Imprimatur

Day the Fifth

15th September, 1683

After leaving Stilone Priaso, I returned exhausted to my chamber. I do not know where I found the strength to complete my diary, but I did succeed in so doing. Then, I read swiftly through the pages which I had already written. Dejectedly, I went over the results of the tentative investigations which I had conducted concerning the guests at the Donzello: and what had I discovered? Practically nothing. Every apparent breakthrough had proved to be a false dawn. I had learned of facts and circumstances which had little to do with the sad end of Signor di Mourai, and which had thrown my ideas into even greater confusion.

But what, I wondered, did I know about Mourai? At my table, I lay my head on one arm, asking myself that question. Enveloped in the blanket of sleep, my thoughts receded into the distance, but did not disappear entirely.

Mourai was French, old and ill, and his eyesight had become very weak. He was between sixty and seventy years of age. He was accompanied by the young French musician Devize and by Pompeo Dulcibeni. He seemed to be of elevated rank and more than merely prosperous, which contrasted with the very poor state of his health: it was as though he had in the past undergone long-drawn-out sufferings.

But then, why would a gentleman of his rank lodge at the Donzello?

I knew from Pellegrino that the Ponte quarter, where our hostelry was situated, had long since ceased to house the great inns, which were now to be found in the environs of the Piazza di Spagna. To sojourn at the Donzello was perhaps more fitting for a person of limited means; or perhaps for someone desiring to avoid the company of neighbours of high rank; but why?

Mourai, moreover, never left the inn, save at nightfall; and even then, only for the shortest of walks in the immediate environs; certainly not beyond the Piazza Navona or Piazza Fiammetta.

Piazza Navona, Piazza Fiammetta: suddenly, my temples began to throb painfully, and, rising with great difficulty from the chair, I let myself collapse onto my couch like a marionette.

I awoke in the same position the next morning, in broad daylight. Someone had knocked at the door. It was Cristofano, angry that I had still not fulfilled any of my duties.

I sat up in the bed with extreme indolence, having had only a few hours of sleep. In my breeches, I espied the gazette of horoscopes which the tomb robbers had purloined from Stilone Priaso. I was still affected by the extraordinary events of the previous night: the peregrination through the underground passages full of uncertainties and surprises, the stalking of Stilone and, lastly, the terrible affairs of Abbot Morandi and Campanella, which the Neapolitan had narrated to me in the last hours before dawn. That abundant harvest of sensory and spiritual impressions was still very much alive in me, despite the fatigue that assailed me, when I lazily opened the little book. Perhaps also because of a powerful headache, I did not resist the temptation to lie down once again; at least for a few minutes, thought I. And I began to peruse the book.

The first words that met my eyes were a lengthy and learned dedication to Ambassador Buonvisi, and then another no less polished prologue addressed to the reader.

There followed a table entitled "Calculation of the Introitus of the Sun", which I did not read. Finally, I found a "General Discourse on the Year 1683":

It will begin, according to the Custom of the Holy Roman Catholicke Church, on the First of January and according to the ancient Astronomical Style, when the Sunne has completed its Round of the Twelve Signs of the Zodiac, returning again to the Cusp of the Sign of Aries, because Fundamentum principale in revolutionibus annorum mundi et introitus Solis in pritnum punctum Arietis. Thus, it is by Means of the Tychonian System…Irritated by all this show of astronomical wisdom, I gave up. Further on, I read that there would be four eclipses during the course of the year (none of which would, however, be observable in Italy); then came a table with a mass of figures, all of them completely incomprehensible to me, entitled "Direct Ascension of the Celestiall Figure in Winter". I felt discouraged. It all seemed to me to be unconscionably complicated. I was only trying to find some prediction for the current year and, what was more, I had little time. At long last, I found a promising heading: "Lunations and Combinations with other Planetary Aspects for all the Year 1683". I had finally discovered detailed predictions, set out according to the seasons and months and covering the entire year. I skimmed through the pages until I came to the four weeks of September:

Saturn, Ruler of the Eighth House, threatens the aged, endangering their lives.

I was perturbed. This prediction referred to the first week of the month, but it was clear that, only a few mornings earlier, old Mourai had died a mysterious death. I looked hurriedly for the second week, since Mourai had died on the 11th, and soon discovered:

As regards Maladies, Jupiter rules the Sixth House and will strive to bring Health to many who are sick; however, Mars, in a Fiery Sign attd in Opposition to the Moon seems intent on subjecting many Individuals to malignant Fevers and venomous Distempers, for it is written that in this position Lunam opposito Martis morbos venenatos inducit, sicut in sig- nis igneis, terminaturque cito, amp; raro ad vitam. Saturn rules the Eighth House, and greatly threatens senile Age.

Not only had the author clairvoyantly perceived that the aged were again threatened by Saturn, which fully corresponded with the demise of Signor di Mourai, but he had also foreseen the sufferings of my master and Bedfordi as a result of "malignant Fevers and venomous Distempers". Not to mention the fact that the reference to poison perhaps concerned the aged Frenchman most of all.

I went back a few lines and resumed my reading for the first week, with the firm intention not to leave off from it, even if Cristofano were to knock yet again.

The Emergencies which resultfrom the Study of the heavenly Bodies during this Week are directed by Jupiter in his quality as Ruler of the governing House, which, being in the Fourth House with the Sunne and Mercury, seeks with fine Astuteness to reveal a hidden Treasure, the same Mercury, dignified by Jupiter in a terrestrial Sign, signifies Outbreaks of subterranean Fires, and Tremors with Terrors and Alarums for Mankind; wherefore it is written: Eo item in terrae cardine, amp; in signo terreo fortunatis ab eodem cadentibus dum Mercurius investigat eumdem, terraemotus nunciat, ignes de terra producit, terrores, amp; turba- tiones exauget, minerias amp; terrae sulphura corrumpit. Saturn, Ruler of the Seventh House, in the Third House, promises great Mortality as a Consequence of Battles, and Assaults against the City, and, being square with Mars, means the Surrender of a considerable fortified Place, as foreseen by Ali and by Leopoldus Austriacus.

Despite some difficulties (as with the learned references to masters of astrological doctrine) I did in the end succeed in understanding. And again, I shuddered; for, in the prediction of the revelation of "a hidden Treasure and Outbreaks of subterranean Fires, and Tremors, with Terrors and Alarums for Mankind", I recognised clearly the most recent occurrences at the Donzello.

What was the "hidden Treasure" which was to be brought to light in the first days of the month if not the enigmatic letters hidden in Colbert's study and appropriated by Atto just before the minister's death? It all seemed so clear and terrible in its inevitability. Above all, the death of Colbert, who surely did not die young, coincided perfectly with the threats to the aged of which the gazette spoke.

Even the earthquakes and subterranean fires were familiar to me. I could only think of the rumbling which we had at the beginning of the month heard coming from the cellars. The tremendous reverberation had made us fear that an earthquake was coming; fortunately, it had left no more trace than a crack in the wall of the stairs leading to the first floor. But Signor Pellegrino almost had a seizure.

And what could one say about the "great Mortality as a Consequence of Battles, and Assaults against the City" as foreseen by Ali and by Leopoldus Austriacus? Who would not see in this the battle against the Turks and the siege of Vienna? The very names of the two great astrologers were disturbingly reminiscent of the Emperor Leopold of Austria and the followers of Mahomet. I grew afraid of reading on and went back to the preceding pages. I stopped at the passage concerning the month of July, in which, as I expected, the Ottoman advance and the beginning of the siege were predicted:

The Sun in the Tenth House signifies… the Subjection of Peoples, Republics and Neighbours by a stronger bordering Power, as foreseen by Ali…

At that precise moment, Cristofano knocked on my door. I hid the astrological gazette under the mattress and rushed out. The doctor's call came almost as a relief: the accuracy with which events seemed to have been guessed at by the author of the gazette (especially, sad and violent events) had upset me deeply.

In the kitchen, while I was preparing luncheon and at the same time assisting Cristofano with the preparation of a number of remedies for Bedfordi, I kept turning matters over and over in my mind. I was spurred on by my anxiety to understand: I felt as though I were somehow a prisoner of the planets, and all our lives, in the Donzello as in Vienna, no more than a vain struggle in narrow fore-ordained straits, in some invisible torrent which might bear us where we would perhaps rather not go, while our sad but trusting prayers languished under a black and empty heaven.

"What rings you have around your eyes, my boy! You have not perchance been insomniac these last few nights?" Cristofano inquired of me. "Insufficient sleep is quite a serious matter: if the mind and the heart remain awake unceasingly, the pores no longer open and allow the evaporation of the humours corrupted by the cares of the day."

I admitted that I was indeed not sleeping enough. Cristofano then warned me that he could not do without my services, especially now that, with my help, he was at last managing to keep the lodgers in perfect health. And truly, he added in order to encourage me, all had praised the quality of my assistance.

It was plain that the physician was unaware that I had as yet given no treatment to Dulcibeni, to young Devize or even to Stilone Priaso, in whose company I had, however, spent almost an entire night. And so, the health of at least these three guests was due to Mother Nature and not to his remedies.

Cristofano, however, planned to do more: he set to work on a preparation to make me sleep.

"All Europe has tried it thousands of times. It restores sleep and is good for most of the body's intrinsic infirmities, as well as healing all manner of wounds. If I were to tell you here and now all the wonders I have wrought with this, you would not believe me," the Tuscan assured me. "It is known as magnolicore, the great liquor; and it is prepared in Venice too, at the Apothecary of the Bear, on Campo Santa Maria Formosa. The process of preparation takes quite some time, but can be completed only in the month of September."

And, with a smile, he pulled out from his bags, the contents of which had already spilled onto the great kitchen table, a curious clay jar.

"It is necessary to begin preparation of the magnolicore in the springtime, boiling twelve pounds of common oil together with two of mature white wine…"

While Cristofano, with his usual extreme meticulousness, listed the composition and miraculous qualities of his preparation, my mind continued to wander.

"… and now that it is September, we shall add balsamic herbs and a good quantity of Master Pellegrino's finest aqua vitae."

I awoke abruptly from my thoughts upon hearing this news of the latest spoliation of my master's cellar for apothecary's purposes.

"My boy, what is it that so preoccupies your heart and your mind?"

I told him that I had awoken that morning with a sad thought: if, as some affirmed, our lives were governed by the planets and the stars, then all was in vain, including the medicines which Doctor Cristofano himself was preparing with such care. But I at once excused myself, explaining away my ravings as the fruit of fatigue.

He looked at me with perplexity and I detected a shadow of apprehension: "I do not understand how such questionings arose in your mind, but these were no ravings; far from it. I myself take astrology greatly into account. I know that many physicians deride this science, and to them I reply what Galen wrote, namely that medici astrologiam ignorantes sunt peiores spiculatoribus et homicidis: physicians ignorant of astrology are worse than speculators and murderers. Without counting what was said by Hippocrates, Scotus and other most learned writers, whose part I take in deriding my sceptical colleagues in their turn."

It was thus that Cristofano, while busying himself with preparing the magnolicore in accordance with the recipe, informed me that it was even thought that the Black Death had been brought about by a conjunction of Saturn, Jupiter and Mars which occurred on 24th March, 1345, while the French pox was thought to have been caused by the conjunction of Mars and Saturn.

"Membrum ferro ne percutito, cum luna signum tenuerit, quod membro illi dominatur" he declaimed. "That signifies: may every chirurgeon avoid amputating that member which corresponds to the sign of the zodiac in which the moon is situated that day, especially if the moon is in opposition to Saturn and Mars, which planets are malefic for health. For example, if the birth or, in other words, the horoscope of the patient predicts a negative issue to a certain malady of his, the physician my reasonably attempt to save him, applying cures on the days which the stars indicate as most opportune."

"So, to each constellation in the zodiac there corresponds a part of the body?"

"Certainly. When the moon is in Aries, and Mars and Saturn are in opposition, one must postpone any operations to be performed on the head, the face and the eyes; in Taurus, on the neck, the nape or the throat; in Gemini, on the shoulders, the arms and the hands; in Cancer, on the chest, the lungs and the stomach; in Leo, on the heart, the back and the liver; in Virgo, on the belly; in Libra, on the shins, the loins, the navel and the intestines; in Scorpio, on the bladder, the penis, the backbone, the genitals and the anus; in Sagittarius, on the thighs; in Capricorn, on the knees; in Aquarius, on the legs; in Pisces, if I am not mistaken, on the feet and the heels."

He added that the most suitable time for a good purgation was when the moon is in Scorpio or in Pisces. One should, however, avoid administering a medicine when the moon, in the ruminant signs, is in conjunction with a retrograde planet, because there is a risk that the patient might vomit it up and suffer from other harmful impairments.

'"With the moon in signs ruminant, in the sick, symptoms extravagant,' as was taught by the learned Hermes. And," he concluded, "that is especially valid this year, when in spring and in winter, there were four retrograde planets, three of them in ruminant signs."

"But then our lives are no more than a struggle between the planets."

"No, on the contrary, this simply shows that with the stars, as with all else in creation, man may shape his fortune or his ruin. It is up to him to make good use of the intuition, intelligence and wisdom which God has given him."

He explained to me that, in his experience as a physician, planetary influences indicated a tendency, a disposition, an inclination, never a predetermined path.

Cristofano's interpretation did not deny the influence of the stars, but reaffirmed the judgement of men and above all the supremacy of the divine will. Little by little, I felt relieved.

I had in the meanwhile completed my duties. For luncheon, I had cooked a bread-soup with rice flour, pieces of smoked sturgeon, lemon-juice and, lastly, an abundant sprinkling of cinnamon. But as a few hours remained before the mealtime, Cristofano let me go: not, however, before handing me a bottle of his magnolicore with the injunction to drink barely a drop thereof and to sprinkle some on my chest before going to bed, so as to inhale its health-giving vapours and enjoy a good sleep.

"Do not forget that it is also excellent for curing wounds and all pains; excepting, however, the lesions caused by the French pox which, if anointed with the magnolicore, will occasion the most acute spasms."

I was climbing back up the stairs, when from the first floor, I heard the echo of Devize's plucked notes: he was again performing the rondeau which so charmed me and which seemed so wonderfully to pacify the soul of every one of us.

Arriving on the second floor, I heard my name whispered. I turned to the corridor and glimpsed Abbot Melani's red stockings through his barely open doorway.

"I need your syrup. Last time, it did me much good," he called out with a clear voice, fearing that Cristofano might be in the offing, while with frenetic gestures he indicated that I was to enter his chamber where, rather than the administration of a syrup, important news awaited me.

Before closing the door behind me, the abbot inclined a delighted ear to capture the echo of the rondeau.

"Ah, the power of music," he sighed ecstatically.

He then moved with swift steps to his writing desk: "Let us get down to business, my boy. Do you see all this? In these few papers, there is more work than you could ever imagine."

Spread out on the table was the mass of manuscript notes which I had seen him put away with a certain apprehension on the occasion of my last visit.

He explained to me that he had for some time been writing a guide to Rome for French visitors, since he considered that those which were available in trade were neither suited to travellers' needs, nor did they do justice to the importance of the antiquities and works of art which were to be admired in the papal capital. He showed me the last pages which he had written in Paris, in a close, tiny hand. This was a chapter dedicated to the Church of Saint Athanasius of the Greeks.

"And so?" I asked in surprise, as I took a seat.

"I had hoped to make use of my free time during this sojourn in

Rome to complete my guide-book. This morning, I was just sitting down to work on it when I had a revelation."

And he told me how, four years previously, in this very Church of Saint Athanasius, he had had a bizarre and unexpected encounter. After examining the noble fagade which was the work of Martino Longhi, he had gone inside and was admiring a fine canvas by Trabaldesi in a side chapel. Suddenly, with a shudder, he became aware of the presence of a stranger by his side.

In the penumbra, he saw an aged priest who, from his headdress could be identified as a Jesuit. He was rather bent and a prey to a slight but incessant trembling of the trunk and the arms. He leaned on a cane but was supported on either side by two young servant girls who helped him to walk. His white beard was carefully trimmed and the lines on his forehead and cheeks were mercifully fine and few. His eyes were blue and as piercing as two daggers, suggesting that, a few years earlier, he would have lacked neither sharp wits nor a ready tongue.

The Jesuit fixed Atto in his gaze and, with a weak smile, pronounced the following words: "Your eye… is indeed magnetic."

Abbot Melani, vaguely disquieted, glanced questioningly at the two girls accompanying the old priest. The pair, however, remained silent, as though they dared not speak out without the old man's permission.

"The magnetic art is most important, in this vast world," continued the Jesuit, "and if you also master gnomonic catoptricks or the new specular horologiography, you may be spared every coptic prodromous symptom."

The two servant girls remained silent, but were plainly dismayed, as though this embarrassing situation had arisen before.

"If, then, you have already undertaken the iter extaticus coelestis," the old man resumed with a hoarse voice, "you will need neither Maltese astronomical observatories nor physico-medical Scrutinies, for the great art of light and shade, dissolved in the diatribe of the prodigious cruces and in the poligraphia nova will give you all the arithmology, musurgy and phonurgy that you may need."

Abbot Melani had remained silent and motionless.

"But the magnetic art cannot be learned, because it is part of human nature," the aged prelate then argued. "Magnets are magnetic. Yes, that is indeed so. But the vis magnetica also emanates from visages. And from music. And this, you know."

"Do you recognise me, then?" Atto had asked, thinking that the old man might know that he was a singer.

"The magnetic power of music, you may see in the tarantulas," continued the stranger, as though Atto had not spoken. "It can cure tarantism, and can cure much else. Have you understood?"

And, without giving Atto time to respond, the old man succumbed to a bout of almost silent laughter which made him quake from within, in a crescendo of spasms. The trembling shook him vigorously from head to foot, so much so that his youthful escorts had to struggle to prevent him from losing his balance. This mad outburst of hilarity seemed at times to border on suffering and monstrously deformed his features, while tears ran copiously down his cheeks.

"But take care," the Jesuit raved on, struggling to speak. "The magnet also lies concealed in Eros, whence sin may arise, and you have the magnetic eye; but the Lord does not want sin, no, the Lord does not want that," and he raised his stick clumsily, trying to strike Abbot Melani.

At that point, the two servant girls restrained him and one of them calmed him, leading him to the door of the church. Several churchgoers, distracted from prayer, looked curiously at the scene. The abbot stopped one of the two girls: "Why did he come to me?"

The girl, overcoming the natural shyness of simple people, explained that the old man often accosted strangers and importuned them with his lucubrations.

"He is German. He has written many books, and now that he is no longer his own master, he keeps repeating their titles. His colleagues are ashamed of him, he keeps confusing the living and the dead, and they rarely let him out. But he is not always in that state: I and my sister, who usually accompany him on his walks, find that at other times he has all his wits about him. He even writes letters, which he gives us to send."

Abbot Melani, after initially being irritated by the old man's aggression, was in the end softened by this sorry tale.

"What is his name?"

"He is known to many in Rome. His name is Athanasius Kircher."

Such was my surprise that I trembled from head to foot."Kircher? But was that not the Jesuit man of science who you said had found the secret of the plague?" I exclaimed excitedly, recalling how the guests at our inn had discussed Kircher animatedly at the beginning of our imprisonment.

"Exactly," Atto confirmed. "But perhaps the time is ripe for you to know who Kircher really was. Otherwise, you would not understand the rest of the story."

And so it was that Atto Melani helped me to understand how re- splendently Kircher's star and that of his infinite doctrine once shone in the firmament and how for many years every single word of his was treasured as the wisest of oracles.

Father Athanasius Kircher spoke twenty-four languages, many of them learned after lengthy sojourns in the Orient, and he had brought with him to Rome many copies of Arabic and Chaldean manuscripts, as well as a truly vast exposition of hieroglyphs. He also had a profound knowledge of theology, metaphysics, physics, medicine, mathematics, ethics, aesthetics, jurisprudence, politics, scriptural interpretation, moral theology, rhetoric and the combinatory art. Nothing, he was wont to say, is more beautiful than the knowledge of the totality, and he had indeed, in all humility and ad maiorem Dei gloriam revealed the gnomonic mysteries and those of polygraphy, magnetism, arithmology, musurgy and phonurgy and, thanks to the secrets of the symbol and of analogy, he had clarified the abstruse enigmas of the kabbala and of hermeticism, reducing them to the universal measure of primal sapience.

He then carried out extraordinary experiments with mechanisms and marvellous machines of his own invention, collected by him in the museum which he founded at the Roman Collegio, including: a clock activated by a vegetable root which followed the sun's peregrination; a machine which transformed the light of a candle into marvellous forms of men and animals; and innumerable catoptric machines, spagyric ovens, mechanical organs and sciatherical dials.

The learned Jesuit gloried justly in having invented a universal language whereby one could communicate with anyone throughout the whole world, and which was so clear and perfect that the Bishop of Vigevano had written to him enthusiastically, claiming that he had learned it in just over an hour.

The venerable professor of the Roman College had also revealed the true form of Noah's Ark, and succeeded in establishing the number of animals which it contained, in what manner were ordered within it cages, perches, mangers and water troughs and even where the doors and openings were situated. He had demonstrated geometrice et mathematice that if the Tower of Babel had been completed, its weight would have been such as to tilt the terrestrial globe.

But, above all, Kircher was a natural philosopher exceedingly well versed in antique and unknown languages. He had deciphered the hieroglyphs of the Alexandrine obelisk which now stood in the fountain erected in the Piazza Navona by the Cavalier Bernini. The tale of the obelisk was perhaps the most extraordinary to be told concerning him. When the enormous stone relic was found buried among the ruins of the Circo Massimo, the Jesuit was immediately called to the place where it had been discovered. Although only three of the four sides of the obelisk were visible, he had foreseen the symbols which would appear on the side that remained buried, and his prediction had proved correct even in its most abstruse details.

"But, when you met him, he was… how could one put it?…" I objected at that point in the narration.

"Say it outright. He was senile."

Indeed, that was so, at the end of his life, the great genius grew demented. His spirit, explained Atto, had evaporated, and his body was soon to know the same fate. Father Kircher in fact died one year later.

"Folly makes all men equal, kings and peasants," said Abbot Melani, who added that he had in the days that followed made a couple of visits to well-connected acquaintances, and had received confirmation of the painful situation, despite the Jesuits' endeavours to ensure that it was bruited abroad as little as possible.

"I now come to the point," said the abbot, cutting short the discussion. "If your memory serves you well, you will recall that in Colbert's study, the main thing that I found was correspondence sent from Rome and addressed to Superintendent Fouquet, written in prose which appeared to be that of an ecclesiastic, in which mention was made of unspecified secret information."

"I remember, of course."

"Well, the letters were from Kircher."

"And how can you be sure of that?"

"You are right to doubt: I must again explain to you the illumination which came over me today. I am still overcome by the emotion that it caused me-and emotion is the handmaid of chaos; while what we need is to put facts in order. As you will perhaps recall, when examining the letters, I noted that one of them curiously began with the words mumiarum domino, which I was at the time unable to understand."

"That is true."

"Mumiarum domino means 'to the master of the mummies' and certainly refers to Fouquet."

"What are mummies?"

"They are the corpses of ancient Egyptians contained in sarcophagi and preserved from decay using bandages and mysterious treatments."

"Still, I do not understand why Fouquet should be 'the master of the mummies'."

The abbot picked up a book and handed it to me. It was a collection of poems by Signor de la Fontaine, he who in his verses had lauded the singing of Atto Melani. I opened at a page where he had placed a bookmark and indicated a few lines.*

"It is a poem dedicated to Fouquet. Have you understood?"

"Not a lot," I replied, irritated by that prolix and incomprehensible poem."

"Yet it is all quite simple. Cephrim and Kiopes are the two Egyptian mummies which Superintendent Fouquet had acquired.

I shall take your time and my own. / If I see that you're conversing, / I shall wait most patiently / in this superb apartment / where, from a strange land, / recently, after great wanderings / (not without labour and at some expense) / of Kings Cephrim and Kiopes were brought / the coffin, tomb or bier: / for the kings themselves are dust. /… / So I left the gallery / most content, despite my chagrin, / for Kiopes and Cephrim, / For Horus and all his lineage / and for many another personage.

La Fontaine, who was his great admirer, speaks of them in this witty little poem. Now, I ask you: who, here in Rome, was interested in ancient Egypt?"

"That I know: Kircher."

"Correct. Indeed, Kircher had personally studied Fouquet's mummies, travelling to Marseilles, where they had just been disembarked. He then reported on the results of his studies in the treatise entitled Oedipus Aegiptiacus."

"Then Kircher and Fouquet knew one another."

"Certainly. I even recall admiring in that treatise a fine drawing of the two sarcophagi which Kircher had had made by a Jesuit colleague. Therefore, the author of the letter and Kircher are one and the same person. Only today, however, did I put all this together and understand it."

"I too am beginning to understand. In one of the letters, Fouquet is addressed as domino mumiarum or 'master of the mummies', because he has purchased the two sarcophagi mentioned by Kircher."

"Bravo, you have grasped the essence of it."

The situation was indeed thoroughly complicated. Briefly, Abbot Melani had understood that Kircher had been in contact with Superintendent Fouquet in connection with the mummies which the latter had acquired at Marseilles and brought with him to Paris. Perhaps meeting him in person or by some other means, Kircher had confided a secret to him. Concerning this, however, the correspondence between the two which Atto Melani had taken from Colbert's house contained no explanation, but only allusions.

"So you came to Rome not only to inquire into the presence of Fouquet, but also to uncover the secret referred to in those letters."

I saw Abbot Melani grow pensive, as though a disagreeable thought had traversed his mind.

"And it was not at all by chance that you came to the Locanda del Donzello, is that not so?"

"Well done. How could you tell?"

"I have thought it over a little. And then I remembered that, according to the letters which you found, the Superintendent had been seen by Colbert's spies in Piazza Fiammetta, near the church of Sant'Apollinare, as well as in the Piazza Navona: in both cases, a few yards from here."Again, bravo! I knew at once that you had talent."

It was then that, encouraged by that compliment, I took a chance. When I put the question, my voice trembled a little.

"Signor di Mourai was Fouquet, is that not so?"

Atto Melani remained silent, but his face was answer enough. That mute admission was, naturally, followed by my explanations. How had I worked it out? Not even I could say. Perhaps it was simply the combination of a series of, apparently insignificant, facts that had put me on the scent. Fouquet was French, and Mourai too. Mourai was old and ill, and his eyesight had become very weak. After almost twenty years in prison, such would also be the Superintendent's condition. The age of both was the same: about sixty years, perhaps nearly seventy. Mourai had a young companion, Signor Devize, who however did not know Italy as well as his own country and, what is more, understood only music. A fugitive would need a guide skilled in the ways of the world; and that could well be Pompeo Dulcibeni. The aged gentleman seemed indeed, from some of his observations (concerning the price of textiles in Rome, the grist-tax, the supplying of foodstuffs to the Roman market) to be exceedingly well informed about commerce and merchandise.

Nor was that all. If Fouquet were really hiding in or passing through Rome, it is probable that he would not have moved far from his lodgings. And if he had been a guest at our inn, wherever would he have gone for a stroll at nightfall, if not to the Piazza Navona or to Piazza Fiammetta, passing in front of Sant'Apollinare? Moreover, as I had already confusedly guessed that morning on my couch, to sojourn at the Donzello was a choice more appropriate for someone of limited means; for our quarter, which once had contained the best hostelries, was now in a state of inexorable decay. Yet the old Frenchman certainly did not give the impression of being short of money, on the contrary. It was therefore probable that he wished to avoid encountering his peers, perhaps Frenchmen who might, even after so long a time, recognise a countenance as well known as that of the Superintendent.

"But why did you not tell me the truth?" I asked with a wavering voice at the end of my discourse, striving to contain my emotions.

"Because it was not yet indispensable. If I always told you everything that I know it would only cause your head to ache," he replied shamelessly.

Soon, however, I saw his mood change and he was clearly touched.

"I have still much to teach you, apart from the art of making deductions," he said, clearly troubled.

For the first time, I was certain that Abbot Melani was not simulating but, on the contrary, showing his pain at his friend's sad fate. So it was that, sometimes fighting back his tears, he told me that he had not come to Rome simply to investigate whether the news of Fouquet's presence was true, and thus to establish whether false rumours had been spread with a view to perturbing the Most Christian King and all of France. He had undertaken the long voyage from France to Italy in the fond hope of seeing again his old friend, of whom he now retained only painful and distant memories. If (he had thought) Fouquet was really in Rome, he would surely be in danger: the same informer who had advised Colbert of the Superintendent's presence in the Holy City would sooner or later receive orders from Paris. He would perhaps be ordered to capture Fouquet or, failing that, to eliminate him.

That was why Melani, as he himself explained, had arrived in Rome torn by a confusion of conflicting emotions: the hope that he might again see the friend whom he had believed dead after years of harsh imprisonment, the desire to serve the King faithfully and, lastly, the fear that, if he were really to find Fouquet, he might be involved in what might follow.

"What do you mean?"

"In Paris, everyone knows that the King never hated anyone more than the Superintendent. And if he discovered that Fouquet had not died at Pinerol but was alive and free, his wrath would know no bounds."

Atto then explained to me that a trusty servant of his had, as on previous occasions, helped him to conceal his departure.

"He is a copyist of extraordinary talent, and knows perfectly how to imitate my handwriting. He is a good man, his name is Buvat. Every time that I leave Paris secretly, he looks after my correspondence. They write to me from all the courts of Europe to obtain the latest information, and princes must be answered at once," said he, boastfully.

"And how does your Buvat know what he is supposed to write?"

"A few utterly predictable items of political news, which I left for him before my departure. As for news of the court, that he could procure by paying a few servants, who are the best source of information in all France."

I was about to ask him how he had managed to conceal his departure from the King himself, but Atto did not let me interrupt him. Once in Rome, he said, he had at last traced Fouquet to our inn. But the very morning when he set foot at the Donzello, he whom we still called Signor di Mourai tragically died. Thus, the abbot came barely in time to see his former benefactor, whom he had retraced in so singular a fashion, die in his arms.

"And did he recognise you?"

"Alas, no. When I entered the apartment, he was already moribund, babbling meaningless words. I tried with all my strength to reanimate him, I shook him by the shoulders, I spoke to him, but it was already too late. In your hostelry, there died a great man."

Abbot Melani looked away, perhaps trying to hide a furtive tear. I heard him intone with trembling voice an agonisingly poignant melody:

Ma, quale pena infinita, sciolta hai ora la vita…

1 was dumbfounded. I felt overcome by emotion, while Atto withdrew to a corner of the chamber, suddenly closed in upon himself. I called to mind old Mourai's features and gestures, as I had known him during those days at the Donzello. I tried to recollect words, expressions, accents which might link him with the great and unfortunate figure of the Superintendent, as I imagined him to be from all Abbot Melani had told me. I remembered his eyes, veiled and almost unseeing, his pale, old, trembling body, his cracked, gasping lips; but found nothing, nothing that might remind me of the Squirrel's proverbial vivacity. Or perhaps… yes: now that I thought of Mourai's minute and delicate form, of his cheeks, lined but not dried up by age; and his curved profile, and fine, nervous hands… yes, an old squirrel, that was what Signor di Mourai resembled. With not a gesture, not a word, not a gleam in his eyes: the Squirrel had settled into his eternal repose. One last effort, and he had made that sudden, final climb up the tree of freedom: that was enough. In the end, I concluded, while my tears flowed silently, what did it matter how Fouquet died? He died free. * But, what infinite sadness, /your life has now dissolved…

The abbot turned towards me, his features contorted by emotion.

"Now my friend sits on the right hand of the Most High, among the just and the martyrs," he exclaimed emphatically. "You should know, Fouquet's mother looked with apprehension upon her son's ascent, which made him powerful over the things of this world, but weakened his soul. And every day, she prayed to God that he should alter the Superintendent's destiny, so as to guide him onto the path of redemption and sanctity. When his faithful servant La Foret came with the news of his arrest, Fouquet's mother knelt, full of joy, and thanked the Lord, exclaiming: 'Now he will surely become a saint.'

Atto broke off for a moment to control the anguish that tightened his throat and prevented him from speaking.

"That good woman's prediction," he resumed, "came true. According to his confessor, Fouquet, in the last period of his imprisonment, had admirably purged his soul. It seems that he even wrote a number of spiritual meditations. Certainly, he often repeated in his letters to his wife how grateful he was for that prayer of his mother, and how happy he was that it had been answered." The abbot sobbed: "Oh Nicolas! Heaven demanded the highest price of you, but accorded you a second grace: it spared you from that miserable destiny of worldly glory which leads inevitably to a vain cenotaph."

After allowing the abbot and myself a few more moments in which to soothe our souls, I tried to change the subject: "I know that you will not agree to this, but has the time perhaps not come to question Pompeo Dulcibeni or Devize?"

"Not at all," he retorted sharply, promptly abandoning every trace of his previous despair. "If those two have anything to hide, any question will put them on their guard."

He rose to wipe his face. Then he rummaged among his documents and finally handed me a paper.

"There are other matters to think about, for the time being: we must unravel such clues as we have. You will recall that when we set foot in Komarek's clandestine printing press, the floor was littered with sheets of paper. Well, I found time to pick up a couple of these. Tell me if this reminds you of something."

Carattere Testo Paragone Corsivo.

LIBER J O S VE

Hebraice Jehoshua.

Caput Primum.

ET factum est post mortem Moysi servi Domini, ut loqueretur Dominus ad Josue filium Nun, ministrum Moysi, amp; diceret ei; Moyses seruus mens mortuus est surge amp; transi Jordanem istum tu amp; omnis populus tecum, in terram, quam ego dabo filiis Israel. Omnem locum, quem calcaverit vestigium pedis vestri, vobis tradam, sicut locutus sum Moysi. A deserto amp; Libano usque ad fluvium magnum contra Solis occasum erit terminus vester. Nullus poterit vobis resistere cunctis diebus vitae tuae: sicut fui cum Moyse, ita ero tecum: non dimittam, nec derelinquam te. Confortare amp; esto robustus: tu enim sorte divides populo huic terram…

"It seems to be another passage from the Bible." "And so?"

I turned it over in my hands: "This, too, is printed on only one side!"

"Correct. The question then follows: is there some new fashion in Rome for printing Bibles on one side only? 1 do not think so: it would call for so much paper, the books would weigh twice as much and would perhaps cost double too." "And what does that tell you?" "That tells me these pages are not from a book." "What are they then?" "An assay of skill." "Do you mean a printer's proof?"

"Not just that: it is a sample of what the printer is able to offer his clients. After all, what did Stilone Priaso tell the corpisantari? Komarek needs money, and in addition to his humble duties in the print-shop of the Congregation for the Propagation of the Faith, he takes on a few clandestine jobs. But, at the same time, he will need to find, so as to speak, 'ordinary' clients. Perhaps he has already requested an authorisation to print on his own account. He will have prepared a sample to show future customers the quality of his work. And, to show a sample of characters, one page will suffice."

"I do believe that you are right."

"I do believe so too. And I shall show you the proof of this: what does the first line of our new page say? 'Carattere Testo Paragone Corsivo.' I am no expert, but I maintain that 'Paragone' is the name of the typeface used in this text. On the other page, and in exactly the same place, I read 'nda'. Probably, the complete word was Ro tonda for some rounded typeface."

"Does all this mean that we must now go back to suspecting Stilone Priaso?" I asked in no small state of agitation.

"Perhaps so, perhaps not. But what is certain is that to find our thief we must search among Komarek's customers. And Stilone Priaso is one of them. Moreover, like our gazetteer, the thief of your little pearls cannot be weighed down by riches. And, lastly, he hails from Naples; the very city from which Fouquet left for the Donzello. Strange, is it not? However…"

"However?"

"That is all too obvious. Whoever poisoned my poor friend is cunning and skilful, and will have taken steps to ensure that he is above suspicion, and to pass unobserved. Can you imagine a perennially anxious character like Stilone Priaso in that role? Do you not think it would be absurd, if he were the assassin, that he should go about with an astrological gazette under his arm? To pass oneself off for an astrologer would certainly not be a good cover for an assassin. Even less, to indulge in petty thieving by filching your pearls."

Of course. Stilone really did seem to be an astrologer. I told Atto with what melancholy and pain the Neapolitan had narrated the tale of Abbot Morandi.

As I was leaving his chamber, I decided to put to Melani the question which I had been holding in reserve for some time.

"Signor Atto, do you or do you not believe that there is some connection between the mysterious thief and the death of Superintendent Fouquet?"

"I do not know."

He was lying. I was sure of it. When, back in my bed after serving luncheon, I gathered my ideas together, I felt a cold, heavy curtain fall between me and Abbot Melani. He was certainly hiding something else from me, as he had hidden the presence of Fouquet at the inn under barefaced lies and, before that, the letters discovered in Colbert's study. And with what impudence he had narrated to me the story of the Superintendent! He had spoken of him as though he had not seen him for years, while he and Pellegrino had seen him die (and in my mind i weighed up that tremendous event) only a few hours before. He had then had the effrontery to suggest that Dulcibeni and Devize were hiding something about Mourai, alias Fouquet. And who was he to talk? What high priest of deceit, what virtuoso of simulation could Abbot Melani be? I cursed myself for not heeding those things which I had learned concerning him when I overheard Cristofano, Devize and Stilone Priaso conversing. And I cursed myself for having felt flattered when he praised my perspicacity.

I was exceedingly irritated, and so all the more desirous of squaring up to the abbot in order to put to the proof my ability to stay ahead of his moves, to unmask his omissions, to interpret his silences and to cut through his eloquence.

Indulging myself in the subtle and envious rancour which I felt for Melani, worn out by my sleepless night, I fell very gently asleep. On the point of giving myself up to Morpheus, I unwillingly banished the thought of Cloridia.

For the second time that day, I was awoken by Cristofano. I had slept for four hours without a break. I felt well, I know not whether because of my nap or the magnolkore which I had taken care to drink and to spread on my chest beforehand. On seeing that I had recovered, the doctor left, reassured. I remembered then that I must complete my round of visits to administer the remedies against infection. I dressed and took with me the bag containing the little jars. I intended first of all to administer a stomach theriac and a decoction of ivy with syrup to Brenozzi, and a fumigation to Stilone Priaso, then to descend to the first floor and visit Devize and Dulcibeni. I passed through the kitchen in order to boil a little water in the kettle.

I ordered matters so as to deal quite swiftly with the Venetian. I could no longer tolerate his manner of interrogating me, putting questions and then answering them himself before I could so much as open my mouth. Nor could I refrain from observing his disgusting habit of grasping his nether parts in restless counterpoint, like those youngsters who have just lost their innocence but, being inexperienced in life, cannot stop pestering their little celery stalk with vain digital interrogations. I saw that he had not touched his food but avoided asking questions, fearing that this might unleash another flood of words.

I then knocked on the Neapolitan's door. He called me in but, while I was laying out my things, I saw that he too had left his meal untouched. I asked him if by any chance he felt unwell.

"Do you know where 1 come from?" he asked me in response.

"Yes Sir," I replied in some perplexity. "From the Kingdom of Naples."

"Have you ever been there?"

"Alas, no, I have never visited any other city in my whole life."

"Very well, know then that in no land has heaven been so prodigal of its beneficent influences in every season," he began grandiloquently, while I prepared his inhalation. "Naples, gentle and populous capital of the twelve provinces of the kingdom, is situated in a magnificent theatre overlooking the sea, framed by soft hills and rolling plains. Founded by a nymph named Partenope, it enjoys the myriad fruits, the purest fountains, the famed fennel and all manner of herbs offered by the nearby plain known as Poggio Reale, all of which may justifiably raise eyebrows into arches of wonderment. Then, on the fertile littoral of Chiaia, as on the hills of Posilippo, cauliflowers are harvested, and peas, cardoons and artichokes, radishes, roots and the most exquisite salads and fruit. Nor do I believe that there exists a place more fertile and delightful, o'erflowing with every amenity, than the proud shores of Mergellina, ruffled only by soft zephyrs, which deservedly received the ashes of the immortal Marone and of the incomparable Sanazzaro."

So it was not purely by chance that Stilone Priaso styled himself a poet. He, in the meanwhile, pursued his discourse from under the sheet with which I had covered his head, immersed in balsamic vapours: "Moving further, we come to the antique city of Pozzuoli, with its copious bounty of asparagus, artichokes, peas and pumpkins out of season; and in the month of March, early sour-grape juice, to the good people's astonishment. Luscious fruit on Procida; on Ischia, medlars both white and red, fine Greco wines and pheasants plentiful. At Capri, the finest of heifers and splendid quails. Pork at Sorrento, game at Vico, the sweetest of onions at Castell'a Mare, grey mullet at Torre del Greco, red mullet at Granatiello, Lachrimae on the Monte di Somma, once known as Vesuvius. And watermelons and saveloys at Orta, Vernotico wine at Nola, torrone at Aversa, melons at Cardito, apricots at Arienzo, Provola cheeses at Acerra, cardoons at Giugliano, lampreys at Capua, olives at Gaeta, legumes at Venafro; and trout, wine, oil and game at Sora…"

At last, I understood.

"Do you perhaps mean to suggest, Sir, that the food which I am serving you does not meet with your approval?"

He stood up and looked at me with a hint of embarrassment.

"Er… to tell the truth, we eat nothing but soups here. But, that is not the point…" said he, stumbling in his search for words. "Well, in short, your mania for putting cinnamon in all your broths, sauces and soups will end up accomplishing the extermination which we were expecting from the plague!" And unexpectedly, he laughed out loud.

I was confused and humiliated. I begged him to lower his voice lest we be overheard by the other guests; but I was too late. From the chamber next door, Brenozzi had already heard Stilone's protest and was laughing unrestrainedly The echo spread to Padre Robleda's apartment, and in the end both of them leaned out of their windows. Stilone Priaso went on to open his door, caught up in the chorus of hilarity: I begged him to close it, but in vain. I was overwhelmed by a barrage of scornful jokes and mockery, and they laughed until they cried, all at the expense of my cooking. Only, it seemed, the charitable accompaniment of Devize's music rendered it all a little less unbearable. Even Padre Robleda struggled to suppress a guffaw.

None of them had yet confessed the truth to me, explained the Neapolitan, for they had learned from Cristofano of Pellegrino's awakening and were counting upon my master's swift return, besides which, these were the least of their cares during those days. The recent increase in my doses of cinnamon had, however, rendered the situation untenable. Here, Priaso broke off, seeing from my countenance how humiliated and offended I was. The other two closed their doors again. The Neapolitan put a hand on my shoulder.

"Come on, my boy, do not take it to heart: quarantine is not conducive to good manners."

I begged his pardon for having thus tormented him with my cinnamon, collected my little jars and took my leave. I was furious and unhappy but I decided for the time being not to show it.

I descended to the first floor, intending to knock on Devize's door. When, however, I got there, I hesitated.

From behind the door came the sound of still uncertain notes. He was tuning his instrument. Then he launched into a dance, perhaps a villanelle; and next, what I would today recognise without the slightest difficulty as a gavotte.

I resolved to knock at the next door, that of Pompeo Dulcibeni. Should the gentleman from Fermo be available for a massage, I would at the same time be able to enjoy the echoes of Devize's guitar.

Dulcibeni accepted the offer. He received me as always with an austere and weary manner, his voice mournful yet firm, his eyes glaucous yet perspicacious.

"Come in, dear boy. Put your bag down here."

He often called me thus, as one speaks to a servant. He was the guest at the Donzello of whom I stood most in awe. His tone, which was tranquil when speaking to inferiors, yet utterly lacking in warmth, seemed always on the point of betraying some impatient or scornful gesture which, however, never materialised; and this caused those approaching him to show exaggerated self-control in his presence and, in the end, to take refuge in silence. That, I thought, was why he remained the most solitary of all the guests. Never once, when I served meals, had he kept me back to converse with him. He did not seem troubled by solitude; quite the contrary. Yet, on his low forehead and ruddy cheeks, I noted a deep and bitter crease, and sensed an underlying torment, such as appears only in one burdened by lonely suffering. The one light note was his weakness for my master's good cooking, which alone drew a rare but genuine smile from him or some witty comment.

Who knows how much he too has suffered from my cinnamon, I thought, at once dismissing the conjecture.

Now, for the first time, I was about to spend an hour, or perhaps more, alone in his company, and I felt greatly troubled at the prospect.

I had opened my bag and taken out the jars which I would be using. Dulcibeni asked me what they contained and how they were to be applied, and feigned polite interest in my explanations. I then asked him to uncover his back and sides and to sit astride a chair.

Having opened up the back of his black costume and removed his comical old-fashioned collar, I noticed that he had a long scar across his neck: so that, I thought, was why Dulcibeni never removed that antiquated item of apparel. He then sat as I had suggested and I began to spread the oils which Cristofano had shown me. The first few minutes passed in light banter. We both enjoyed the echo of Devize's notes: an allemande, then, perhaps, a gigue, a chaconne and a minuet en rondeau. I went over in my mind what Robleda had said about the Jansenist doctrines which Dulcibeni seemed to follow.

Suddenly, he asked me if he could stand up. He seemed to be in pain.

"Do you feel ill? Is the smell of the oil perhaps troubling you?"

"No, no, dear boy. I just want to take a pinch of snuff."

He turned the key of the big chest and pulled out three rather well-bound little books in vermilion leather with golden arabesques. Then he brought forth the snuff-box, which was well made, in inlaid cherry-wood. He opened it, took a pinch of powder, raised it to his nostrils and inhaled forcefully, two or three times. He remained for an instant as though in a state of suspense, then took a deep breath. He looked at me and his expression became rather more cordial. He seemed pacified. He asked with genuine concern after the health of the other guests at the inn. Then the conversation began to falter. Every now and then, he would sigh, closing his eyes and briefly stroking his white hair, which must once have been fair.

Looking at him, I wondered how much he knew about the story of his late companion. I could not rid my mind of the revelations concerning Mourai-Fouquet which I had just learned from Atto. I was tempted to put some vague question to him about the old Frenchman whom he had accompanied from Naples (perhaps without knowing his identity). And who knows, perhaps the two had met some time previously; perhaps they had even enjoyed a lengthy acquaintance, despite what Dulcibeni had claimed when speaking to the physician and to the Bargello's men. If that were the case, few indeed were my chances of gaining any confirmation from the lips of the Marchigiano. Therefore, after taking counsel with myself, I concluded that my best course would be to converse on some neutral subject so as to start up a conversation and induce him to talk for as long as possible, in the hope of gaining some useful clue from him; exactly as I had already done-although with scant success-with the other guests.

I therefore endeavoured to elicit Dulcibeni's opinion concerning some important occurrence, as one does when one wishes to converse with old men of whom one stands in awe. I asked him, with elaborate deference, what he thought of the siege of Vienna, where the fate of all Christendom hung in the balance, and whether he thought that the Emperor might in the end defeat the Turks.

"Emperor Leopold of Austria can defeat no one: he has fled," he replied drily and then fell silent, leaving it to be understood that the conversation was now closed.

I hoped, nevertheless, that he might express some further opinions, while struggling desperately within myself for some rejoinder whereby to salvage the dialogue. But no inspiration came to me, and so deep silence again descended between us.

I swiftly completed my task and took my leave of him. Dulcibeni remained silent. I was about to leave when there arose in my mind the desire to put another question to him: I could not resist the pressing urge to know whether he too disapproved as much of my cooking.

"No, dear boy, far from it," he replied. "Indeed, I'd say that you have a flair for it."

I thanked him, feeling encouraged, and was about to close the door behind me when I heard him add, as though speaking to himself in a strange whisper rising from the belly: "Were it not for your excremental brews and all that damned cinnamon. Pumilio! Booby of a scullion that you are!"

That was enough for me. Never had I felt so humiliated. Yet, what Dulcibeni thought of me was, I reflected, quite true. I could strive with all my might and main but it would not raise me one single inch in the eyes of others, not even, alas, those of Cloridia. Anger and pride flared up in me. So I, who aspired to so much (one day to become a gazetteer) was not even capable of raising my station from that of scullion to cook.

While I was thus groaning inwardly outside Dulcibeni's doorway, I thought I heard a sound of mumbling. I brought my ear closer the better to listen, and what was my surprise when I heard Dulcibeni conversing with someone else.

"Do you feel unwell? Does the smell of oil perhaps inconvenience you.?" the other voice asked solicitously.

I was troubled. Was that not the same question I had put to Dulcibeni only moments earlier? Whoever could have hidden in the chamber to listen? And why repeat my words now? But in those words, one detail shocked me: they were spoken by a woman's voice; and it was not Cloridia's.

There followed a few moments of silence.

"Emperor Leopold can defeat no one; he has fled!" Dulcibeni exclaimed suddenly.

That, he had also said to me! I continued to listen, suspended between astonishment and the fear of being discovered.

"You are unfair, you ought not…" replied the woman's voice timidly, in curiously weak, hoarse tones.

"Silence!" interrupted Dulcibeni. "If Europe is blown up, we shall have cause only for rejoicing."

"I hope that you are not serious."

"Listen, then," Dulcibeni resumed in a more conciliatory tone. "These lands of ours are, now, after a manner of speaking, like a great house: a house in which there dwells a single great family. But what will happen if the brothers become too numerous? And what will happen, too, if their wives are all sisters, and so their children all are cousins? They will be forever quarrelling, they will hate one another, each will malign the others. Sometimes, they will form alliances, but these will be too fragile. Their children will couple in an obscene orgy, and will in turn produce mad, weak, corrupted offspring. What is to be expected of so unfortunate a family?"

"I do not know. Perhaps someone… will succeed in pacifying them. And above all, the children will leave off marrying among themselves," the feminine voice responded uncertainly.

"Very well, if the Turk conquers Vienna," retorted Dulcibeni, "at least we shall at last have some new blood on the thrones of Europe. Obviously, after the old has flowed like rivers."

"Excuse me, but I do not understand," the woman ventured shyly.

"It is simple. By now, all the Christian kings are related to one another."

"What do you mean, all related?" asked the little voice.

"I understand. You need a few examples. Louis XIV the Most Christian King of France, is twice cousin to his wife Maria Teresa, the Infanta of Spain. Both their parents were in fact siblings. This was because the mother of the Sun King, Anne of Austria, was the sister of Maria Teresa's father, Philip IV King of Spain; while the Sun King's father, Louis XIII, was a brother of Maria Teresa's mother, Elisabeth of France, the first wife of Philip IV"

Dulcibeni paused for a few moments; I heard him taking his snuff box out from a nearby chest and mixing the contents carefully while he continued speaking.

"The respective parents-in-law of the King and Queen of France are, therefore, blood relations: their uncle and aunt. Now, I ask you, what effect will it have to be the nephew and niece of one's parents-in-law? Or, if you prefer, the son and daughter-in-law of one's uncle and aunt."

I could not restrain myself: I had to know who this woman was to whom Dulcibeni was speaking. How the deuce could she have entered the Donzello, despite the quarantine? And why was Dulcibeni addressing her with such passion?

I tried very gradually to open the door, which I had not completely closed when leaving. Now, there was a crack, and with bated breath, I put my eye to it. Dulcibeni was standing, leaning with his elbows on a large chest and fiddling with his snuff-box. Speaking, he directed his attention towards the wall on his right, where the mysterious guest must be. Unfortunately, my field of vision did not extend far enough for me to distinguish this feminine presence. And if I were to open the door wider, I risked being discovered.

After forcefully taking several pinches of snuff, Dulcibeni became agitated, then began to swell up his chest, as though he were about to hold his breath.

"The King of England is Charles II Stuart," he resumed. "His father married Henrietta of France, a sister of Louis XIV's father. Therefore, the King of England is likewise cousin twice over both to the King of France and to his Spanish wife; and they, as you have seen, are doubly cousins to one another. And what about Holland? Henrietta of France, the mother of King Charles II, besides being the Sun King's paternal aunt, was also the maternal aunt of the young Dutch prince William of Orange. In fact, Mary, a sister of King Charles and his brother James, went to Holland as bride of William II of Orange, and from that marriage was born Prince William III who surprised the world six years ago by marrying James's first-born daughter, his first cousin. In other words, four sovereigns have mixed the same blood eight times."

He shook his snuff-box and brought it to his nose, breathing in frenziedly, as though he had long been deprived of tobacco. Then he resumed his harangue, his face grown livid and his voice, hoarse: "Another sister of Charles II wed his cousin, the brother of Louis XIV They, too, mixed the same blood."

He broke off, seized by a coughing fit. Leaning on the big chest, he brought a handkerchief to his mouth as though he were about to be sick.

"But let us go to Vienna," Dulcibeni resumed, with a trace of exertion in his voice. "The Bourbons of France and the Habsburgs of Spain are, respectively, four and six times cousins to the Habsburgs of Austria. The mother of the Emperor Leopold I of Austria is the sister of Louis XIV But she is also the sister of the father of his wife Maria Teresa, King Philip IV of Spain, and daughter of the sister of her husband's father, the late Emperor Ferdinand III. The sister of Leopold I married her maternal uncle, again, Philip IV of Spain. And Leopold I married his niece Margaret Teresa. So, the King of Spain is the uncle, brother-in-law and father-in-law of the Emperor of Austria. Thus, three families of sovereigns have mixed the same blood a thousand times over!"

Dulcibeni's voice had grown higher and his expression ever stranger.

"What do you think of it?" he cried out suddenly. "Would you like to be aunt and sister-in-law to your son-in-law?"

In a furious rage, he swept away the few objects placed on the chest (a book and a candle) so that they struck the wall and the floor. The room fell silent.

"But has it always been like this?" the woman's voice stammered at last.

Dulcibeni resumed his usual stern pose and made a sarcastic grimace: "No, my dear," he went on pedantically. "In the distant past, the reigning families assured their posterity by marrying their offspring with the best of the feudal nobility. Every new king was the purest quintessence of the noblest blood of his own land: in France, the sovereign was the most French of Frenchmen. In England, he was the most English of Englishmen."

It was at that juncture that my excessive curiosity caused me to lose my balance, and I pushed against the door. Only by a miracle did I manage to hold onto the doorpost, thus avoiding falling any further forward. Consequently, the opening widened only a little. Dulcibeni had heard nothing. Sweating and trembling with fear, I glanced to the right of the gentleman from the Marches, where the woman should be.

It took me many minutes to overcome my surprise: instead of a human figure, on the wall there was but a mirror. Dulcibeni was talking to himself.

In the instants that followed, I found it even more difficult to follow that paroxysm of anger and scorn vented against kings, princes and emperors. Was I listening to a madman? With whom was Dulcibeni pretending to speak?

Perhaps, I thought then, he was beset by the memory of a dear one (a sister, a wife) who was now dead. And it must be a most painful memory to inspire that sad and disquieting scene. I felt at once embarrassed and moved to pity by that fragment of intimate and solitary suffering which I had stolen like a burglar. I realised that, when I had attempted to persuade him to talk about the same topics, he had drawn back. Perhaps he had preferred the company of a dead person to that of the living.

"And so?" resumed the Marchigiano, mimicking the little voice of a young girl with an innocent, troubled tone.

"And so, and so…" intoned Dulcibeni. "So… all gave way to the lust for power, which impelled them to intermarry with all the sovereigns of the earth. Take the house of Austria. Today their fetid blood defiles the sepulchres of valiant ancestors: Albert the Wise, Rudolph the Magnanimous, and then Leopold the Brave and his son Ernest I the Iron-willed, all the way down to Albert the Patient and Albert the Illustrious. Blood which, three centuries ago, began to putrefy, when it generated the unfortunate Frederick Fat-Lips and his son Maximilian I, both of whom died of a wretched bellyful of melons. And it was precisely from these two that there arose the insane desire to reunite all the Habsburg lands, which Leopold the Brave had so wisely divided between himself and his brother. These were lands that could not be brought together: it was as though a mad chirurgeon were attempting to force upon the same body, three heads, four legs and eight arms. In order to assuage his lust for lands, Maximilian I married no fewer than three times: his wives brought him as their dowries the Netherlands and Franche-Comte; but also the monstrous chin that disfigures the countenance of their descendants. His son, Philip the Fair, in the twenty-eight years of his life, annexed Spain by marrying Joan the Mad, daughter and heir to Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabel of Castile, and mother of Charles V and Ferdinand I. Charles V both crowned and undid the plans of his grandfather Maximilian I: he abdicated and divided his kingdom, on which the sun never set, between his son Philip II and his brother Ferdinand I. He divided his kingdom, but he could not divide his blood: among his descendants, madness was by now unstoppable, brother lusted after sister and both desired to marry their own offspring. The son of Ferdinand I, Maximilian II, Emperor of Austria, married his father's sister and with his aunt-wife produced a daughter, Anne Marie of Austria, who married Philip II of Spain, her uncle and cousin, being the son of Charles V; from these inauspicious nuptials, Philip III of Spain was born, who married Margaret of Austria, daughter of his grandfather's brother, Maximilian II, and from her begot Philip IV and Maria Anna of Spain, who married Ferdinand III, Emperor of Austria, her first cousin, being the son of her mother's brother, and they in turn brought into this world the present Emperor Leopold I of Austria, and his sister Maria Anna…"

Suddenly, I was seized by disgust. That orgy of incest had given me vertigo. The revolting interweaving of marriages between uncles and aunts, nephews and nieces, brothers and sisters-in-law and cousins had something monstrous about it. After discovering that Dulcibeni was speaking to the mirror, I had listened distractedly. But in the end that lugubrious secret oration both intrigued and sickened me.

Dulcibeni, overexcited and purple in the face, remained standing there with his gaze lost in the void, as though the excess of ire had strangled his voice.

"Remember," he managed to groan at last, turning once more to his imaginary companion, "France, Spain, Austria, England and Holland: for centuries jealous of peoples of other races, are now all under the yoke of one single race with neither land nor loyalty. This blood is autadelphos, twice brother to itself, like the children of Oedipus and Jocasta: blood alien to the history of any people, yet which dictates the history of all peoples. Blood without land and without honour. Traitorous blood."

Excremental brew: once in the kitchen, I remembered the terms with which Pompeo Dulcibeni had labelled my culinary efforts and their seasoning of precious cinnamon.

Once I had recovered from the disgust which the elevated and solitary considerations of the gentleman from the Marches had provoked in me, I turned my mind to the nausea which I myself had generated in the stomachs of the guests at the inn. I resolved to remedy this.

I went down into the cellar. I continued to the lower level, quite under the ground, and there spent, I think, about an hour, at the risk of catching some illness from the sharp cold that always reigned down there. I examined that space with its low ceiling from end to end, exploring by the light of my lantern the most hidden corners, where I had never yet ventured or stopped, and the shelves all the way to the top, and delving into the cases of snow until I almost reached the bottom. In a wide crevice, hidden behind rows of jars filled with wines and oil, there lay all sorts of dried legumes and seeds, candied fruit, green vegetables in gallipots and bags of macaroni, gnochetti, lasagne and zeppoli, resting under great jute covers and, in the cold amidst the snow, a great variety of salted, smoked, and dried meats and meat in jars. There, Signor Pellegrino, like a jealous lover, kept tongues in pottage and sucking-pigs, as well as pieces of various beasts: sweetbreads of deer and of sucking-kid; tripe of sucking-calf; hedgehog's paws, kidneys and brains; cows' and goats' teats; boars' and sheep's tongues; haunch of doe and of chamois; liver, paws, neck and throat of bear; flank, sirloin and fillet of venison.

And I found hare, black grouse, turkey, wild chicken, chicks, pigeons and wood pigeons, pheasants and blackcock, partridges and woodcock, peacocks, peahens and peachicks, ducks and coot, goslings, geese, quails, turtle-doves, redwings, hazel-hens, ortolans, swallows, sparrows and garden-warblers from Cyprus and Heraklion.

With beating heart I imagined how my master would have prepared them: stewed, roast, in soups, in consommes, spitted, fried, in simple or crusted pastry, in arms, in broths, in snacks, in cakes, with sauces, with vinegars, with fruit and in great centrepieces.

Drawn by the strong odour of smoked meat and of dried seaweed, I continued with my inspection; and under yet more pressed snow and jute sacking, as I expected, salted and packed in little casks, or hanging in small bunches from nets and hooks, I discovered: barbels, dories, razor fish, striped mullet, red mullet, sea-perch, sea-snails, tusk-shells, mushrooms, shrimps, trough-shells, crabs, shad, lampreys, sand-smelt, sole, snails, pike, hake, bass, black umber, limpets, fillets of swordfish and gurnard, turbot, plaice, angler-fish, frogs, pilchards, sea-scorpions, mackerel, sturgeon, turtles, clams and tench.

Of all that abundance, I had hitherto seen only such fresh produce as was from time to time delivered by the tradesmen for whom I had opened the back door. Most of the provisions, I had, however, glimpsed only briefly when (alas, all too rarely) my master ordered me to fetch victuals from the cellars, or when accompanying Cristofano.

I was seized by a doubt: when, and to whom, did Pellegrino plan to serve such food in such quantities? Did he perhaps hope to receive one of those sumptuous trains of Armenian bishops who, as neighbourhood gossip still told, had been the pride of the Donzello in the days of the late Signora Luigia? I suspected that my master might, before his dismissal from his post as carver, have skilfully bribed the keepers of the Cardinal's pantry.

I took ajar of cows' teats and returned to the kitchen. I shook the salt off them, tied the ends together and put them to boil. Then, I cut some into fine slices, which I rolled in flour, glazed and fried before covering them with sauce until I was satisfied with the result. Another portion I chopped up and stewed with aromatic herbs and spices, a little clear soup and eggs. Yet more I roasted in the oven with white wine, sour grape pips and lemon juice, some fresh fruit, raisins, pine kernels and slices of ham. I prepared some, too, diced and mixed with white wine, then closed into pies with soft pastry, together with spices, ham and other salted meats, and bone marrow, with brodetto and sugar. The rest, I prepared slightly interlarded with slices of bacon fat and cloves, all wrapped in a net and spitted.

In the end, I was exhausted. Cristofano arrived in the kitchen at the end of my long travail and found me crouching, weary and bathed in sweat, in a corner of the fireplace. He examined and sniffed at the dishes lined up in a row on the kitchen table. Then he turned to me with a satisfied, fatherly expression.

"I shall look after the matter of serving the food, my boy. You, go and take a rest."

Satiated by the repeated and generous tastings which I had allowed myself while cooking, I climbed the stairs to the top of the house, but I did not enter my chamber. Seated on the stairs, I enjoyed my well-deserved success in all discretion: while the guests partook of their evening meal, for a good half-hour, the corridors of the Donzello echoed with clinking, moans of pleasure and satisfied lip-smacking. A chorus of stomachs coughing noisily signalled at last that the time had come to collect the dishes. The victory which I had snatched from the jaws of defeat brought me close to tears.

I then prepared to make my round of the apartments: I did not wish to forego the compliments of the Donzello's guests. However, arriving before Abbot Melani's doorway, I recognised his deeply mournful singing. I was struck by the heart-rending tone of his voice, so much so that I stopped to listen:

Ahi, dunqu'e pur vero; dunque, dunque pur vero…

He was repeating the phrase so softly, and with ever-new and surprising melodic variations.

I was perturbed by those words, which I seemed to have heard already at a time and in a place unknown to me. Suddenly, a revelation came to me: had not my master Pellegrino perhaps mentioned to me that the old Signor di Mourai, alias Fouquet, had, before expiring, with a last supreme effort murmured a phrase in Italian? And now, I remembered: the dying man had pronounced the very words which Atto was now intoning: "Ahi, dunqu’e pur vero".

Why, I wondered, why ever had Fouquet pronounced his last words in Italian? I recalled, too, that Pellegrino had seen Atto, leaning close to the old man's face and speaking to him in French. Why, then, had Fouquet murmured those words in Italian?

Meanwhile, Melani continued his song:

Dunque, dunqu'e pur vero, anima del mio cor, che per novello Amor tu cangiasti, cangiasti pensiero…*

At the end, I heard him struggle to hold back his sobs. Torn between embarrassment and compassion, I dared neither move nor speak. I felt a stab of pity for that eunuch, no longer in the flower of youth: the mutilation imposed on the little boy's body by a father's greed had brought him fame, while condemning him to shameful solitude. Perhaps, I reflected, Fouquet had nothing to do with it. Those words pronounced by the Superintendent at the point of death might simply be an astonished exclamation in the face of death; I had heard that such things were not unusual among the dying.

The abbot had, in the meantime, begun another aria, the accents of which were even more anguished and lugubrious: * So it is really true, / soul of my heart, / that for a new Love / you've changed, changed your mind…

Lascia speranza, ohime, ch'io mi lamenti, lascia ch 'io mi quereli.

Non ti chiedo merce, no, no, non ti chiedo merce…*

He emphasised the last phrase, and repeated it ad infinitum. What, I wondered, could so torment him, that in his discreet and subdued song he should exclaim broken-heartedly that he would ask no pity? At that moment, Cristofano arrived behind me. He was doing his rounds.

"Poor fellow," he whispered to me, referring to Atto. "He is suffering from a moment of discomfort. Like all of us, what is more, in this wretched reclusion."

"Yes, indeed," I replied, thinking of Dulcibeni's solitary discourse.

"Let us leave him to relieve his feelings; I shall come and visit him later and make him drink a calming infusion."

We went on our way, while Atto sang unceasingly:

Lascia ch'io mi disperi…

Ah Hope, let me lament,

let me complain.

I ask you no mercy,

no, no, I ask you no mercy…

Let me despair…