, performed
phlebotomy, pulled teeth, prepared herbal remedies
and cut your hair or shaved your beard. The
long-term patient had had the misfortune not to
qualify for free treatments. His illness had been
dragging on and on and he had been obliged to sell
the one family heirloom he possessed, a root wood
wardrobe, in order to be able to pay the bills. Only
people who were completely destitute were eligible
for free services and the municipality covered these
cost. Michel’s suspicions were confirmed when he
entered; Villain was of the old school. Delblonde
was completely exhausted due to laxatives and
various fontanelles. The patient was lying in bed in
critical condition with a sister by his side.
Nostradamus introduced himself and the old man
thought he remembered him from the past. Half
delirious, he began to talk about the old days, but
his sister put a stop to it right away.
“Let’s not waste any time, doctor,” she said and she
told him that her brother had gotten much worse
after the incisions in the skin had become infected.
Villain was trying to release an excess of humors
this way. Michel examined the patient and gave his
diagnosis.
“I don’t think that the cause is serious, but the
medical treatment is. If you want your brother to
stay alive, those incisions must be closed and you
must get rid of those purgative drinks,” he insisted.
The despondent sister realized that it was time for
a change and she agreed. Michel immediately removed
the iron tubes from the dozens of fontanelles and
cleaned the wounds with water.
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