Balsamo took a phial from his pocket, let a few drops fall on a wad of lint, and asked the chief surgeon to apply this to the cut. He obeyed with marked curiosity.
He was one of the most celebrated operators of the period, truly in love with his science, repudiating none of its mysteries, and taking hazard as the outlet to doubt. He clapped the plug to the wound, and the arteries seared up, hissing, and the blood came through only drop by drop. He could then tie the grand artery with the utmost facility.
Here Balsamo obtained a true triumph, and everybody wanted to know where he had studied and of what school he was.
“I am a physician of the University of Gottingen,” he replied, “and I made the discovery which you have witnessed. But, gentlemen and brothers of the lancet and ligature, I should like it kept secret, as I have great fear of being burnt at the stake, and the Parliament of Paris might once again like the spectacle of a wizard being so treated.”
The head surgeon was brooding; Marat was dreaming and reflecting. But he was the first to speak.
“You asserted,” he said, “that if this man were interrogated about the result of his operation he would certainly tell it though it is in the womb of the future?”
“I said so: what is the man’s name?”
Balsamo turned to the patient, who was still humming the lay.
“Well, friend, what do you augur about our poor Havard’s fate?” he asked.