Alexandre Dumas.
The father of genre literature and a biracial man who, despite facing discrimination, managed to overcome it to some extent—truly a self-made figure in 19th-century Paris.
Yet, ironically, the author himself spent his life fearing his works would fade into obscurity.
Was it because he shared the era with an unparalleled giant like Victor Hugo?
Who knows…
'Is it just my impression? Why does he seem so… timid?'
There was no reason for him to be.
No, wait—this man wasn't even someone who'd face overt discrimination for being biracial anymore.
After all, he'd picked the right side during the July Revolution and hit the jackpot.
"I'll escort you."
"Ah, yes."
Just look at this.
A coachman bowing and scraping to a man barely in his twenties.
It's all about connections.
Especially connections to power…!
'When I get back, I should host a grand anatomy show…'
What a stroke of luck that our future Queen Victoria happens to be an anatomy enthusiast.
It wasn't just for my own benefit—it was for others too.
Who's to say there won't be another lunatic like Coray in London?
Though, if I pulled that kind of stunt there, Sword Master Sir Reston would probably cut me down in a single stroke…
Anyway, those who don't respond to words or threats must be subdued with power.
"Dr. Piyong."
Just as I was lost in these less-than-elegant thoughts, Dumas called out to me.
His curly hair and round face were oddly endearing.
Now that I thought about it, he was actually older than me…
"Ah, yes."
"It was a sudden request, but I'm truly grateful you agreed without hesitation."
With that, Dumas suddenly bowed his head.
Now that he mentioned it, he was right.
We were in a carriage, yet I had no idea where we were headed.
The old me would never have done something like this.
'I've really become a 19th-century man…'
Ha! Getting into a random carriage? That's just how real men roll in the 1800s!
Setting aside such vulgar humor, I maintained proper decorum.
It didn't matter how I appeared to Reston or others, but for some reason, I wanted to leave a different impression on people like Dumas.
"Don't mention it. Are we not close?"
"Haha. I appreciate you saying that. Well… There's someone I'm quite close to, and they're very ill."
"Ill? Where…?"
"That's the thing. Well, since you're a doctor… I assume you'd know if they said it hurts here."
Dumas hesitated slightly before suddenly pointing to his own chest.
It was a little odd.
"Is it a woman?"
"Yes. Sophie Germain… Do you know her?"
"No."
Even with all my 21st-century knowledge, the name didn't ring a bell.
But judging by his tone, she must have been someone notable—someone I should know.
"She's received awards from the Academy of Sciences. A brilliant mathematician."
"Ah…"
Oh…
A female mathematician in the 19th century?
No wonder France was the land of égalité.
If this were England, they'd have torn her books apart, scoffing, "Since when do women do math?"
"Ah, we're here."
For someone supposedly famous, her house wasn't particularly impressive.
Not exactly shabby, but…
Far from luxurious.
Then again, pure sciences like mathematics were never lucrative fields.
If even the 21st century was like that, the 19th wouldn't be any different.
"Yes."
At least the surroundings weren't filthy.
Not that there was no filth—even the British royal palace had its share of excrement.
But there were no visibly dangerous figures around, meaning this wasn't a slum.
Knock knock.
While I was busy assessing the hygiene of the area, Dumas rapped on the door.
Perhaps arrangements had been made in advance, as someone soon rushed out to open it.
"Is she inside?"
"Yes. She's been expecting you."
"Good."
After confirming, Dumas gestured to me.
"I've brought the doctor I mentioned. You know, the one who recently made significant contributions at the Surgical Academy."
"Ah… Yes, yes! Please, take good care of her!"
A neatly dressed maid, though in worn clothes, bowed politely.
Her mistress—Sophie Germain—must have treated her well.
Maybe it was my bias, but I've always liked people who treated their subordinates kindly.
How someone treats those weaker than them reveals their true character.
Thanks to that, I entered with a favorable impression—only to immediately fight the urge to grimace at the stench that hit me.
'This…'
It wasn't the usual foul smell of a 19th-century home.
This was different.
It was the stench of infection.
"Welcome… I apologize for not rising."
Naturally, the smell grew stronger as I approached the patient—no, the hostess, Sophie Germain.
At the end of it lay the sick woman.
She sat on the bed, her face pale as death.
"Not at all! Goodness, no need to apologize."
Dumas waved his hands, suggesting a close bond.
Then he turned to me and whispered:
'I'm sorry. The truth is, other doctors have given up on her… But our circumstances are somewhat similar, aren't they? I believe you, Dr. Piyong, would understand.'
I wasn't sure what he meant at first.
But after recalling our skin colors and Sophie Germain's gender, it made sense.
We all shared traits that could exclude us from mainstream academia—no, mainstream society itself.
While I approached the patient, Dumas quietly filled me in: Sophie Germain had once published under the male pseudonym Auguste Antoine Le Blanc.
I didn't recognize the name, but apparently, it was unmistakably masculine.
"Hello. I'm Dr. Pyeong."
"Ah… Yes. Dr. Piyong…"
Her voice was frail, on the verge of death.
Dry and raspy—likely dehydrated.
From the smell alone, I'd assumed an acute infection, but up close, that didn't seem to be the case.
The patient was emaciated.
'Cachexia…'
Common in cancer, though other chronic illnesses could also cause it.
In short, she was severely wasted.
Despite being under sixty, she looked seventy.
Granted, lifespans were shorter back then, but that was due to frequent outbreaks like cholera.
If she'd survived this long, she could live longer.
"I'll place my equipment here for now."
"Yes…"
In the 21st century, I'd have done things differently… but I wasn't sure if it'd work here.
The 19th century was just too difficult.
Still, I'd try whatever I could.
The smell and her condition alone told me this wouldn't be easy.
Clink.
With slightly diminished confidence, I laid out my tools—first spreading a cloth boiled in water and sun-dried.
It wasn't sterile by modern standards, but better than nothing.
"May I examine you?"
Since I already knew where the pain was, I asked cautiously after unpacking.
She nodded, seemingly prepared.
Glancing back, I noticed Dumas had already stepped outside.
From what I recalled, Dumas…
In his later years, he was known for womanizing and extravagance, but perhaps he was still polite in his youth.
Or maybe he respected Sophie Germain that much.
'Ah.'
With bony fingers, she lifted her clothing, revealing the affected area.
As a surgeon, I immediately recognized the disease.
'Breast cancer…'
Cancer.
Breast cancer, specifically.
Located on the right breast.
Visibly large.
'To leave it untreated this long… No, wait.'
In modern times, neglect would be the right word.
But in this era, cancer was death.
Surprisingly, they weren't entirely unaware of cancer.
They knew it as a disease where something grew uncontrollably inside the body, causing excruciating pain before killing the sufferer—utterly incurable.
If it were on a limb, Reston could amputate it…
But unfortunately, cancer usually struck organs, cementing its status as a death sentence in the 19th century.
"I'll examine you more closely."
"Yes…"
I gloved up and inspected the affected area.
I couldn't check for lymph node metastasis, but I could assess the local lesion.
Fortunately, it wasn't massive or adhered to the skin or chest wall.
About 3 cm? No, closer to 4 cm.
Stage II localized.
'Then where's the smell coming from?'
Not from the cancer itself.
And cancer alone wouldn't cause this level of wasting.
Though it was certainly a factor…
'Her back… She's too weak to move, so bedsores must have formed.'
Bedsores.
Caused by prolonged pressure—common in the elderly.
In Korea, they're called deungchang, famously afflicting kings who suffered from back abscesses before dying.
Without knowing the cause, treatment was virtually impossible.
The underlying condition had to be addressed, or at the very least, the patient's position had to be changed every few hours…
But here, the abscesses needed immediate attention.
'The cancer is one thing, but what's killing her now… is the sores.'
Could she be saved?
Uncertain.
But at the very least, I could ease her suffering.
"Ma'am, does your back hurt?"
"Ah… It hurts more, actually. I was… about to show you…"
"Let's check that first."
I carefully turned her over.
Not difficult—she was so thin.
"Hmm."
The sore on her back was sizable.
Partially ruptured, oozing pus, though the maid had dutifully placed a clean cloth over it.
Not that it helped much—the fabric had dried and stuck to the wound.
Peeling it off would be agonizing.
Fortunately, we had anesthesia.
"Surgery is necessary… but I can't do it alone. And…"
The unfortunate part was that she'd have to lie prone.
I could position her sideways, but her bony pelvis would just develop more sores.
"Dumas, do you know any carpenters?"
"Huh? Do you need to cut her back open?"
"No…"
I needed tools.