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She and I stood by one of the long drawing room windows, watching as a familiar figure entered the courtyard, crossing the drawbridge with an air of confidence. This wanderer, a regular visitor to the schloss twice a year, was none other than a hunchback with sharp, lean features typical of deformity. His pointed black beard contrasted with his wide grin, showcasing his white fangs. Dressed in a mishmash of buff, black, and scarlet, adorned with countless straps and belts, he carried a magic lantern and two intriguing boxes—one housing a salamander and the other a mandrake, creatures that never failed to amuse my father. These monsters, crafted from bits of various animals, dried and stitched together with precision, always brought laughter to our halls.
Accompanying him was a rough, spare dog that hesitated at the drawbridge, eventually howling dismally. Meanwhile, the mountebank, standing confidently in the courtyard, tipped his grotesque hat and greeted us in a mix of execrable French and slightly better German. He then proceeded to entertain us with lively music on his fiddle, singing with a merry discord and dancing in a comical manner that even made the howling dog pause.
Approaching the window with a flourish, hat in hand, fiddle under his arm, he launched into a rapid-fire advertisement of his skills, offering amulets against the oupire—creatures rumored to roam our woods like wolves. His charms, oblong slips of vellum adorned with cryptic symbols, promised protection and laughter in the face of danger. Victoria and I couldn’t resist; we promptly purchased one each.
As he looked up at us, his sharp black eyes seemed to catch something, sparking a moment of curiosity. In a flash, he unfurled a leather case filled with an array of peculiar steel instruments, ready to showcase his talents and entertainments.
“Look here, my lady,” he exclaimed, displaying his wares and turning to address me directly, “among my many talents, I’m a skilled dentist. Curse that dog!” he added, irritated. “Quiet, beast! Your howling is drowning out my words. Your friend here,” he gestured towards Victoria, “has a particularly sharp tooth—long, thin, pointed like an awl or needle! Ha, ha! With my keen eyesight, I’ve seen it clearly. If it’s causing her any discomfort—and I suspect it must—I have the tools to fix it. I can round it off and make it smooth, turning it from a fish’s tooth into a beautiful young lady’s. What do you say? Is she offended? Have I overstepped?”
Victoria’s expression turned to anger as she recoiled from the window. “How dare that charlatan insult us like this? Where is your father? I’ll demand satisfaction from him. My father would have had this rogue tied up and flogged, then branded like cattle!”
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Stepping back from the window, she sat down, her initial fury quickly dissipating. Soon, she returned to her usual demeanor, seemingly forgetting about the hunchback and his antics.
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My father seemed unusually somber that evening. When he returned, he shared news of another case similar to the recent fatal ones. A young peasant’s sister on our estate, just a mile away, was gravely ill. She described her condition as an attack nearly identical to the others and was now steadily declining.
“This is all due to natural causes,” my father remarked. “These people feed each other’s superstitions, creating images of terror in their minds.”
“But that’s what’s so terrifying,” Victoria interjected. “The fear of imagining such things; it’s almost as bad as the real thing.”
“We’re in God’s hands,” my father reassured. “Nothing happens without His permission, and for those who love Him, all will be well. He’s our faithful creator; He made us and will take care of us.”
“Creator? Nature?” Victoria mused. “And this disease spreading through the country is natural. Everything stems from Nature, doesn’t it? All things in heaven, earth, and under the earth act as Nature dictates. That’s what I believe.”
After a moment of silence, my father mentioned the doctor’s impending visit. “I want to hear his opinion and what he thinks we should do.”
“Doctors have never helped me,” Victoria remarked.
“Have you been ill?” I inquired.
“Worse than you can imagine,” she replied. “But let’s not dwell on it. You wouldn’t want to upset a friend.”
With a loving gesture, she took my arm and guided me out of the room. My father was engrossed in paperwork by the window.
“Why does your father talk of such frightening things?” Victoria asked, with a sigh and a shudder.
“He doesn’t mean to frighten us, Victoria; it’s the furthest thing from his mind.”
“Are you afraid?” she pressed.
“I would be if I thought there was a real danger of falling ill like those poor people did.”
“Are you afraid to die?” Victoria’s question hung in the air.
“Yes, like everyone else.”
“But to die as lovers might—to die together, so they can live together. Girls are like caterpillars in the world, waiting to become butterflies in summer. But in the meantime, we’re grubs and larvae with our own needs and structures. That’s what Monsieur Buffon says, in the big book in the next room.”
Later that day, the doctor arrived and had a lengthy discussion with my father. He was a skilled man, aged sixty or more, with powdered hair and a cleanly shaved face. After their meeting, they emerged from the room together, and I overheard my father laughing and teasing the doctor.
“Well, I must say, for a wise man like you, what’s your take on hippogriffs and dragons?” my father quipped.
The doctor, smiling, replied while shaking his head, “Life and death remain mysterious realms, and we have much to learn about their workings.”
With that, they continued their conversation, and I didn’t catch any more of their exchange at that moment. At the time, I didn’t fully understand what they were discussing, but looking back, I think I have a better idea now.