Chapter 1. An Incurable Malady.

March 1, 1815

The incessantly rippling waves of the Gulf of Juan bay were clad today in a heavenly azure, in their charm at that moment, they truly resembled the extraordinarily mysterious and no less divine blue veil of the Virgin Mary. It seemed as if some all-powerful and omnipotent will had deliberately fastened a certain, now exceptionally pristine, part of the heavens to this patch of earthly surface, as if purposely wishing to draw the substantial attention of truly sensitive, and therefore truly living, souls to this space. The appearance of the Gulf of Juan bay at these moments indeed possessed a special picturesqueness, the crown of which was the fishing vessels and small fishing boats scattered on the aforementioned azure—like bright-faced stars on the silent canvas of a permanently pristine universe.

In one of these highly original and somewhat monotonous in their diversity places of trade, or, if you will, temples of the cult of the profession of the Apostle Peter, which, often observing the successes of others, partly change their route, like numbering on houses, and follow one after another, two seemingly unremarkable inhabitants of those parts were situated, deeply absorbed in the consumption of truly interesting thoughts: thirty-three-year-old Yves Blanchard and forty-two-year-old Bertrand Boulet.

"It got away! Oh, the stubborn thing! ‘…It's hard for a boar to escape a hunter's net; a fish, wounded by a hook, will not evade the fisherman; just so you, having started, must conquer…’ I say with Ovid and put a new bait on the old hook…"

"Well, you don't often see a red snapper get away from you, my dear Bertrand, a master fisherman… you're much more likely to see February 29th than to see such a blunder on your part!"

"This foolish story I started telling you is to blame for everything!"

"Well, if the past can't be brought back, at least continue your story…"

"So be it, good Yves. So, I stopped at the point where Charles Morancy's life, if such an existence can even be called life, was at a certain point shrouded in rather dark shades: his no longer young body was subjected to the effects of that very disease that the adherents of the cult of Culpeper and Taddeo Alderotti call leprosy, or, as people say, a disease that affects the skin and, as is known, is transmitted by contact. It was for this reason that in a single hour, the extraordinarily cheerful and friendly Charles Morancy was left with no one who could offer him either physical or spiritual assistance. With the appearance of the first sores on his body, his circle lost its first friends; after a while, with the acquisition of more and more sores, he completely lost those who had previously called themselves his close people.

"Remaining in total solitude and deprived of all the most valuable things—health and friends—Charles Morancy even desired death; he frantically craved to personally rid himself of the convulsions of human existence, but this was no longer in his power, for to take one's own life, one must make a certain effort: either in action or in inaction. He was no longer needed by anyone—neither by life nor by death. As a kind of Ahasuerus, he did not even realize what events were taking place in France at that time: the revolution was burning cities, and freedom was burning hearts. Sometimes a cage saves an animal's life—but... but how the light from the window of the surrounding world beckons when you are on a hospital bed, how you want to see the real faces of people, not their portraits, how you want to see the true landscapes of nature, but not the picturesqueness chained in the white gloom of a lifeless canvas...

"So, Charles Morancy, being mortally ill, was left alone with death, or, if you will, which is even more burdensome, alone with life. Occasionally, like a beast that had accidentally wandered into the forest, a person would appear in his chambers; at those moments, he saw food... food by no means for his body, but for his mind and his soul. Having a sufficient amount of time for analysis, he deeply grasped the nature of man from those very trifles that are unconscious for him: every movement, every gesture, every look, and every smirk did not go unnoticed by him. He often determined which companies the very servant who delivered food to his mortal flesh had been in—he determined this by one perfume scent or another. Day after day, minute after minute, Charles Morancy waited in this way for the demise predetermined by fate itself, yet death never came to him... unlike Jean-Marc Dussault, a young French healer of the body and, what is important, the soul.

"Jean-Marc Dussault appeared in Charles Morancy's life just as unexpectedly as the disease had appeared in his life. With the same kind of arrogance, this young man began to scar Charles Morancy's wounds, with which the previously mentioned disease had previously inflicted them. But what attracted the young, extraordinarily reasonable man to this frail patient? Perhaps virtue? Perhaps human compassion? No, only science! In the name of science, he touched the sick man's hand, and in the name of science, he listened to his languid and profound speeches. Charles Morancy was needed by Jean-Marc Dussault, and Jean-Marc Dussault was needed by Charles Morancy."

"And what happened next? Did Jean-Marc Dussault manage to heal the sufferer?"

"Subsequently… they both died, as did everyone in Jean-Marc's circle: Charles Morancy was afflicted with an incurable malady…"

"What can I say, a worthy reward for human virtue!"