Imprimatur

Day the Sixth

16th September, 1683

The return to the Donzello was long, sad and tiring. We came back to our bedchambers with our hands, faces and clothing mud-stained and wet. I threw myself onto my bed exhausted and almost at once fell into a deep sleep.

When I stirred in the morning, I found that I was still lying in the same uncomfortable posture as when I lay down the night before. It was as though my legs were tormented by a thousand swords. I stretched out an arm to raise myself into a sitting position and my hand met the rough, crumpled surface of an object with which I had obviously shared my bed. It was Stilone Priaso's astrological almanack, which I had so precipitously put aside some twenty-four hours before, when Cristofano called me to work.

The night which had just passed had fortunately helped me to forget the tremendous occurrences which the almanack had, by occult means, precisely foretold: the death of Colbert, that of Mourai (rather, of Fouquet) and the presence of a poison; the "malignant fevers" from which my master and Bedfordi would suffer; the "hidden treasure" which would come to light at the beginning of the month, or in other words, the letters hidden in Colbert's study and stolen by Atto; the "subterranean earthquakes and fires" which had resounded through our cellars; and, lastly, the prediction of the siege of Vienna: or, in the words of the gazette, " battles and assaults against the City", as foreseen by "Ali and Leopoldus Austriacus".

Did I wish to know what would happen in the days to come? No, I thought, with a tightening of my stomach, at least for the time being, I did not desire that. I looked instead at the preceding pages and my eyes alighted on the last week of July, from the 22nd until the last day of the month.

This Weeke, News of the World will be received from Jupiter, who governs the ruling House. That being the Third House, he sends many Dispatches, perhaps concerning the lllnesse of a Ruler, who will in the End tearfully quit a Kingdom.

So, at the end of July, the death of a sovereign was expected. I had heard of no such thing and so it was with satisfaction that I saluted the arrival of Cristofano: I would ask him.

But Cristofano knew nothing of this. Once again, he wondered, and inquired of me, how it was that I should be concerned with matters so distant from our present predicament: first, astrology, then, the fortunes of sovereigns. Thanks be to heaven, I had enjoyed sufficient presence of mind to conceal the astrological gazette in my couch in good time. I felt pleased to have discovered an inaccuracy, and one of some importance, in the almanack's hitherto all too precise predictions; this meant that they were not infallible. Secretly, I breathed a sigh of relief.

Cristofano, meanwhile, looked pensively at my eyes. He said that youth was a most happy season in human life, one that tended to unleash all the forces of body and mind. However, he added emphatically, one must not abuse this sudden and sometimes disorderly flowering, thus dissipating its new and almost uncontrollable energies. And while, with concern, he prodded the bags under my eyes, he reminded me that dissipation was above all sinful, as was commerce with women of easy virtue (and here he nodded in the direction of Cloridia's little tower), which could, moreover, lead to the French pox. He knew this well, having had personally to cure many with his authoritative remedies, such as the Great Ointment and Holy Wood. Yet, for health, such commerce was perhaps less inauspicious than solitary dissipation.

"Excuse me," said I, in an endeavour to deflect the discussion from that thorny subject, "I have another question: do you perhaps know what illnesses rats suffer from?"

Crisofano laughed. "That is all we need. 1 can see it all now… One of our guests must have asked you whether there are rats in the hostelry, is that not so?"

My smile was uncertain, neither affirming nor denying.

"Well, I ask you, are there rats in the hostelry?"

"Good heavens, no, I have always cleaned everywhere with the greatest of care."

"I know, I know. If that were not the case, in other words, if you had found any dead rats, I myself would have put you on your guard."

"And why is that?".

"Why my poor boy, rats are always the first to catch the pestilence: Hippocrates recommended that one should never touch them, and in this he was followed by Aristotle, Pliny and Avicenna. The geographer Strabo tells that in ancient Rome the dreadful meaning of rats appearing sick in the streets was well known; for it portends a visitation, and he reminds us that in Italy and Spain, prizes were awarded to whoever killed the greatest number of them. In the Old Testament, the Philistines, being afflicted with a frightful pestilence which affected their posterior parts, causing the putrefied intestines to issue forth from the anus, noticed that the fields and villages had been invaded by rats. They then questioned the seers and the priests who replied that the rats had devastated the earth and that, to placate the wrath of the God of Israel, they must offer Him an ex voto with a representation of the anus and of the rats. Apollo himself, a deity who caused the plague when wrathful and turned it away when placated, was known in Greece as Smintheus, or destroyer of mice and rats: and indeed, in the Iliad, it was Apollo Smintheus who destroyed with the pestilence the Achaeans besieging Troy. And Aesculapius, too, was represented during visitations of the plague, with a dead rat at his feet."

"Then rats cause the plague!" I exclaimed, thinking with horror of the dead rodents which I had seen under the ground the night before.

"Calm down, my boy. I did not say that. What I have just told you are only ancient beliefs. Today we are fortunate enough to be living in 1683 and modern medical science has made immense progress. Vile rats do not cause the plague, which results, as I have already had occasion to explain, from the corruption of the natural humours and principally from the wrath of the Lord. It is, however, true that rats fall sick with the plague and die from it, just like men. But it suffices not to touch them, as Hippocrates said."

"How does one recognise a rat with the plague?" I asked, fearing the reply.

"Personally, I have never seen one, but my father did: they suffer from convulsions, their eyes are red and swollen, they tremble and squeal in agony."

"And how does one know that it is not another malady?"

"It is simple; they soon lose all their natural fluids and die, pirouetting and spitting blood. And, when dead, they become bloated and their whiskers remain rigid."

I blanched. All the rats found in the galleries had a rivulet of blood flowing from their pointed muzzles. And Ciacconio had even taken one by the tail.

I was not afraid for myself, being immune to the distemper; but the discovery of those little carcasses meant perhaps that the plague was spreading through the city. Perhaps other houses and other inns had already been shut up and within them wretched unfortunates shared our anguish. Being in quarantine, we had no means of knowing. I therefore asked Cristofano whether, in his view, the pestilence had spread.

"Fear not. In the past few days I have several times requested information from the watchmen who mount the guard in front of the inn. They have told me that there are no other suspected cases in the city. And there is no reason not to believe that to be the case."

As we descended the stairs, the doctor ordered me to rest for a few hours in the afternoon, obviously after anointing my chest with the magnolicore.

Cristofano had come to my room to warn me that he himself would see to the preparation of something quite simple and nutritious for luncheon. Now, however, he needed my assistance: he was concerned about some of the guests who, the evening before, after the dinner based on cows' teats had been beset by fits of heavy eructations.

As soon as we reached the kitchen, I saw, placed upon a little stove, a heavy glass bell equipped with a spout shaped like an alembic, in which oil was beginning to distil. Underneath, something was burning in a little pot, giving off a great stink of sulphur. Next to it, there stood a flask in an earthenware container which the physician grasped and began to tap delicately with his fingertips, producing a delicate ringing sound.

"Do you hear how perfectly it sounds? I shall use it for reducing to ash the oil of vitriol which I shall apply to the tokens of poor Bedfordi. And let us hope that this time they will mature and at last burst. Vitriol is rather corrosive, most bitter, of black humour, and unctuous; it greatly chills all intrinsic heat. Roman vitriol-of which I was fortunate enough to purchase a stock before our quarantine-is the best, because it is congealed with iron, while the German product is congealed with copper."

I had understood very little, except that Bedfordi's condition had not improved. The physician continued: "In order to help our guests' digestion, you will help me to prepare my angelical electuary, which by its attractive and non-modifying virtues, resolves and evacuates all indispositions of the stomach, heals ulcerated wounds, is a salve for the body and calms all altered humours. It is also good for catarrh and for toothache."

He then handed me two brown felt bags. From one, he extracted a couple of flasks of wrought glass.

"They are very beautiful," said I.

"For electuaries to be maintained in good condition according to the art of the herbalist, they must be stored in the finest glass, and for this purpose other flasks are worthless," he explained proudly.

In one, Cristofano explained, was his quinte essence, mixed with electuary of fire of roses; in the other, red coral, saffron, cinnamon and the lapisphilosophorum Leonardi reduced to powder.

"Mix," he ordered me, "and administer two drachms to everyone. Go to it at once, for they must not partake of luncheon for at least another four hours."

After preparing the angelic electuary and pouring it into a bottle, I did the rounds of all the apartments. I left Devize's for last, since he was the only one to whom I had not yet administered the remedies which preserve from the plague.

As I approached his door, with the bag full of Cristofano's little jars, I heard a most graceful interweaving of sounds, in which I had no difficulty in recognising that piece which I had so many times heard him play, and whose ineffable sweetness had invariably enchanted me. I knocked timidly and he quite willingly invited me to come in. I explained the purpose of my visit to him and he assented with a nod, while still playing. Without proffering a word, I sat down on the floor. Devize then put down his guitar and fingered the strings of an instrument which was both far bigger and far longer, with a wide fingerboard and many bass notes to be played unfretted. He broke off and explained to me that this was a theorbo, for which instrument he himself had composed many suites of dances with the most vigorous succession of preludes, allemandes, gavottes, courantes, sarabandes, minuets, gigues, passacaglias and chaconnes.

"Did you also compose that piece which you play so often? If only you knew how that enchants everyone here at the inn."

"No, I did not compose that," he replied with a distracted air. "The Queen gave it to me to play for her."

"So you know the Queen of France in person?"

"I knew her: Her Majesty Queen Maria Teresa is dead."

"I am sorry, I…"

"I played for her often," he continued without pausing, "and even for the King, to whom I had occasion to teach some rudiments of the guitar. The King always loved…" His voice trailed off.

"Loved whom, the Queen?"

"No, the guitar," replied Devize with a grimace.

"Ah yes, the King wanted to marry the niece of Mazarin," I recited, regretting at once that I should thus have given away the fact that I had overheard his conversations with Stilone Priaso and Cristofano.

"I see that you know something," said he, somewhat surprised. "I imagine that you will have gleaned this from Abbot Melani."

Although taken by surprise, I succeeded in neutralising Devize's suspicions: "For heaven's sake, Sir… I have endeavoured to keep my distance from that strange individual, ever since…"-and here I pretended to be ashamed-"ever since, well…"

"I understand, I understand, you need say no more," Devize interrupted me with a half-smile. "I do not care for pederasts either…"

"Have you too had cause for indignation towards Melani?" I asked, mentally begging pardon for the ignominious calumny with which I was staining the honour of the abbot.

Devize laughed. "Fortunately, no! He has never… um… bothered me. Indeed we never addressed a word to one another in Paris. It is said that Melani was an exceptional soprano in the days of Luigi Rossi, and of Cavalli… He sang for the Queen Mother, who loved melancholy voices. Now he sings no more: he uses his tongue for lies, alas, and betrayal," said he acidly.

It could not have been clearer: Devize did not like Atto and knew of his fame as an intriguer. However, with the help of some necessary calumny about Abbot Melani, and by pretending to be even more of a rustic than was in fact the case, I was creating a certain complicity with the guitarist. With the help of a good massage, I would loosen his tongue even further, as with the other guests, and perhaps I would thus gain from him some intelligence concerning old Fouquet. The main thing, I thought, was that he should treat me as an ingenuous prentice, with no brain and no memory.

From my bag, 1 drew the most perfumed essences: white sandalwood, cloves, aloes and gum benzoin. I mixed them according to the recipe of Master Nicolo dalla Grottaria Calabrese, with thyme, calamite styrax, laudanum, nutmeg, mastics, spikenard, liquid amber and fine distilled vinegar. From these I made an odorous ball wherewith to rub the shoulders and flanks of the young musician, until it dissolved, while exerting light pressures on the muscles.

After baring his back, Devize sat astride his chair, facing the window: to look upon the light of day was, he said, his only comfort in these distressing days. At the start of the massage, I said nothing. I then began clumsily to hum the melody that so enchanted me: "Did you not say that Queen Maria Teresa gave this to you: perhaps she composed it?"

"No, no, what kind of idea is that? Her Majesty did not compose. Besides, that rondeau is no beginner's piece; it is by my master, Francesco Corbetta, who had learned it on one of his journeys and, before he died, donated it to Maria Teresa."

"Ah, your master was Italian," I remarked vaguely. "From what city did he come? I know that Signor di Mourai came from Naples, like another of our guests, Stilone…"

"Even a mere prentice like yourself," Devize interrupted me, "has heard of the love between the Most Christian King and Mazarin's niece. That is shameful. Of the Queen, however, no one knows a thing, save that Louis was unfaithful to her. Yet, the greatest wrong that one can do to a woman, especially Maria Teresa, is to let oneself be gulled by appearances."

Those words, which the young musician seemed to have pronounced with sincere bitterness, affected me profoundly: when judging the female sex, never be contented with first impressions. Despite the fact that I still felt the wound which I had sustained during our last encounter burning too cruelly, my thoughts moved instinctively to Cloridia, when she shamelessly reproached me for not paying the offering which she expected. Perhaps, however, Devize's observation might not apply to her. I felt a certain shame, then, at having compared the two women, the Queen and the courtesan. More than anything else, however, I felt myself suddenly overwhelmed by nostalgia, loneliness and awareness of the cruel distance that separated me from my Cloridia. Being unable at this time to cope with these feelings, I became most anxious to know more about the spouse of the Most Christian King, at whose sad and tormented fate Devize had hinted. I hoped that in some way, obscurely, her tale might reconcile me with the object of my languor.

I held out the bait to him with a venial lie: "I have indeed heard speak of Her Majesty Queen Maria Teresa. But only from passing guests at the inn. Perhaps I have…"

"Perhaps nothing: you surely need to be better governed," he brusquely interrupted me. "And you would do well to forget courtiers' chatter if you truly wish to know who Maria Teresa was and what she meant to France, and indeed, all of Europe."

He had bitten the hook.

The nuptial entry of the young Maria Teresa, Infanta of Spain, into Paris in 1660 was, so I learned from Devize while kneading the odorous ball into his shoulders, one of the most joyous events in all the history of France. The young Queen was seated in a triumphal coach finer even than that of Apollo; the silver of the ornaments in her hair was as luminous as the very rays of the sun and triumphed over her fine black gown embroidered with gold and silver and set with innumerable precious stones of inestimable worth. The French were enthusiastic and, transported by the joy and devoted love which only faithful subjects can know, prayed for a thousand blessings upon her. Louis XIV King of France and of Navarre, was in his turn the poets' perfect representation of a mortal deified; his apparel was woven of gold and silver and surpassed in dignity only by its wearer. He rode a superb mount, followed by a great number of princes. The peace between France and Spain, which the King had just given France through so auspicious a marriage, renewed the zeal and fidelity in the hearts of the people, and all those who had the good fortune to behold him on that day felt happy to have him for their sovereign lord. The Queen Mother, Anne of Austria, watched the King and Queen pass from a balcony on the rue Sainte-Antoine: one had but to see her face to know the joy which she felt. The two young sovereigns were united in exalting the greatness of both their kingdoms, at last at peace.

This was also a triumph for Cardinal Mazarin: the Peace of the Pyrenees, which restored calm and prosperity to France, was the crowning glory of his subtle policies. There followed months of festivities, ballets, operas and music, and the court was never richer in gaiety, gallantry and opulence.

"And after that, what happened?" I asked, fascinated by the history.

"After that, after that…" chanted Devize.

It was a matter of only a few months, he continued, before Maria Teresa was fully apprised of what was to be her destiny, and of what fidelity her consort was capable.

The first appetites of the young King were satisfied by Maria Teresa's maids of honour. And even if his wife had not completely understood the stuff of which Louis was made, she was helped in that by the King's other, not even very secret, erotic trysts with Madame de la Valliere, maid of honour to her sister-in-law Mary Stuart. Next, came the turn of Madame de Montespan, who gave Louis no fewer than seven children. All this intense adulterous activity took place in broad daylight, so much so that the people soon called Maria Teresa, Madame de la Valliere and la Montespan "the three Queens".

The King knew no limits: he had banished the poor husband of la Montespan from court and several times threatened to imprison him. Louis de Gondrin had dared to protest by wearing mourning and adorning his carriage with horns. Yet, Louis had built two splendid palaces for his mistress, with a profusion of gardens and fountains. In 1674, la Montespan remained almost without rivals, since Louise de la Valliere had retired to a convent. The new favourite travelled with a coach and six, always followed by a cart loaded with provisions, and with a retinue of dozens of servants in attendance. Racine, Boileau and La Fontaine sang her praises in their verses and all the court regarded it as a great honour to be received in her apartments, while no one paid tribute to the Queen, save for the minimum required by etiquette.

The fortune of la Montespan was, however, lost the moment that the King laid eyes upon Marie-Angelique de Fontanges, as lovely as an angel and as silly as a goose. Marie-Angelique, not content with supplanting her rivals, found it difficult to understand the limits which her position imposed upon her: she wanted to appear in public at the King's side and to salute no one, not even the Queen, notwithstanding the fact that she was part of her retinue.

In the end, the Sovereign allowed himself to be caught in the nets of Madame de Maintenon, to whom he confided without any distinction his legitimate children and his many bastards by other mistresses. For Maria Teresa, the affronts did not, however, end here. The Most Christian King despised the Dauphin, his first-born son by the Queen, and preferred his illegitimate children. To the Dauphin, he gave in marriage Maria Anna Victoria, the rather plain and ugly daughter of the Elector of Bavaria. All beautiful women were, of course, only for His Majesty's pleasure.

Here Devize stopped.

"And Her Majesty?" I asked, incredulous after all that dizzying traffic in women, and anxious to know the reaction of Maria Teresa.

"She suffered all in silence," the musician replied sadly. "What really took place in her heart of hearts, no one will ever know."

The adulteries, the humiliations, the pitiless mockery of the court and the people: in time, Maria Teresa had learned to swallow it all with a smile on her lips. So the King deceived her? She became all the more charitable and frugal. The King displayed his conquests before the whole world? She multiplied her prayers and devotions. The King courted Mademoiselle de Theobon or Mademoiselle de la Mothe, his wife's maids of honour? Maria Teresa dispensed smiles, words of advice and the kindest of attentions to all around her.

In the days when the Queen Mother, Anne of Austria, was still living, Maria Teresa had once dared to sulk at Louis for a couple of days. How little that was compared to all the outrages which she had put up with. Despite that, weeks and weeks passed before Louis deigned so much as to look at her again, and that thanks only to the Queen Mother who had laboured night and day to restore the situation. Maria Teresa had then understood that she must accept all that the marriage brought her: all, especially the pain and trouble; and that, without expecting anything in return, only the little which her spouse granted her.

In love, too, Louis had conquered. And since he knew and venerated the art of conquest, he had in the end decided upon what was-for him-the best and most appropriate conduct. He treated his wife, the Queen of France, with all the honours due to her condition; he ate with her, he slept with her, he fulfilled all his family obligations, he conversed with her as though his mistresses had never existed.

Apart from her spiritual devotions, the distractions which Maria Teresa permitted herself were few and harmless. In her retinue, she kept a half-dozen jesters whom she called Little Boy, Little Heart and Little Son, and a mass of small dogs whom she treated with a besotted, excessive affection. On her promenades, she had a separate carriage assigned to all that absurd company. Often the dwarves and little dogs ate at Maria Teresa's table, and to have them always near her, she was prepared to spend huge sums of money.

"But did you not say that she was a frugal and charitable lady?" I asked, taken aback.

"Yes, but this was the price of loneliness."

From eight to ten o'clock in the evening, Maria Teresa would play at cards, waiting for the King to take her to dinner. When the Queen played, princesses and duchesses would sit around her in a semicircle, while behind her stood the lesser nobility, panting and perspiring. The Queen's favourite game was hombre, but she was too ingenuous and always lost. Sometimes the Princess d'Elbeuf would make a sacrifice and allow herself to lose against the Sovereign: a sad and embarrassing spectacle. Until the end, the Queen felt more alone every day, as she herself confided to her few intimate friends. And before she died, she engraved all her suffering in a single phrase: "The King feels for me only now that I am about to leave him."

This narration, which had made me feel such great pity, was now making me impatient: I had hoped to obtain very different information from mouth of the musician. While continuing to massage Devize's back, I glanced at the table a few paces away from us. Distractedly, I had placed a few of my medicinal jars on some pages of music. I begged Devize's pardon for this but he gave a violent start and jumped up to check on the pages, in case they had been stained. He found a little oil-stain on one of them and became rather angry.

"You are no prentice, you are a beast! You have ruined my master's rondeau."

I was horrified. I had soiled the marvellous rondeau which I so loved. I offered to spread a fine dry powder on the leaf wherewith to absorb the oil; meanwhile, Devize cursed and heaped insults upon me. With trembling hand, I strove to restore to its pristine state that page of music on which were traced the sounds which had so delighted me. It was then that I noticed an inscription at the top: "a Mademoiselle".

"Is that a dedication of love?" I asked, stammering, showing how embarrassed I still was by what had occurred.

"But who would love Mademoiselle?… The only woman in the world more lonely and sad than the Queen herself."

"Who is Mademoiselle?"

"Oh, a poor woman, a cousin of His Majesty. She had sided with the rebels during the Fronde, and she paid dearly for that: just think of it, Mademoiselle had fired the cannons of the Bastille against the King's troops."

"And was she sent to the scaffold?"

"Worse: she was condemned to remain forever a spinster," laughed Devize. "The King prevented her from marrying. Mazarin said: 'Those cannon killed her husband.'

"The King has no pity even for his relatives," I commented.

"Indeed. When Maria Teresa died, last July, do you know what His Majesty said? 'This is the first displeasure she has given me.' And nothing else."

Devize continued talking, but now I was no longer listening to him. One word was pulsing in my head: July.

"Did you say that the Queen died in July?" I asked, brusquely interrupting him.

"What did you say? Ah yes, on the 30th of July, after an illness."

I asked no more. I had finished cleaning the page, rapidly removing the powder from both sides of the sheet and returning it to its cover. I took my leave and left the chamber almost panting with agitation. Closing the door, I leaned on the wall to reflect.

A sovereign, the Queen of France, had died of an illness in the last week of July: exactly in accordance with the prediction of the astrological almanack.

It was as though I had received a warning through the mouth of Devize: a piece of news (of which only I, a poor prentice, had remained unaware) had provided yet another confirmation of the infallibility of the astrological gazette and the ineluctability of fate's writing in the stars.

Cristofano had assured me that astrology was not necessarily contrary to the Faith, and was indeed of the greatest utility for medicine. Yet, in that moment there came to me the memory of the unfathomable reasoning of Stilone Priaso, the strange story of Campanella and the tragic destiny of Father Morandi. I prayed heaven to send me a sign that might free me from fear and show me the way.

It was then that I again heard the notes of the wonderful rondeau arising from the deep tones of the theorbo: Devize had begun playing again. I joined my hands in prayer and remained motionless, with my eyes closed, torn between hope and fear, until the music came to an end.

I dragged myself back into my chamber and there collapsed onto the bed, my soul emptied of all willpower and all vigour, tormented by events in which I could discern neither meaning nor order. Giving way to torpor, I hummed the sweet melody which I had just heard, almost as though it could confer on me the favour of a secret key wherewith to decipher the labyrinth of my sufferings.

I was awoken by some noise from the Via dell'Orso. I had drowsed for only a few minutes: now my first thought went again to the almanack, mixed, however, with a bitter-sweet concert of desire and privation, the first cause of which I had no difficulty in discerning. To find peace and relief, I knew that I had only to knock at a door.

For several days now, I had left Cloridia's meals before her door, only knocking to signal their serving. Since then, only Cristofano had had access to her apartment. Now, however, the conversation with Devize had opened up the wound of my distance from her.

What did it matter now that she had offended me with her venial request? With the pestilence circulating among us, she could be dead within a day or two; so I thought to myself with a pang in my heart. Pride, in extreme circumstances, is the worst of counsellors. There would surely be no lack of pretexts for me to visit her again: I had much to tell her and no less to ask.

"But I know nothing about astrology, that I have already told you," said Cloridia defensively when I showed her the almanack and explained to her how precise its predictions had turned out to be. "I know how to read dreams, numbers and the lines of the hand. For the stars, you must go to someone else."

I returned to my bedchamber thoroughly confused. That, however, was not so serious. Only one thing mattered: the blind god with little wings had again pierced my breast with his darts. It did not matter that I might never entertain any hope with Cloridia. It did not matter that she was aware of my passion and might laugh at it. I was still fortunate: I could see her and converse with her as and when I wished to, at least for as long as the quarantine lasted. This was a unique opportunity for a poor prentice like me; priceless moments which I would certainly remember for the remainder of my grey days. Again, I promised myself that I would return to visit her as soon as possible.

In my chamber, I found a little refreshment which Cristofano had left for me. A prey to love's drunkenness, I sipped the glass of wine almost as though it were the purest nectar of Eros, and swallowed a piece of bread and cheese as though it were the finest manna, sprinkled upon my head by the tender Aphrodite.

Replete, and with the dissipation of the soft aura which the encounter with Cloridia had left in my soul, I resumed my meditations upon my colloquy with Devize: I had succeeded in obtaining nothing from him about the death of Superintendent Fouquet. Abbot Melani was right: Devize and Dulcibeni would not speak easily about that strange affair. I had however succeeded in not arousing the suspicions of the young musician. On the contrary: with my ingenuous questions, and the damage which I had clumsily done to his score, I had imprinted in his mind the indelible image of an uncouth and stupid servant.

I went to visit my master, whose condition I found to be slightly improved. Cristofano was present, having just fed him. Pellegrino began to speak with a certain fluency and seemed sufficiently to understand what was said to him. Of course, he was far from enjoying perfect health, and still slept through most of the day, but, concluded Cristofano, it was not unreasonable to expect that he would soon be able to walk normally.

After spending some time with Pellegrino and the doctor, I returned to my chamber and at last allowed myself to enjoy sleep worthy of the name. I slumbered for hours, and when I descended to the kitchen, it was already dinner time. I hastened to cook for the guests, preparing a few slices of lemon with sugar, to stimulate the appetite. I continued with a Milanese soup, whose recipe called for egg yolk, Muscatel in which some crushed pine kernels had been soaked, sugar, a discreet dose of cinnamon (which, however, I decided this time to omit) and a little butter: all of this pounded in the mortar, sieved and placed in a little boiling water until it thickened. To this I added a garnish of a few bergamots.

After I had completed my round, I returned to the kitchen and prepared half a small jug of hot roasted coffee. Then I climbed to the little tower on tiptoe, so as not to be caught out by Cristofano.

"Thank you!" exclaimed Cloridia radiantly, as soon as I had opened her door.

"I prepared this only for you," I had the courage to tell her, blushing violently."I adore coffee!" said she, closing her eyes and sniffing ecstatically at the fumes which spread across the room from the little jug.

"Do they drink much coffee where you come from, in Holland?"

"No, but I do like very much the way in which you have prepared it, diluted and abundant. It reminds me of my mother."

"I am pleased. I had the impression that you had never known her."

"That was practically the case," she replied hurriedly. "I mean: I hardly remember her face, only the aroma of coffee, which, as I was later to learn, she prepared wonderfully well."

"Was she, too, Italian, like your father?"

"No. But did you come here to pester me with questions?"

Cloridia had become gloomy; I had ruined everything. Yet, suddenly, I saw her seek my eyes with hers and bestow on me a beautiful smile.

She invited me kindly to take a seat, pointing to a chair.

From a chest of drawers she took two little goblets and a dry roll with aniseed, and poured me some coffee. Then she sat before me, on the edge of the bed, sipping greedily.

I could think of nothing to say with which to fill the silence. And I was too ashamed to ask more questions. Cloridia, however, seemed pleasantly occupied, dipping a piece of the cake into the hot beverage and biting it with both grace and voraciousness. I melted with tenderness looking upon her and felt my eyes grow moist as I pictured myself plunging my nose in her hair and brushing her forehead with my lips.

Cloridia looked up: "For days now, I have spoken only with you, and yet I know nothing of your life."

"There is so little in it to interest you, Monna Cloridia."

"That is not true: for instance, where do you come from, how old are you, and how did you come to be here?"

I told her succinctly of my past as a foundling, my studies, thanks to the instruction of an old nun, and the benevolence of Signor Pellegrino towards me.

"So you have received instruction. I imagined that from your questions. You have been most fortunate. I, however, lost my father at the age of twelve and I have had to make do with the little which he had time to teach me," said she, without losing her smile.

"You learned Italian only from your father. Yet you speak it admirably."

"No, I did not learn it only from him. We were living in Rome when I was left alone. Then other Italian merchants brought me to Holland with them again."

"It must have been so sad."

"That is why I am here now. I wept for years, in Amsterdam, recalling how happy I had been in Rome. Meanwhile, I read and studied alone, in the little time that remained to me between…"

She did not need to finish her sentence. She was surely referring to the sufferings which life inflicts upon orphans, and which had led Cloridia onto the road to an abominable life of prostitution.

"But thus I succeeded in obtaining my freedom," she continued, as though she had guessed my thoughts, "and I could at last follow the life which is hidden in my numbers…"

"Your numbers?"

"But of course, you know nothing of numerology," said she with ostentatious courtesy, making me feel slightly ill at ease. "Well," she continued, "you must know that the numbers of our date of birth, but also those of other important dates in our lives, contain in themselves our whole existence. The Greek philosopher Pythagoras said that, through numbers, all could be explained."

"And the numbers of your date of birth brought you here to Rome?" I asked, slightly incredulous.

"Not only: I and Rome are one and the same thing. Our destinies depend the one upon the other."

"But, how is that possible?" I asked, fascinated.

"The numbers speak clearly. I was born on the 1st of April, 1664, while the birthday of Rome…"

"What? Can a city, too, celebrate its birthday?"

"But of course. Do you not know the tale of Romulus and Remus, the wolf and the flight of birds, and how the city came to be founded?"

"Certainly, I do."

"Well, Rome was founded on a specific day: on the 21st of April in the year 753 before Christ. And the two birth dates, mine and that of the city of Rome, give the same result. Always provided that one writes it correctly, as is done in numerology, that is, counting the months from March, the month of spring and the beginning of new life, onwards; as did the ancient Romans and as still is done in the astrological calendar, which begins, of course, with Aries."

I realised that she was entering slippery terrain, in which the borders with heresy and witchcraft were very narrow.

"April, then, is the second month of the year," continued Cloridia, taking up ink and paper, "and the two dates are written thus: 1/2/1664 and 21/2/753. If you add up the two groups of numbers, you obtain, first: 1+2+1+6+6+4 = 20. And then: 2 + 1 + 2 + 7+5+3 = 20. Do you understand? The same number."

I stared at these figures hurriedly scribbled onto the sheet of paper and remained silent. The coincidence was indeed surprising.

"Not only that," continued Cloridia, dipping into the inkwell and resuming her calculations. "If I add day, month and year, figure by figure, I obtain 21 + 2 +753 = 776. If I add the figures of that total, 7 + 7 + 6, I again obtain 20. Yet, adding 1 + 2 + 1664, I obtain 1667, the digits of which also add up to 20. And do you know what the figure 20 stands for? It is the Judgement, the major arcana of the tarot, bearing the number 20, and signifying the reparation of wrongs and the wise judgement of posterity"

How sharp-witted was my Cloridia. So much so, that I had understood very little of her divinatory calculations or why she applied herself to them with such fervour. Little by little, however, my scepticism was overcome by her great ingenuity. I was in ecstasy: the grace of Venus competed with the intellect of Minerva.

"So, you are in Rome to obtain reparation for a wrong which you have suffered?"

"Do not interrupt me," she retorted brusquely. "The science of numbers proclaims that the reparation of wrongs will one day lead posterity to correct its own judgement. But do not ask me exactly what that means, because even I do not yet know."

"Was it also written in your numbers that you would one day come to the Locanda del Donzello?" I asked, drawn to the idea that my meeting with Cloridia might have been predestined.

"No, not in the numbers. When I arrived in Rome, I chose this hostelry following the guidance of the virga ardentis, the burning, or trembling, or projecting rod (there are many names for it). Do you know what I am speaking of?" said she, standing up and holding out her arm at the height of her belly, as though imitating a long stick.

It looked very much like an obscene allusion. I held my tongue and felt discouraged.

"But we shall speak of that another time; if you wish to, of course," she concluded with a smile which seemed ambiguous to me.

I took my leave of her, promptly completing my round of the apartments to collect the dishes in which I had served dinner. Whatever had Cloridia meant by that strange gesture? Was it perhaps a lascivious invitation or, worse, a mercenary one? I was not that stupid: I knew that, given my humble condition, it was ridiculous to expect that she might ever think of me as anything other than a poor servant; but, had she not understood that I had not a penny to my name? Did she perhaps hope that, for her, I might take some money from my master? I dismissed the thought with horror. Cloridia had referred to a wrong which had been suffered, in connection with her return to Rome. No, she cannot have been alluding to meretricious traffic at so grave a moment. I must have misunderstood.

I was delighted to see the guests of the inn visibly satisfied with their meal. When I knocked at his door, Dulcibeni was still sipping his soup, which was cold by now, and greedily sucking it between tongue and palate.

"Do take a seat, dear boy. Pardon me, but today my appetite was slow to come."

I obeyed silently, waiting for him to finish his meal. My attention wandered to the objects scattered across the chest of drawers next to his armchair, and stopped at three small volumes with vermilion covers and gilt lettering. They were very beautiful, I thought: but where had I seen them before?

Dulcibeni looked at me curiously: he had finished his soup and was holding out the dish for me. I took it with the most ingenuous of smiles and went out with lowered eyes.

Hardly was I out of the apartment than, instead of descending to the kitchen, I rushed up to the second floor. When I knocked breathlessly on Atto Melani's door, my arms were still laden with crockery.

"Pompeo Dulcibeni?" exclaimed the abbot incredulously, as I terminated my report.

The day before, I had in fact visited Dulcibeni's chamber in order to give him a massage and, during the treatment he had wanted to take a little snuff. He had, then, opened the chest in search of his snuff-box of inlaid cherry-wood and, in order to tidy the drawer a little, he had taken from it a few little books with a rather fine vermilion binding and gilt lettering. Now, in Tiracorda's library, I had noticed a number of identical books: an edition of the works of Galen in seven volumes from which, however, three were missing. And precisely these three I had just seen in Dulcibeni's chamber. On the spine of each was inscribed Galeni Opera and they belonged without the shadow of a doubt to the same set of the complete works of Galen in seven volumes as the four books in the house of Tiracorda.

"Of course," the abbot reasoned, "it is always possible that Dulcibeni and Tiracorda last met before the quarantine began. And it was perhaps then that Tiracorda lent those books to Dulcibeni."

Nevertheless, he objected, both he and I were witnesses to the fact that the Archiater had received a guest in the middle of the night: a most curious hour for a visit! Nor was that all: he and his visitor had made an appointment for the following day at the same hour. Therefore, Tiracorda's mysterious guest was wont to wander around the city at the same hours in which we were able to leave the Donzello unseen. That guest must be Dulcibeni himself.

"How is it that Tiracorda and Dulcibeni know one another?"

"You are asking that question," Atto replied, "because you are unaware of one factor: Tiracorda is a Marchigiano."

"Like Dulcibeni!"

"What is more, Dulcibeni is a native of the Marches of Fermo, and 1 seem to remember that Tiracorda too comes from Fermo."

"So they are fellow citizens."

"Just so. Rome has always been home to many illustrious physicians coming from that ancient and noble city: Romolo Spezioli, for instance, the personal physician to Queen Christina of Sweden, the chief court physician Giovan Battista Benci and even Cesare Macchiati, if my memory does not betray me, who like Tiracorda was physician to the conclave. Almost all the citizens of Fermo live in this quarter, around the church of San Salvatore in Lauro, where their High Confraternity meets."

"Tiracorda, however, lives a few yards away from the Donzello," I objected, "and he surely knows that we are in quarantine. Does he not fear to be infected by Dulcibeni?"

"Obviously not. Perhaps he has repeated Cristofano's original view that this was not the pestilence, passing over Bedfordi's illness and the strange accident that befell your master."

"Then it is Dulcibeni who stole my master's keys. He, who seems so severe!"

"Never trust to appearances. He will probably have been instructed by Pellegrino in the use of the subterranean passageways."

"While I knew nothing of them. It seems incredible…"

Not siam tre donzellette semplicette semplicette, oh, oh, senza fallo…*

He teased me, striking up a comic pose and chanting with his little voice. "Wake up, my boy! Remember: secrets are made to be sold. Originally, Pellegrino must have opened up the secret passage for him in return for payment. However, at the beginning of the quarantine, your master became comatose. Dulcibeni must then have had to borrow the bunch of keys in order to have a copy of the key to the closet made by an artisan in the Via dei Chiavari, the road where (as Ugonio puts it) Komarek impresses."

"And what has Komarek to do with it?"

"Nothing whatever. I have already explained that to you, do you not remember? A pure coincidence; one which misled us."

"Ah yes," I replied, worried by my incapacity to keep pace with the congeries of discoveries, refutations, intuitions and false trails of the past few days. "But why did Pellegrino not give Dulcibeni a copy of the key?"

"Perhaps your master, as I said, takes payment every time a client wishes to use the underground passages; meaning that no keys are provided."

"Why, then, does Stilone Priaso have his own copy?"

"Do not forget that the last time that he sojourned at the Donzello was in the days of the late Signora Luigia: he will have asked her for one, or purloined it."

"That does not explain why Dulcibeni should have stolen my little pearls, since he seems to be anything but poor."

"And I have a question which is even more difficult to resolve: if he is indeed the mysterious thief whom we have taken such pains to follow, how is it that, on every single occasion, he has proven to be a hundred times faster than we, and has always given us the slip?"

"Perhaps he knows the galleries better than we do. However, now that I come to think of it, he cannot possibly move so fast: only two * Three little maids are we / Simple, oh so simple / Oh, oh with not a fault. In Italian, the last word "fallo" may be a double-entendre, since it also means "phallus". (Translator's note). days ago, he suffered an attack of sciatica. And Cristofano told him that it would last for several days."

"All the more reason. Add to that the fact that Dulcibeni is no longer a youngster and is somewhat corpulent, and whenever he speaks for any length of time, he becomes breathless: how the deuce does he manage to crawl every night up the hole which leads to the trapdoor?" concluded Atto with a hint of sourness, he who perspired and panted every time that we climbed through that narrow place.

I then told Atto all that I had recently learned concerning Pompeo Dulcibeni. I mentioned to him that, according to Padre Robleda, the elderly Marchigiano belonged to the sect of the Jansenists. I also told him of the harsh judgement which Dulcibeni had pronounced against the activities of the Jesuits in the sphere of espionage and of his fiery soliloquy against the consanguineous marriages which had for centuries been taking place among the royal families of Europe. The gentleman from Fermo was, I insisted, so scandalised by that practice and had become so heated as to exclaim in a loud voice-in an imaginary conversation with a woman, held before a mirror-that he longed for a Turkish victory at Vienna; thus, he hoped, a little fresh and uncorrupted blood would come to the thrones of our continent.

"A discourse, or should I say, a soliloquy worthy of a true Jansenist. At least, in part," commented Abbot Melani frowning pensively. "And yet, why desire a Turkish invasion in Europe, only out of pique against the Bourbons and the Habsburgs? That does seem to me somewhat excessive even for the most fanatical follower of Jansenius."

Be that as it may, Atto concluded, my discovery compelled us to return to the house of Tiracorda. As we had heard last night, Dulcibeni would be returning there too.