“The pest-houses are closed, and we still have cattle and horses.”
“But the pestilence creeps through the joints, and since the last loaf of bread and the last malt-cake have been divided, and there is nothing for the people to eat except meat, meat, and nothing else—one tiny piece for the whole day—disease is piled on disease in forms utterly unprecedented, of which no book speaks, for which no remedy has yet been discovered. This drawing water with a bottomless pitcher is beginning to be too much for me. My brain is no stronger than yours. Farewell until to-morrow.”
“To-day, to-day! You are coming to the meeting at the town-hall?”
“Certainly not! Do what you can justify; I shall practise my profession, which now means the same thing as saying: ‘I shall continue to close eyes and hold coroner’s inquests.’ If things go on so, there will soon be an end to practice.”
“Once for all: if you were in my place, you would treat with Valdez?”
“In your place? I am not you; I am a physician, one who has nothing to do except to take the field against suffering and death. You, since Bronkhorst’s death, are the providence of the city. Supply a bit of bread, if only as large as my hand, in addition to the meat, or—I love my native land and liberty as well as any one—or—”
“Or?”
“Or—leave Death to reap his harvest, you are no physician.”
Bontius bade his friend farewell and left him, but Peter thrust his hand through his hair and stood gazing out of the window, until Barbara entered, laid his official costume on a chair and asked with feigned carelessness:
“May I give Adrian some of the last biscuit? Meat is repulsive to him. He’s lying on the bed, writhing in pain.”