The doctor filled the glass bowl, which measured as one pint of blood, very pleased with himself for a successful first bloodletting session. He removed the tourniquet and applied heavy pressure to the incision to ebb the flow of blood; he held it in place for several minutes to ensure the bleeding had stopped. He carefully sutured the incision, then placed a small bandage over the wound.
He decided to wait an hour before starting the next session. The second, and most important, session would have him advancing to the neck and finally curing Athos of his stubborn bronchitis. The doctor put away his supplies and rolled down the sleeve of the nightshirt, leaving no visible trace of the procedure done while the Musketeers slept. He took one last look around the bed then carried the bowl of blood from the room, concealed under a towel, to dispose of outside. Once his bloodletting kit was cleaned, he went back upstairs to check on d'Artagnan and Porthos.
The doctor entered Porthos' dimly lit room to find the large Musketeer leaning against the pillows gritting his teeth against every painful rise of his chest. His right hand tightly fisted a handful of blanket; his left hand clutched over the bandaged chest wound where his fingers dug into the cloth.
The large man's face wore a grimace of pain; sweat dampened his dark curls and plastered them to his skin. The doctor placed his lantern on the bedside table which illuminated the growing crimson stain on the bandages under Porthos' digging fingers.
"My God, man, what have you done to yourself?" the doctor exclaimed with shock. "I'm going to have to fix this wound and bandage it again. I think I'm going to make you some valerian tea to help ease your pain and let you sleep. Does that sound good to you?"
"Yes d-doctor ," Porthos nodded in rapid succession. "Wh-where's 'Mis? Bl-bloody hell, it hurss."
"Yes, but Aramis is sleeping, so let me take a look at this and see why it's causing you so much pain." The doctor unwrapped the bandages then groaned as he saw the bleeding wound. "Well, it looks like you have torn out the temporary stitches, young man. Why don't I give you that tea now," he said, gently patting Porthos on the arm.
Waking the nurse, who had fallen asleep in a large chair next to the bed, the doctor requested she fetch hot water, enough to make tea for both Porthos and d'Artagnan- and two cups as well.
The nurse nodded her acknowledgement then left the room.
The doctor took his medical bag to a table deeper inside the room then turned his back to the bed; he looked around before pulling out his bottle of laudanum and set it beside the dried valerian root. Having second thoughts, the doctor decided to keep the laudanum hidden and replaced it back into the bag.
When the nurse returned, he had her put the kettle of hot water and cups on the table where he would prepare the tea. "Oh, nurse? Could you also fetch a bottle of brandy and some clean towels and bandages for me please?"
While the nurse was away, the doctor took out the bottle of laudanum and poured a small amount into the cup with the crushed herb before adding the hot water. He returned the bottle to his bag, making sure it was well concealed. "Now, we'll allow the tea to steep for a few minutes while I begin cleaning your wound."
The doctor cleaned the wound with the brandy, wiping away the blood and sweat from the skin surrounding the wound. Taking the bottle, the doctor poured a small amount of brandy over the incision then dabbed it dry with a towel. He stole a long swig of the brandy before replacing the bottle on the table.
Porthos raised an eyebrow in surprise at the actions of the doctor. Does he always drink while doin' surgery? The Musketeer wondered nervously, suddenly leery of the doctor.
"The tea should be ready now," the doctor turned to fetch the cup. "Drink, it will help you sleep without the pain keeping you awake. Go on, drink it up," he prompted.
"Does valerian tea really work 'at well, doctor?" Porthos asked with concern. "I 'av a lot of pain tonight. Aramis has given me valerian tea before—and it helped some—but usually not 'at much."
"Ah, but have you been given the herb or the root of the plant?" the doctor asked. "The root is far more effective as a natural tranquilizer; it works quite well at easing pain and discomfort."
"Oh, well, I don't know 'bout that." Porthos took a sip of the tea and smiled. He drank the remainder of the tea as the doctor prepared the needle and thread to restitch his chest wound.
"Doctor, how are my friends doing?" Porthos inquired as he nestled himself back against the pillows. "How is d'Artagnan doing? And Aramis and Athos?" The large Musketeer closed his eyes as he began to grow sleepy.
"Well, your friends are doing just fine, considering," the doctor replied. "I am going to see young d'Artagnan next; I will then go back to tending Athos. Your friend Aramis was sleeping last I saw him."
"Thasss gooo, docc," Porthos slurred. "I feeel str'ngge. . ." the large man's head lolled on the pillow as he fell into a deep, drug-induced sleep.
While Porthos slept, the doctor quickly stitched the wound on the Musketeer's chest; he finished his ministrations by cleaning the wound then wrapping it with fresh bandages. "Nurse, please keep a close eye on Porthos for any signs of change—good or bad. However, I do expect he will be sleeping very well for a while."
"Yes, doctor," the nurse replied.
"I am going across the hall to visit d'Artagnan if you need me." The doctor fetched his medical bag then went across the hall with the bottle of brandy in hand.
~§~
The doctor placed his medical bag on the table furthest from the nurse before turning his attention to the patient writhing on the bed. "What is wrong with our young patient, nurse?" the healer inquired.
"He's been complaining of his shoulder giving him severe pain," the nurse frowned. "He also says that the cuts on his back are putting him in agony; I think he's been lying on his back too much."
"Really, nurse? So you give prognosis as well, do you?" the doctor sneered. "I have some valerian tea that will help ease his discomfort and help him sleep," he replied with a lighter tone. "We can also gather up extra pillows as support for behind his back; he can lay on his side so he's not putting pressure on those wounds."
"Doctor Bonét, he's been complaining of feeling sick too," the nurse reported.
"I don't feel very well. . . I feel sick," the young Gascon complained
"I understand, son," Doctor Bonét smiled. "Let's make you some tea to help you sleep, shall we?"
"I don't think it will stay down, doctor." D'Artagnan shook his head weakly.
"Nonsense, it will soothe your upset stomach and help you sleep," the doctor countered. "Nurse, would you please go fetch the hot water and cups I left in the room across the hall, please?"
While the nurse was away the doctor prepared the valerian root and readied the bottle of laudanum. As the requested items were brought to the table, the doctor once again asked the nurse to go gather up more pillows for d'Artagnan's bed- leaving him alone to make his secret potion.
Taking the laudanum, the doctor poured a measured amount into the cup then added it to the valerian root and hot water. Returning to d'Artagnan's side, the healer placed the cup of medicinal tea on the nightstand before beginning his examination of the shoulder.
Removing the bandages and the dried poultice, Doctor Bonét examined the wound then blew out an apprehensive breath. The gunshot wound was warm to the touch, with the heated skin burning red with lighter streaks of red fingering outward.
"Looks like your shoulder is indeed infected," he shook his head. "I'm going to mix up some more of that herbal poultice and rewrap the wound; we will keep you lying on your side to take the weight off your back lacerations. But first, you need to drink your tea; it will help you feel better."
D'Artagnan sat up with the doctor's help and sipped the tea as the older man mixed the poultice.
The Gascon finished the tea then leaned back against the pillows; he closed his eyes while waiting for the doctor to begin treatment. The doctor took the bottle of brandy and stole a long sip for himself before pouring the liquid over the infected wound. He wiped away the dripping alcohol with a towel, no longer caring if he was gentle.
The Gascon winced in pain as the doctor poured the liquid fire over his throbbing wound. His slender body writhed and twisted as he tried to retreat from the doctor's hurtful touch to his sensitive wounds.
"Now, hold still," the doctor scolded. "I need to clean this wound and apply the poultice and I can't do it if you are squirming all over the place. Nurse, could you help hold him down!" the doctor growled with impatience.
D'Artagnan groaned at the pain pulsing in his shoulder, his labored breaths were coming in short gasps. "God, when will this tor-torment be over? I can't take it anymore; I've had en-enough! Please st-stop!"
"I'm sorry, son," the healer apologized. "I promise, I will make this quick and then you can get some rest." The doctor quickly spread the poultice over the infected shoulder, being careful to get the herb mixture into the wound itself; he followed the procedure by wrapping the wound with clean bandages.
The young Gascon's eyes began to droop heavily as sleep pulled at him. "T'rrdd. . ." D'Artagnan closed his eyes as his features relaxed and his chest slowed with sedated, restful breaths.
The doctor and nurse rearranged the pillows to prop the sleeping Musketeer on his left side. "Nurse, please keep an eye on him; if you need anything, I will be in Athos' room," Bonét instructed. "D'Artagnan should sleep quite well for a few hours, I believe."
Entering Athos' room, the doctor found Aramis still asleep in the chair as he had left him a few hours ago. Maria and another nurse were quietly talking by the light of a lantern on the nightstand, each with a book laid open on their lap.
"Nurses, if you please, my patient is very ill and requires a cooling sponge bath which I will administer now. If you wouldn't mind, could you give us some privacy and go sit with one of the other patients for a while?"
"Of course, doctor." Maria and the nurse exchange embarrassed glances. "Please, send for us when you are finished."
"I will, nurses," he smiled. Doctor Bonét waited until the nurses were down the hall before pulling out the tools from his medical bag and spreading them on the bed. He sat on the edge of the bed to examine the drugged Musketeer; he checked his pulse, breathing, and level of consciousness by prying Athos' eyes open.
Getting no conscious response, the doctor took the tourniquet then tied it around the Musketeer's neck but without restricting his breathing. The jugular vein soon bulged, allowing the doctor to take his lancet to cut a thin diagonal cut across the vein.
The doctor was surprised at how quickly the blood spurted from the vein. Caught unprepared, the healer didn't have his bowls ready to catch the flow. Streams of blood poured freely onto the bedcovers, also spurting over the front of Athos' nightshirt.
At last, the doctor retrieved the bowl and placed it under the patient's neck; he watched with amazed horror at how rapidly the blood filled the glass container. Aramis stirred in his chair, causing the doctor to jump at the sound. Bonét unwittingly moved the bowl as he turned to glance at the Musketeer, spilling blood over the side.
Blood spurted from Athos' neck and across the bedding as the doctor desperately tried to regain control of the bloodletting process. Having second thoughts regarding his ability to do such a dangerous procedure, the healer tried to staunch the flow of blood but it was too strong.
With shaking hands he removed the tourniquet, spilling more of the blood as it sloshed outside the bowl to the floor. The flow of blood finally began to slow after the tourniquet was removed, much to the utter relief of the frightened doctor.
He glanced back at Aramis, who changed positions in the chair but did not awaken. If the medic wakes to find this ghastly scene involving his friend, I will have no possible explanation that he would accept- my hope for reward will be over.
Grabbing the second measuring bowl, the doctor put the first filled bowl on the nightstand. He was concerned about the patient bleeding out too quickly, but he could do nothing more to decelerate the flow without stopping the bloodletting altogether.
The second measuring bowl was filling up quickly so he readied the third bowl by placing it within arm's reach. As the second bowl filled, he promptly placed the empty third bowl under the blood stream—without spilling a drop. I think I'm finally getting good at this now; the Musketeer should indeed begin healing by morning.
Feeling more at ease with the progress of the procedure, the doctor carefully monitored the blood rising ever higher in the third measuring bowl, nearing the top. Taking four pints in this second session might be pushing the limit, but as the doctor reached for the fourth bowl, Aramis stirred again. "Don't wake up, dammit, I'm not done yet!" Bonét cursed as he held the fourth bowl under the neck.
Aramis awoke and blinked tiredly at the shadows dancing before him in the dim light of the lantern. The medic couldn't focus on the blurry forms but upon waking, he thought he heard panicked cursing. Pain stabbed at his chest, bringing sudden awareness with every stinging breath.
The medic remembered they were at Château de Blois after finally saving his brothers from the jaws of hell. "Oh God, Athos!"
Aramis sat up and stared, frozen with shock and confusion at the bloody sight before him. Finally, as his consciousness was revived, Aramis pushed himself up from the chair-then stood frozen in shock. The medic forgot all about his previous chest pain and ran to the bed where the doctor was holding a half-filled bowl of blood underneath Athos' neck.
"What the hell are you doing?" Aramis screamed at seeing three filled bowls of blood on the table and a fourth in the doctor's hand, still catching blood as it flowed from his friend's neck. The medic's horror-filled eyes scanned the blood spilled all over the bed and across Athos' clothes. "Dear God, what have you done?"
"I am bloodletting," Doctor Bonét answered casually. "Surely, as a medic, you are familiar with the ancient procedure," he replied dryly without a care.
"You've taken too much! Oh God, this is too much blood!" Aramis yelled. "Stop this immediately; stop the bleeding now!" The medic reached for Athos' neck to pinch off the bleeding, but the doctor pushed Aramis out of the way. In the struggle, the bowl in Bonét's hand tipped; blood spilled out over the medic and onto the floor with a splash.
"Mother Mary. . ." Aramis paled and stumbled back, falling against the doorframe. He grabbed a hold of the frame and used it to propel himself into the hallway as he called for help. "Captain!" he screamed. "Steward Fontaine—anybody—dammit, I need help! Captain, where are you? God, where is everyone? Captain!" Aramis yelled in desperation.
Nurses came running into the hallway with their lanterns, casting eerie shadows in the darkness. The yelling in the hall caused confusion and alarm among the nurses in the opposite wing. Fearing for their patients, they ran back into their rooms to guard their patients, locking the doors behind them.
Captain Tréville rushed from his room with his dimming lantern in hand. The captain froze in his tracks in a state of shock upon entering the hallway.
Aramis- the Musketeer Captain Tréville always counted as calm and professional- now stood in the dark hallway screaming uncharacteristically for help. His clothes were covered in blood.
"Mother of God. . . Aramis!" the captain blurted in horror. "What the hell happened?"
"Captain, it's Athos," he cried. "The doctor. . . the doctor, he's drained too much blood!" Aramis swayed on his feet and had to lean against the wall for support.
Captain Tréville ran into the room as Steward Fontaine came bounding up the stairs at hearing the commotion on the second floor. "What the hell is going on up here?"
The smell of blood was nearly stifling upon entering the sickroom, turning the stomachs of the men running to Athos' aid. The captain threw the doctor aside, sending the bowl of blood scattering across the floor. He immediately put his fingers over the cut on the vein and applied pressure to stop the bleeding.
The captain's fingers slid away from the cut due to the slippery, bloodied skin and caused a spurt of blood to spray over him. "I can't keep my fingers on the wound," he yelled to Aramis. "His skin is too slippery!"
"Dry his neck." Aramis handed the captain a towel as he sat down on the bed. "Wrap two fingers in the towel then apply hard pressure to the cut and hold it in place."
The captain obeyed his medic and wiped away the slick layer of blood from the neck. He then wrapped his fingers in the towel and pressed down hard on top of the cut, stopping the flow of crimson at last.
Steward Fontaine took the doctor by the shoulders and shook him, enraged at the actions of this supposed healer. "What have you done in here, man? Take your belongings and leave the château immediately—you are fired! I will inform Duke Gaston of what you have done tonight; you will never work for the duke again!"
Aramis stood on his feet, swaying as he was suddenly overcome with dizziness caused by the shock and panic. Overwhelming waves of pain were now crashing through his ribs; he felt as though his head was spinning. "There's so much blood," the medic cried. "There's so much blood. . . Athos, please don't d. . ."
Aramis' thoughts were cut off as he swooned unsteadily on his feet then fell bonelessly to the floor. If not for Steward Fontaine catching him in his arms, the medic would have landed on the hard floor smeared with pools of Athos' blood.
A/N:
The ancient medical practice of "bloodletting" goes back thousands of years, originating in ancient Egypt, and then spreading to the Greeks and Romans. Doctors commonly bled patients for every ailment imaginable. Bloodletting was performed for pneumonia, fevers, coughs, back pain, headaches, smallpox, and even menstrual cramps; and even for treating bone fractures and other wounds.
Most bloodletters would open a vein in the arm, leg or neck with a small scalpel, called a lancet. They would tie off the vein with a tourniquet and then take the lancet to cut a diagonal or lengthwise cut into the vein. The blood would be collected in measuring bowls, made of fine Venetian glass. Sometimes they would take as much as 5-7 pints over repeated sessions in less than 24 hours.