Image source: Unsplash
by Thom Hawkins
The king’s cook, François Villard, did not steal the silver to feed his family. He had no family. He did not take it to feed himself—though not rich, his job left him with enough. He lived in the servants’ quarters which met his minimum physical needs for food, shelter, and clothing.
That he was caught was not a surprise. It was not the first time a servant had stolen, and thieves were invariably caught. When something was missed, and it always was, the servants’ quarters were checked, and because the rooms, despite their name, did not belong to the servants, there was no place for objection. Villard had not even hidden the plates especially well, as if he expected to be caught.
The punishment then, for this crime that he did not need to commit and for which he knew he would be caught, was death by hanging.
Death from hanging carried the same kind of certainty as being found a thief did for taking the silver. One event always led to the next. Villard had hung himself. He showed no emotion during his room search and did not feign surprise when they found the silver. He did not cry when shackled and taken to a locked cell or while waiting for his hanging.
* * *
King Charles IX of France studied the object in his hand—a stone, no larger than the tip of his finger.
“It is an antidote to all poisons,” Señor Vargas explained, directing his words at the base of the young king’s throne.
Though it could have fit on a ring, its black, bulbous appearance made such a mounting undesirable.
“Where was it found?”
Señor Vargas kept his eyes downcast as the king held the stone between his fingertips, and brought it up to his nose.
“It was, your excellency,” Vargas said, then hesitated, his flushed cheeks matching the sleeves of his satin doublet, “found inside the stomach of a goat.”
Charles signaled and a courtier appeared by his side, hand outstretched. The king placed the stone into the courtier’s palm.
“How does it work?”
“Ah,” Señor Vargas said, “I only know that it does.”
“How do you know this? Have you tried it?”
“No, Your Excellency, but I know of others who have.”
“The same stone?”
“No, stones found the same way.”
“Is it worn or eaten?”
“It is, your excellency, crushed into a powder and made into an elixir.”
King Charles glanced at the stone, still in the courtier’s open hand.
“Bring forth Monsieur Paré.”
* * *
Villard looked up at the sound of a key in his cell door and watched as the door opened to reveal a man dressed too well to be a guard, with a grey beard pressing down on the front of his ruff. The man entered and stood in the center of the cell, commanding it, but Villard did not shrink back, nor did he speak. Villard waited for the man to speak, but he seemed in no hurry to communicate his purpose; instead, the man stared at him, as if assessing odds for his escape. Finally, he said, “You stole the silver.”
“Yes,” Villard said, without hesitation.
“Do you know the punishment?”
“Hanging.”
“Death by hanging,” the man clarified.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Ambroise Paré. I am his majesty’s surgeon.”
* * *
Ambroise Paré lived amongst the court at Clermont. As a practiced battlefield surgeon, a specialist at treating war wounds before he came into the service of Henry II, continued under Francis II, and now Charles IX, he became a trusted advisor to the king on matters medical and scientific.
Summoned, Paré appeared at the king’s side.
“Ah, Paré. I have a matter for your expertise.”
“Yes, your excellency?”
“Is it possible that a substance could act as an antidote to all poisons?”
“No, your excellency. There are many sorts of poisons and venoms; one might oppose some of them but not all of them.”
Señor Vargas glared at this aging obstructer, with his short-cropped hair and pointed grey beard. Paré, not knowing the gentleman, kept a cautious eye on Vargas as he continued to elaborate for the king.
“Poisons do not all kill by the same method. Some operate by an excess of elementary qualities of which they are composed; others operate by their own specific qualities, occult and secret. Hot venoms must be cured with a cold remedy and cold venoms with a hot remedy.”
“What about alicorn?” the king asked Paré, nodding at Vargas. Knowing Paré’s thoughts on this matter, he asked for the benefit of their visitor.
Paré turned and addressed Vargas directly—“That substance which some call alicorn, supposedly the horn of the unicorn, is almost certainly not. The beast itself is unlikely to exist, at least as described, and the quantities of alicorn available for purchase from an animal seldom seen is improbable. I have witnessed physicians giving ground bones of horses or dogs to ailing men with the same effect as alleged alicorn, provided they were told it was such.”
Vargas watched King Charles listen as Paré spoke and shifted his stance as the king nodded in agreement to Paré’s logic.
“Another alleged cure is the preserved bodies of ancient Egyptians. These mummies are also available in greater proportion than they should be, given the number of burial sites that have been uncovered in Egypt. I have heard tell of a great trade within our own France of the resinous preservation of recently dead slaves. But despite this source being well-documented, there are many who will pay to eat their flesh in the hope of a cure. I must conclude there is no single antidote against all poisons.”
King Charles turned his attention back to Vargas, who took a moment to recover his argument.
“Your excellency, I brought you this stone as a gesture of friendship, a protection against our common enemies. Monsieur Paré is obviously a great mind and a trusted advisor, as well as familiar with the remedies and magics of France, but this stone is from Spain, and we have been using this remedy for centuries.”
The king nodded at the courtier by his side, who held out the stone for Paré’s examination.
“A bezoartick stone. I have heard of such a thing.”
Vargas smiled.
“But it cannot be a universal antidote.”
Vargas frowned. “But this one’s from Spain…”
“We could conduct a test,” Paré offered.
King Charles smiled. “Continue.”
“Your excellency, you no doubt have some rogue in your prisons condemned to be hanged. We could, instead, serve him a poison, followed by application of the bezoar stone. This will prove its worth.”
* * *
Villard had heard of this man, but had never seen him. Paré’s piercing eyes and serious manner fit his expectation of a man who had saved many lives. Yet why Paré—someone with a reputation for preserving life for those doomed by chance to die, sat in the cell of a man declared to die remained a mystery.
Paré spoke: “Are you familiar with the properties of the bezoar stone?”
“It cures poisoning.”
“How?”
Villard shifted in his seat. “You’re the scientist.”
“I would say there’s no scientific basis for the alleged powers of the bezoar.”
Paré watched Villard’s brow wrinkle, then straighten as he combined the two lines of inquiry, the hanging and the stone. Villard nodded, signaling he knew what Paré would propose.
“I’d like to try an experiment. It’s a wager, really. You believe a bezoar stone will cure poisoning. I do not. A fatal dose of poison will be administered to you, followed by a solution of the bezoar stone. If you are cured, you go free. If you are not…”
“I will die.”
“Precisely.”
“The certain death of hanging against the possibility of death by poisoning. And if I survive, I will go free?”
“Yes.”
“But I committed a crime.”
“You will not be executed.”
“I will no longer be a servant.”
“No, you cannot be trusted. But you will be free.”
“Free to do what?”
“Free to leave.”
“One option? That isn’t freedom. Freedom is choice. I’ve never had a choice. Everything I’ve ever done I had to do.”
“I have given you a choice.”
“What choice have you given me? If you do not believe the stone will work, for you, death is certain either way. There is no difference. There’s only a choice if I believe the stone will work.”
“To have faith…”
“Yes, I must have faith that the stone will cure me. Only then do I have a choice, and that’s a choice I have to give myself. Without that, there are no options. You’ve already chosen death.”
“Have faith in God.”
“God will save me? What will that do to your experiment? Is it God who will save me, or the bezoar?”
Paré ignored Villard’s questions, regretting that he raised the question of faith. “The outcome is the same, but the method… poison… is not a quick end.”
“It is you who will poison me?”
Paré hesitated, surprised by Villard’s direct accusation. “No… I will not prepare or administer the poison, only the antidote. This way I can preserve the integrity of the experiment, to ensure I do not prepare an antidote using the bezoar stone that is specific to the poison provided…”
In a sense, the very notion that the bezoar could be his equal offended him. A simple bezoar stone did not have his learning or experience. If man could be cured with such a simple remedy, what use was there for him? He was a man of science, of knowledge, a righteous man who used his skills to save other men. No, he would not administer the poison. That was a job for some vicious brute. It didn’t take talent to kill a man, only to save one.
Villard, though common, jarred Paré back to the present matter with his logic. “If you do not believe that the bezoar stone will save me, then you are administering my death. You are the executioner, whether or not I die.”
Paré did not respond to the accusation with words, but his tone made it clear that Villard had gotten to him. “What is your choice?” Paré grimaced at his own selection of words.
“My choice is that I would rather die in prison than on a public stage.”
“Very well.” Paré turned away from Villard, avoiding a look into the eyes of a dead man, a man he now feared he would kill by his own hand.
* * *
Paré did not witness the preparation of the poison. M. de la Trousse, the house provost, oversaw this part of the operation. He did not identify himself or his relation to the king when he visited M. Lavande, the apothecary on the Rue des Bourdonnais. He asked the apothecary for a strong poison, and left it at that. Despite the unusual request, Lavande asked no questions, knowing the well-dressed gentleman could pay. Lavande did not keep such a poison in his shop, but knew well how to make it. He asked M. de la Trousse to return after two bells.
In his back room, Lavande measured out mercury and sulfuric acid into a conical flask. Bubbles rose from a reaction, forming mercury sulfate. Adding sodium bicarbonate, Lavande filtered off the brown precipitate, then dripped in hydrochloric acid and evaporated off the liquid until only tiny white crystals remained. He ground these into a vial and presented it to M. de la Trousse when he returned.
“Put this in any liquid and drink it,” Lavande told him as if he was planning to poison himself. “If you had the strength of twenty men, it would still achieve its effect.”
Paré’s preparation of the bezoar stone required fewer steps, though he took just as long. At his desk, he held the stone in his hand as he reflected on the conversation with Villard. He thought back to a horror he had witnessed years before, as if to absolve his own guilt with that of another. Years earlier, during the Battle of Milan, an officer asked if Paré could save a soldier with severe gunpowder burns. Paré admitted that he could not. Without hesitation, the officer unsheathed his knife and slit the soldier’s throat. As the blood gushed from his jugular, the soldier’s head fell to the side, hitting the earth beneath.
Paré picked up the bezoar stone preciously, still thinking of the soldier’s head, its eyes still open, but with no life behind them. The stone had three lobes of silvery black with veins of mahogany between the lobes. It looked like a river wore it down, or a stream of merchant’s hands as it made its way from a goat’s stomach into the possession of Señor Vargas. This insignificant thing was treated so preciously because of its alleged powers.
Paré took great care preparing the bezoartick solution, as if this attention could be the difference between life and death for Villard. At the same time, he harbored resentment that he could be replaced by a rock. Placing the calcification in his mortar, he pressed straight down on it with the pestle, imagining a rope pressing on Villard’s windpipe. Was it possible for a man to survive a hanging? All men died eventually when left to hang. All men died eventually. Their windpipe crushed, jugular collapsed, wheezing, faint, and dead.
Villard had caught him in an intellectual noose. Paré wouldn’t die today, but he began to feel the pressure at his neck and sensed the eventuality of judgment. One event always led to the next.
The bezoar stone collapsed under the combined weight of the mortar and Paré’s conscience. It was no longer an artifact. It couldn’t be held in one’s pocket or mounted on a ring. It could only be used now in an attempt to save the life of Villard.
Paré ground the pieces into as fine a powder as he could manage to increase the dissolution. The black stone transformed to a light brown powder. It could easily be mistaken for, or replaced with, dirt from the courtyard. The idea now that this could save a life seemed preposterous. Was he to save Villard with this? Paré, a man of medicine, with all his experience and knowledge, was now to face a dying man and present him with this ineffectual remedy. The words of Hippocrates sounded in his mind: “I will use treatment to help the sick according to my ability and judgment.”
Paré mixed the powder into a flask of water and set out for Villard’s cell.
When he arrived, M. de la Trousse stood waiting. M. de la Trousse wore a hip-length cape that ended just above the hilt of his rapier. The sword gave him a look of authority, although, as provost, it remained sheathed. The blade could mean a quick death, but instead he held a goblet of wine into which he had already stirred Lavande’s white crystals.
Paré tried to seem disinterested, but even as he turned away, he held an image of the goblet in his mind. It was that goblet against his flask. That was the choice now. Death or…
He did not enter the room with M. de la Trousse. He did not hear the struggle he had expected. Villard must have accepted his fate. He made his choice.
When M. de la Trousse exited Villard’s cell with the empty goblet, he nodded at Paré. Paré entered and saw Villard already struggling, sweaty and red. He rushed to Villard, grasped the back of his head to tilt it back, and poured the murky solution between his lips. Villard didn’t speak, but his eyes sought contact. Paré glanced at him. He could see in that brief moment that Villard knew the bezoar would not save him.
Avoiding Villard’s gaze as he emptied the flask, Paré noted Villard’s thin neck braced in his fingers. Villard would not have hung for long. He wanted to say something—to offer comfort in his choice, or to apologize for the part he played in this scene, but Villard, after swallowing the bezoartick solution, opened his mouth to speak first. Paré leaned in, turning his gaze from the face of his patient. But instead of words, Villard screamed.
Paré fled the room at the apparition, and returned to his chambers haunted by the scream it seemed he could still hear.
A knock startled Paré. A guard from the prison appeared at the doorway to escort him to Villard’s cell. As he followed behind him, Paré noticed a knife sheathed at the guard’s leg and imagined it dripping with blood, leaving a trail like bread crumbs.
Villard was in limbo. The King’s surgeon would open the cell door and either free Villard, or declare him dead. The sound of Villard retching had replaced the screams. Inside the cell, he looked far worse, crawling around on all fours sweating and heaving, with blood issuing from every orifice. It was clear that the bezoar stone did not save Villard. The experiment over, Paré realized that Villard could still go free if he could save him. The stone had lost, but he could still win.
He barked at the guard to bring him oil and water. The extreme symptoms seemed far worse than those from an arsenical poison. Still, he could likely find some relief with the water, and if he could keep the oil down, it might still work to protect him.
Villard drank the water, sputtered, and vomited. Time had run out to stop the poison. No longer the stone versus Paré, the poison had bested them both. Taking some oil into his palm, he pressed his hand against Villard’s brow.
“May the Lord pardon thee.”
With Villard’s shivering head laying in his lap, Paré looked down and could only see the head of the soldier, throat sliced open, dead eyes lolling back at him.
He stood up, lowered the head to the floor and backed away. The cell door, having served its purpose, lay open, and Paré once again fled through it, pushing past Vargas, his own screams echoing after him.
Minutes later, with his death, Villard was free.
Thom Hawkins is a writer and artist based in Maryland. His stories, plays, and experimental fiction have appeared or are scheduled to appear in Always Crashing (Pushcart Prize nominee), Bloomin' Onion, Encephalon Journal, Excuse Me Magazine, Gargoyle Online, New Myths, Oyez Review, The Scop, Shoegaze Literary, Slippery Elm, Variant Lit, and Verdant Literary Journal.
