Imprimatur

Day the Second

12th September, 1683

The morning after, I awoke to a strange surprise. I found Signor Pellegrino asleep on his bed, in the chamber which we shared under the eaves. He had made no preparation whatever for our guests' repast; which, despite our exceptional circumstances, was nevertheless required of him. My master, dressed in the clothes he had worn the evening before, lay sprawled across the bedcovers, showing every sign of having fallen asleep under the influence of some cheap red wine. After rousing him with some difficulty, I went to the kitchen. As I was descending the stairs, I heard, drawing ever nearer, a distant cloud of sounds, confused at first, albeit pleasant. As I drew closer to the entrance of the dining chamber, next to the kitchen, the music grew clearer and more intelligible. It was Signor Devize who, clumsily perched on a wooden stool, was practising his instrument.

A strange enchantment overcame all who heard Devize's playing, in which the joy of listening was conjoined with the pleasure of the eyes. His doublet of Isabella-coloured bourette and his unadorned apparel, his eyes whose colour shifted from green to grey, his fine cinder-grey hair: everything in him seemed to give way to the vivid tones which, with extravagant chromatics, he drew from the six strings. Once the last note had vanished into thin air, the enchantment broke; and there before one sat a sulky little red-faced man, almost scorbutic, with minute features, a small nose reaching down towards a fleshy, pouting mouth, the short, bull-like physique of an ancient Teuton, a martial gait and brusque manners.

He did not pay much attention when I entered and, after a brief pause, resumed his playing. Suddenly, from his fingers, there sprang up no mere music, but an admirable architecture of sounds which to this day I could describe, were heaven to grant me the words, and not just the memory. It began with a simple, innocent air which danced, arpeggiato, from the tonal chord to that of the dominant (thus the virtuoso was later to explain it to me, as yet utterly ignorant of the art of sounds), then reprised that movement, and, after a surprising free cadenza passage, repeated it all. This was, however, only the first of a rich and surprising collection of gems which, as Signor Devize later explained to me, was called a rondeau and which was composed of that same first air, repeated several times, but each time followed by a new precious jewel, utterly original and resplendent in its own light.

Like every other rondeau, this one, to which I was to listen on many subsequent occasions, was crowned by the extreme and conclusive repetition of the first stanza, which seemed to endow the whole with meaning and completeness. But, although the innocence and simplicity of that first stanza was utterly delicious, it would have been nothing without the sublime concert of the others which, one after the other, refrain upon refrain, arose ever freer, bolder and more exquisite from that admirable structure; so much so that the last of these was for the intellect and the ears a most sweet and extreme challenge, like those which knights issue to one another over questions of honour. The final arpeggio, after descending prudently, even timidly, towards the bass notes, made a sudden ascent towards the high notes, then jumped to the highest, transforming its tortuous and timorous advance into a clear river of beauty, into which it loosened its long tresses of harmony with an admirable progression to bass. And there it remained, absorbed in mysterious and ineffable harmonies, which to my ear sounded forbidden, even impossible (which is the main reason why words fail me here), and at last moved unwillingly towards peace, making way for the final repetition of the initial stanza.

I listened rapt, without proffering a word, until the French musician had stilled the last echo from his instrument. He looked at me.

"You play the lute so well," I ventured timidly.

"In the first place, this is no lute," he answered, "it is a guitar. And besides, you are not interested in how well I play. You like this music. One can see from how you listen. And you are right: I am rather proud of this rondeau."

Here, he explained to me how a rondeau was made, and how that which I had just heard differed from others.

"That to which you have just listened is a rondeau in the style we call brise, or broken. In other words, it imitates the lute: the chords are not all played together but strummed, arpeggiato."

"Ah, I see," I replied, confusedly.

From my expression, Devize must have understood how unsatisfactory his explanation had been, and he went on to say that, while the refrain was written according to the good old rules of consonance, the alternate passages contained ever new harmonic assays, which all concluded in an unexpected fashion, almost as though they were alien to good musical doctrine. And after reaching its apogee, the rondeau brusquely entered its coda.

I asked him how it was that he spoke our language so fluently (although with a strong French accent; but that, I did not mention).

"I have travelled much, and I have come to know many Italians whom, by inclination and in practice, I regard as the best musicians in the world. In Rome, however, the Pope has already had the Teatro Tor di Nona, which was near this hostelry, closed for years; but in Bologna, in the cappella of San Petronio, and in Florence, one can hear many fine musicians and many magnificent new works. Indeed, our great maestro Jean-Baptiste Lully, who ornaments the King's glory at Versailles, is a Florentine. Best of all, I know Venice where, of all Italian cities, music flourishes the most. I adore the theatres of Venice: the San Cassiano, the San Salvatore, and the famous Teatro del Cocomero where, before I went to Naples, I attended a marvellous concert."

"Were you intending to stay long here in Rome?"

"It scarcely matters now what I may have intended. We do not even know whether we shall leave here alive," said he, resuming his playing with a passage which, he said, came from a chaconne by Maestro Lully himself.

Hardly had I left the kitchen where, after my conversation with Devize I had closed myself in to prepare luncheon, when I ran into Brenozzi, the Venetian glass-blower. I advised him that, if he wished for a warm meal, it was ready. But he, without uttering a word, grasped my arm and dragged me down the stairs that led to the cellar. When I tried to protest, he closed my mouth with his hand. We stopped halfway down the stairs and he started at once: "Calm down and listen to me. Do not be afraid, you must only tell me certain things."

He whispered in a strangled voice, without allowing me to open my mouth. He wanted to know the comments of the other guests on the death of Signor di Mourai, and whether it was thought that there was a danger of yet another death by poisoning or some other cause, and if anyone in particular feared such an eventuality, and if others, on the contrary, feared no such thing, and how long the quarantine might last, if it might be more than the twenty days ordered by the Magistrate, and whether I suspected that any of the guests might be in possession of poisons, or even so much as thought that use had really been made of such substances; and lastly, whether any one of those present was proving inexplicably tranquil despite the quarantine that had just been imposed on the inn.

"Signore, I really…"

"The Turks? Have they spoken of the Turks? And of the pestilence in Vienna?"

"But I know nothing, I…"

"Now listen once and for all, and answer me," he continued, impatiently squeezing his rod. "Marguerites: does that mean anything to you?"

"I beg your pardon, Sir?"

"Daisies, marguerites."

"If you wish, Sir, I do have dried ones in the cellar for preparing infusions. Do you feel unwell?"

He snorted and raised his eyes to heaven.

"Forget all that I have said to you. My one command is this: if anyone should ask you, you know nothing about me, understood?" and he squeezed both my hands until they hurt.

I stood there looking at him, speechless.

"Understood?" he repeated impatiently. "What is wrong, is that not enough for you?"

I did not comprehend the meaning of his last question and began to fear that he was out of his mind. I broke free of his grip and rushed up the stairs, while my tormentor tried to hold me back. I emerged into semi-darkness, while Devize's guitar began again to play that splendid and disquieting melody which I had already heard. Rather than tarry, however, I rushed up to the first floor. My fists were still tight with the tension provoked by the glass-blower's assault, and that is why it was only then that I became aware of something in my hand. I opened it and saw three little pearls of admirable lustre.

I put these in my pocket and headed for the chamber in which Signor di Mourai had died. There, I found three of our guests engaged in the saddest of tasks. Cristofano was carrying the corpse of the deceased, wrapped in a white cloth which served as a shroud, and beneath which one could sense the deathly rigour of his members. The physician was assisted by Signor Pellegrino and, in the absence of younger volunteers, by Dulcibeni and Atto Melani. The abbot wore no periwig, neither was his face powdered. I was astonished to see him wearing secular apparel-taffeta breeches and a muslin cravat-which seemed excessively elegant for so sombre an occasion. The only remaining sign of his rank was a pair of fiery red stockings.

The poor body was placed on a large oblong basket, lined with rags and blankets. On top of it was placed the bundle containing his few effects, collected by Dulcibeni.

"Did he possess nothing else?" asked Abbot Melani, noticing that the gentleman from Fermo had packed only a few of the dead man's clothes.

Cristofano replied that it was only obligatory to hand over clothing. Other effects could remain in the hands of Dulcibeni, who could deliver them to any surviving relatives. Then the three lowered the corpse with a thick rope through the window down to the street, where the Societas Orationis et Mortis awaited their sad consignment.

"What will they do with the body, Signor Cristofano?" I asked the physician. "Is it true that they will burn it?"

"That is not our business. It is not possible to bury him," he added, drawing breath.

We heard a slight tinkling. Cristofano reached down to the ground. "Did you drop something?… but what have you in your hand?" he asked.

From my half-open hand one of the pearls, with which I had been nervously playing, had fallen to the floor. The doctor picked it up and studied it.

"Really splendid. Where did you get it?"

"Oh, these were deposited by a customer," I lied, showing him the other two.

My master, in the meantime, left the apartment. He seemed tired. Atto, too, departed in the direction of his own apartment.

"That is bad. One should never allow oneself to be parted from pearls, least of all in our predicament."

"Why?"

"Among their numerous and occult virtues, they preserve one from poison."

"How is that possible?" I asked, growing pale.

"Because they are siccae and frigidae to the second degree," replied Cristofano, "and, if well preserved in a vase and not perforated, habent detergentem facultatem, and can exercise a cleansing action in the presence of fevers and putrefaction. They purge and clarify the blood- indeed, they limit menstruation-and, according to Avicenna, they cure the corpum crassatum, palpitations and cardiac syncope."

While Cristofano was displaying his medical learning, I felt unable to comprehend: what obscure signal did Brenozzi's gift hide? I knew that I must absolutely speak of this with Abbot Melani, and I sought to take my leave of the chirurgeon.

"Interesting," added Cristofano, examining the pearls and turning them attentively with his fingertips. "The form of these pearls indicates that they were fished before the full moon and in evening waters."

"And what does that mean?"

"That they cure the false imaginings of the soul and cogitations. Dissolved in vinegar, they are a sure remedy for omni imbecillitate et animideliquio, above all, for apparent death."

At last Cristofano returned the pearls to me and I was able to leave him. I ran straight up the stairs to Abbot Melani's apartment.

Atto's chamber was on the second floor, just above that which the old Mourai had shared with Dulcibeni. These were the largest and brightest apartments in the entire hostelry: each had three windows, two of which faced onto the Via dell'Orso and one onto the corner of the alleyway. In the days of Signora Luigia, important personages had lodged there with their retinue. There was also an identical room on the third and last floor, under the eaves, where Signora Luigia had lived. Here, despite Cristofano's prohibition, my master and I continued to cohabit, although temporarily: this being a privilege that I would surely lose on the return of Signor Pellegrino's wife, when I would again be relegated to sleeping in the kitchen.

I was struck by the variety of books and maps of all sorts which the abbot had brought with him. Atto Melani was a lover of the antiquities and beauties of Rome, judging, at least, by the titles of some of the volumes which I glimpsed, carefully arranged on a shelf, and with which I was later to acquaint myself in quite another manner:

The Splendour of ancient and modern Rome, in which are represented all the principal Temples, Theatres, Amphitheatres, Circuses, Naumachiae, Triumphal Arches, Obelisks, Palaces, Baths, Curiae and Basilicas, by Lauri; and Fabricius' Chemnicensis Roma and The Antiquities of Rome in a Compendium of Authors both Ancient and Modern, together with a Treatise concerning the Fires of the Ancients by Andrea Palladio. Nine great maps stood out, with their rods the colour of Indian cane and gold pommels, together with a mass of manuscript letters which Melani was sorting on the table and which he quickly put down. He offered me a seat.

"I wanted to talk to you. Tell me: have you any acquaintances in this quarter? Friends, confidants?"

"I think… well, no. Almost no one, Signor Abbot Melani."

"You may call me Signor Atto. A pity. I would like to have known, at least through the window, what is being said about our plight; and you were my only hope," he said.

He went to the window and began to sing in an exceedingly suave voice, which he barely restrained:

Disperate speranze, addio, addio.

Ahi, mentite speranze, andate a volo…'*

The abbot's extemporaneous assay of virtuosity left me stupefied and full of admiration. Despite his age, Melani still possessed a rather light soprano voice. I complimented him and asked him if he had composed the splendid cantata of which he had just sung a snatch.

"No, 'tis by Seigneur Luigi Rossi, my master," he replied distractedly. "But tell me rather, tell me: how did the morning go? Have you noticed anything bizarre?"

"A rather strange episode befell me, Signor Atto. I had only just had a conversation with Signor Devize when…"

"Ah, Devize, it was precisely about him that I wished to talk to you. Was he playing?"

"Yes, but…"

"He is good. The King appreciates him greatly. His Majesty adores the guitar almost as much as, once, when young, he adored opera and giving a good account of himself in the court ballets. Fine times… And what did Devize say to you?"

I understood that, unless I first exhausted the matter of music, he would not allow me to proceed further with my account. I told him of the rondeau which I had heard from the French musician's guitar, and how the latter had spoken to me of the music he had heard in many Italian theatres, above all in Venice, with its celebrated Teatro del Cocomero. [1]

"The Teatro del Gocomero? Are you sure that you remember that properly?"

"Well, yes… the Watermelon… It is such a strange name for a theatre. Devize told me he had been there just before he travelled to Naples. Why?"

"Oh nothing. It is just that your guitarist is telling tall tales, but he has not taken the trouble to prepare them well."

I was dumbfounded. "How can you tell?"

"The Cocomero is a magnificent theatre, where many splendid virtuosi do indeed perform. To tell the truth, I have sung there myself. I remember that, once, the organiser wished me to play the part of Apelles in Alessandro, Vincitore di Se Stesso. I of course refused and they gave me the main role, ha ha! A truly fine theatre, the Cocomero. A pity that it is in Florence and not in Venice."

"But… Devize said he had been there before going to Naples."

"Exactly. Not long ago, then, since from Naples he came straight to Rome. But 'tis a lie: a theatre with such a name remains imprinted in the memory, as it did for you. I tell you: Devize has never set foot in the Cocomero. And perhaps not in Venice either."

I was dismayed by the revelation of that small but alarming untruth on the part of the French musician.

"But pray, continue," resumed the abbot. "You said that something strange had happened to you, if I am not mistaken."

I was at last able to tell Atto about the questions which Brenozzi the Venetian had put to me so insistently, his bizarre request for daisies and the mysterious gift of three pearls, which Cristofano had recognised as being of the type used to cure poisoning and apparent death. For which reason, I feared that these little jewels might have something to do with the death of Signor di Mourai, and perhaps Brenozzi knew something, but had been afraid to speak clearly; I showed the pearls to Melani. The abbot took one look at them and laughed heartily.

"My boy, I really do not believe that poor Monsieur de Mourai…" he began, shaking his head; but he was interrupted by a piercing scream.

It seemed to come from the floor above.

We rushed into the corridor, and then up the stairs. We stopped halfway up the second staircase where, sprawled across the steps, lay the inanimate body of Signor Pellegrino.

Behind us, the other guests also came running. From my master's head flowed a rivulet of blood which ran down a couple of steps. The scream had without a doubt issued from the mouth of Cloridia, the courtesan, who, trembling, with a handkerchief that covered almost all her face, was staring at the apparently lifeless body. Behind us, who all still stood as though frozen, the chirurgeon Cristofano made his way forward. With a kerchief, he removed the long white hair from my master's face. It was then that he seemed to regain consciousness and, giving a great heave, vomited forth a greenish and exceedingly foul-smelling mass. After that, Signor Pellegrino lay on the ground without giving any sign of life.

"Let us carry him up to his chamber," exhorted Cristofano, leaning over my master.

No one moved save myself, when I tried with scant success to raise his torso. Pushing me aside, Abbot Melani took my place.

"Hold his head," he ordered.

The physician took Pellegrino by the legs, and, making our way through the silent onlookers, we bore him to his chamber and laid him on the bed.

My master's rigid face was unnaturally pale and covered with a fine veil of perspiration. He seemed as though made of wax. His wide-open eyes stared at the ceiling, and under them were two livid bags of skin. A wound on his forehead had just been cleaned by the chirurgeon, revealing a long, deep gash, on either side of which the bone of the skull was visible, probably injured by a heavy blow. My master, however, was not dead. His breathing was stertorous, but subdued.

"He fell down the stairs and struck his head. But I fear that he was already unconscious when he fell."

"What do you mean?" asked Atto.

Cristofano hesitated before answering: "He suffered an attack of a malady which I have not yet identified with any certainty. It was, however, a fulminating seizure."

"And what does that mean?" repeated Atto, raising his tone somewhat. "Was he too perhaps poisoned?"

At those words, I was seized by shivering and remembered the abbot's words the night before: if we did not stop him in time, the assassin would soon find other victims. And perhaps now, far earlier than expected, he had already struck down my master.

The doctor, however, shook his head at Melani's question and freed Pellegrino's neck from the kerchief which he usually wore knotted over his shirt: two swollen bluish blotches appeared below his left ear.

"From his general rigidity, this would appear to be the same sickness as that of old Mourai. But these," he continued, pointing out the two swellings, "these here… And yet he did not seem…"

We understood that he was thinking of the plague. We all drew back instinctively. Someone invoked heaven.

"He was perspiring, he probably had a fever. When we lowered Monsieur de Mourai's body to the street, he was far too easily fatigued."

"If it is the plague, he will not last long."

"However, the possibility does exist that this may be another similar but less desperate infirmity. For example, the petechiae."

"The what?" interrupted Father Robleda and Stilone Priaso, the poet.

"In Spain, Father, 'tis known as tabardillo, while in the Kingdom of Naples, it is called pastici and in Milan, segni," explained Cristofano, turning first to the one, then to the other. "Some call it the spotted fever. It is a distemper caused by blood corrupted by an indisposition of the stomach. Pellegrino has, indeed, vomited. The onset of the plague is violent, while the petechiae begin with very mild symptoms, such as lassitude and giddiness (which I noted in him this morning). It worsens, however, and causes the most diverse symptoms until it covers the whole body with red, purple or black spots, like these two. Which, it is true, are too swollen to be petechiae, but also too small to be tokens, that is, the bubos of the plague."

"But," intervened Cloridia, "is not the fact that Pellegrino fainted so suddenly a sure sign of the plague?"

"We do not know for certain whether he lost consciousness because of the blow to the head or because of the disease," sighed the doctor. "However, these two spots will reveal the truth to us tomorrow. As I said, they are indeed very black and show that the disease is greater and involves more putrescence."

"To sum up," interrupted Father Robleda, "is it contagious or not?"

"The petechial disease is caused by excessive heat and dryness and therefore those with choleric temperaments, like Pellegrino, are readily subject to it. From this, you will understand the importance, for keeping contagion at arm's length, of avoiding agitation and raving." Here, he looked significantly at the Jesuit. "The malady gives rise to extreme dryness. In a brief space of time, it extinguishes the radical humidity of the body and can in the end kill. But if sustenance is given to the weakened body of the patient, that in itself reduces the virulence, and very few die: that is why it is less grave than the plague. However, almost every one of us has been close to him during the past few hours and we are all therefore at risk. It is advisable that you should all return to your apartments, where I shall later visit you one by one. Try to keep calm."

Cristofano then called me to help him.

"It is good that Signor Pellegrino vomited at once: that vomiting cleared from his stomach the matter which was liable to putrefy and grow corrupt as a result of the humours," he said, as soon as I had joined him. "From now on, the sick man must be fed with cold foods, which refresh his choleric tendency."

"Will you bleed him?" I asked, having heard that such a remedy was universally recommended for all maladies.

"Absolutely to be avoided: bleeding might cool the natural heat too much and the patient would soon die."

I shivered.

"Fortunately," continued Cristofano, "I have with me herbs, balsams, waters and powders and all else that I need to treat disease. Help me to undress your master completely, for I must anoint him with oil for the morbilli, as Galen calls petechiae. This penetrates the body and preserves it from corruption and putrefaction."

He went out and returned soon with a collection of small ampoules.

After carefully folding Signor Pellegrino's great grey apron and clothes in a corner, I asked: "Then, is di Mourai's death perhaps due to the plague or the petechiae?"

"I did not find the shadow of a spot on the old Frenchman," was his brusque answer. "However, 'tis now too late to know. We have given away the body."

And he closed himself into the chamber with my master.

The moments that followed were, to say the least, turbulent. Almost all reacted to the host's misadventure with accents of desperation. The death of the old French lodger, attributed to poison by the physician, had certainly not thrown the company into such confusion. After cleaning the stairs of my master's fluids, the thought of his soul's welfare crossed my mind, as he might soon be meeting the Almighty. I recalled, in this connection, an edict which commanded that, in every chamber of hostelries, a picture or portrait was to be placed of Our Lord, or of the Blessed Virgin, or of the saints, together with a vase of holy water.

Dismayed and praying heaven with all my heart that it should not deprive me of my master's kindness, I went up to the three chambers under the eaves that had remained empty since the departure of Signor Pellegrino's wife, in order to look for holy water and some holy image to hang above the sick man's bed.

These were the apartments where the late Signora Luigia had lived. They had remained almost unchanged, as the new host's family sojourn there had been so brief.

After a rapid search, I discovered above a rather dusty table, next to two reliquaries and a sugarloaf Agnus Dei, a terracotta statue of John the Baptist under a crystal bell; in his hands, he held a glass phial filled with holy water.

Beautiful holy images hung from the walls. The sight of them affected me deeply, and as I reflected on the sad events of my young life, a lump rose in my throat. It was not right, I thought, that there should be only profane images in the dining chambers, however charming: a picture of fruit, two with wooded landscapes and figures, two more oblong paintings on sheepskin, with various birds, two villages, two Cupids breaking a bow over their knees, and lastly, the one and only concession to the Bible, a licentious depiction of Susannah bathing, watched by the Elders.

Absorbed in these reflections, I chose a little picture of the Madonna of Sorrows which was hanging there and returned to the apartment, where Cristofano was busying himself around my poor master.

After arranging the picture and the holy water near the sickbed, I felt my strength abandon me and, collapsing in a corner, I burst into tears.

"Courage, my boy, courage."

I found again in the physician's tone of voice that paternal, jovial Cristofano who had in the past few days so raised my mood. Like a father, he took my head in his hands and I could at last unburden myself. I explained to him that the man who had taken me in, thus saving me from extreme misery, was dying. Signor Pellegrino was a good man, albeit of bilious humour, and although I had been but six months in his service, it seemed to me that I had always been with him. What would become of me now? Once the quarantine was over, even if I were to survive, I would be left without any means of support and I did not even know the new parish priest of Santa Maria in Posterula.

"Now everyone will need you," said he, raising my dead weight from the ground. "I myself was coming to look for you, as we have to calculate our resources. The subsidy which we shall receive from the Congregation for Public Health will be very small indeed, and we shall have to ration our provisions carefully."

Still sniffling, I reassured him that the pantry was far from empty, but he wished nonetheless to be taken there. The pantry was in the cellars and only I and Pellegrino possessed a key to it. From now on, said Cristofano, I was to keep both copies in a place known only to myself and him, so that no one could help themselves to the provisions. By the faint light that filtered in through the grates, we entered the pantry, which was on two levels.

Fortunately, my master, being a great steward and cook, had never failed to see to it that we were furnished with all manner of odoriferous cheeses, salt meats and smoked fish, dried vegetables and tomatoes, as well as rows of wine and oil jars which, for an instant, delighted the eye of the physician and caused his features to soften. He commented only with a half-smile, and continued: "If there are any problems, you will advise me, and you will also tell me if anyone seems to be in ill health. Is that clear?"

"But will what has befallen Signor Pellegrino also happen to others?" I asked with tears again filling my eyes.

"Let us hope not. But we shall have to do everything possible to ensure that it does not happen," said he, without looking me in the eyes. "You, meanwhile, may continue to sleep in the chamber with him, as you already did last night despite my orders: it is good that your master should have someone to watch over him at night."

1 marvelled greatly that the physician did not consider the possibility of my becoming infected, but dared not ask questions.

I accompanied him back to his apartment on the first floor. Hardly had we turned right, towards Cristofano's chamber, than we both gave a start: there we found Atto leaning against the door.

"What are you doing here? I thought that I had given everyone clear instructions," protested the doctor.

"I am perfectly aware of what you said. But if anyone has nothing to lose from keeping company with one another, it is we three. Did we or did we not carry poor Pellegrino? The boy here has lived shoulder to shoulder with his master until this morning. If we were to be infected, we are already."

A fine veil of perspiration covered Abbot Melani's broad, wrinkled forehead as he spoke, and his voice, despite the sarcasm of his tone, betrayed a certain dryness in the throat.

"That is no good reason for being imprudent," retorted Cristofano, stiffening.

"I admit that," said Melani. "But before we enter this claustration, I should like to know what our chances are of leaving here alive. And I wager…"

"I care not what you wager. The others are already in their apartments."

"… I wager that no one knows exactly how we are to organise the days to come. What will happen if the dead should begin to pile up? Shall we get rid of them? But how, then, if only the weakest should survive? Are we certain that provisions will be supplied? And what is happening outside these walls? Has the infection spread or not?"

"That is not…"

"All of this is important, Cristofano. No one can go on alone, as you thought to do. We must speak of these things, if only to lighten the burden of our sad predicament."

From the physician's weak response, I understood that Atto's arguments were breaching his defences. To complete the abbot's work, at that moment we were joined by Stilone Priaso and Devize who seemed also to have many anxious questions to put to the physician.

"Very well," said Cristofano, yielding with a sigh before the two could even open their mouths. "What do you want to know?"

"Nothing whatever," replied Atto superciliously. "We need first of all to reason together: when shall we fall ill?"

"Well, if and when the infection comes," replied the physician.

"Oh, come, come!" retorted Stilone. "In the worst case, supposing that this is indeed the pestilence, when will that happen? Are you or are you not the physician?"

"Yes, indeed, when?" I echoed, almost as though to give myself strength.

Cristofano was touched to the quick. He opened wide his round black, barn-owl eyes and, arching an eyebrow in an unmistakeable sign that he was disposed to talk with us, he gravely raised two fingers to the pointed beard on his chin.

Then, however, he thought better of it and put off his explanations until evening, it being his intention, he said, to call us together after supper, on which occasion he would furnish us with whatever elucidations we might desire.

Thereupon, Abbot Melani returned to his apartment. Cristofano, however, retained Stilone Priaso and Devize.

"It seems I heard, when I was speaking to you a moment ago, that you are suffering from a certain intestinal flatulence. If you wish, I have with me a good remedy to rid you of that nuisance."

The two consented, not without some embarrassment. All four of us then resolved to descend to the ground floor, where Cristofano ordered me to prepare a small portion of good broth with which to administer the four grains per head of Oil of Sulphur. The physician would, in the meanwhile, anoint the back and loins of Stilone Priaso and Devize with his special balsam.

While Cristofano went to collect the necessary, which he had left in his chamber, the Frenchman went into a corner at the far end of the room to tune his guitar. I hoped that he would again play that intriguing piece which had so enchanted me in the morning, but, soon after, he rose and returned to the kitchen, where he stopped behind the table at which the Neapolitan poet was seated, and never again touched the instrument. Stilone Priaso had taken out a notebook and was scribbling something in it.

"Fear not, my boy. We shall not die of the pestilence," said he, turning to me as I busied myself in the kitchen.

"Perhaps, Sir, you foresee the future?" asked Devize ironically.

"Better than chirurgeons can!" joked Stilone Priaso.

"Your wit is inappropriate in this hostelry," warned the doctor, arriving with his sleeves rolled up and with the balsam in his hands.

The Neapolitan was the first to uncover his back, while Cristofano as usual listed the numerous virtues of his physick: "… and last but not least, 'tis also good for the penile caruncle. One needs but rub it vigorously into one's tail until it is absorbed, and relief is assured."

While I was busy with tidying and warming up the broth which I had been asked to prepare, I heard the trio communing ever more closely among themselves.

"… and yet I repeat, 'tis indeed he," I heard Devize whisper, his Gallic accent making his voice easy to recognise, above all when he pronounced words like "carriage", "war" or "correct" which made his elocution quite inimitable.

"There can be no doubt about it, no doubt," echoed Stilone Priaso's excited response.

"All three of us recognise him, and each in different ways," concluded Cristofano.

I stationed myself discreetly where I could overhear them, without crossing the threshold dividing the kitchen from the dining chamber. I soon understood that they were speaking of Abbot Melani, whose reputation was already known to all three.

"This much is certain: he is an extremely dangerous individual," affirmed Stilone Priaso peremptorily.

As always when he wished to imbue his words with authority, he focussed severely on an invisible point in front of him, while scratching the bridge of his nose with his little finger and nervously shaking his fingers as though to rid himself of who knows what fine powder.

"He must be kept under constant observation," he concluded.

The trio talked without paying any attention to me, as was, moreover, usual with almost all customers, to whom a serving boy was little more than a shadow. Thus it was that I learned a number of facts and circumstances which made me repent no little my having conferred for so long the night before with Abbot Melani and above all having promised him my services.

"Is he now in the pay of the King of France?" asked Stilone Priaso in a low voice.

"I maintain that he is. Even if no one can tell with certainty," replied Devize.

"Certain persons' preference is to side with all and with none," added Cristofano, continuing his massage and kneading Stilone Priaso's back even harder.

"He has served more princes than he himself can remember," hissed Stilone. "In Naples, I am sure that they would not even allow him to enter the city. More to the right, please," said he, turning to the physician.

Thus I learned, with unspeakable dismay, of the dark and turbulent past of Abbot Melani; a past of which he had not breathed a word to me the night before.

Since his earliest youth, Atto had been engaged by the Grand Duke of Tuscany as a castrato singer (and this, the abbot had indeed told me). But that was not the only task which Melani performed for his master; in reality, he served him as a spy and secret courier. Atto's singing was indeed admired and in demand in all the courts of Europe, which gave the castrato great credit among crowned heads, in addition to unusual freedom of movement.

"On the pretext of entertaining the sovereigns, he would introduce himself into the royal courts to spy, to stir and to corrupt," explained Devize.

"And then repeat everything to his principals," echoed Stilone Priaso acidly.

In addition to the Medici, Cardinal Mazarin had soon used Atto's double services, thanks to the ancient relations of friendship between Florence and Paris. The Cardinal had, indeed, become his foremost protector, and took him with him even on the most delicate diplomatic missions. Atto was regarded almost as one of the family. He had become the bosom friend of Mazarin's niece, for whom the King had so lost his head that he wished to marry her. And when, later, the girl was obliged to leave France, Atto remained her confidant.

"But then Mazarin died," resumed Devize, "and life became difficult for Atto. His Majesty had just attained his majority and mistrusted all the Cardinal's proteges," explained Devize. "What is more, he was compromised in the scandal involving Fouquet, the Superintendent of Finances."

I gave a start. Was not Fouquet the name which the abbot had mentioned in passing the night before?

"That was a false move," continued the French musician, "for which the Most Christian King pardoned him only after the passing of much time."

"Only a false move, you call it? But were not he and that thief Fouquet friends?" objected Cristofano.

"No one has ever succeeded in clarifying how matters really stood.

When Fouquet was arrested, a note was found containing the order to lodge Atto secretly in his house. That note was shown to Fouquet's judges."

"And how did the Superintendent explain it?" asked Stilone Priaso.

"He said that, some time previously, Melani had requested a sure refuge. That meddler had made an enemy of the powerful Due de la Meilleraye, the heir to Mazarin's fortune. The Duke, who was a most irascible character, had succeeded in persuading the King to have Melani removed from Paris and had already hired ruffians to give him a beating. Some friends therefore recommended him to Fouquet: in his home, he would be safe, since the two were not known to frequent one another."

"But then Atto and Fouquet were not acquainted!" said Stilone Priaso.

"'Tis not that simple," warned Devize with a knowing smile. "Twenty years have passed since then and I was a child at the time. Later, however, I perused the records of Fouquet's trial which in those days were more widely read than the Bible. Well, to his judges, Fouquet said: 'There existed no known frequentation between Atto and myself.'"

"What a sly fox!" exclaimed Stilone. "A perfect answer: no one could witness to having ever seen the two together; which did not, however, mean that they may not have been secretly in contact… In my opinion, the two did know each other, and that right well. The note speaks for itself: Atto was one of Fouquet's private spies."

"That is possible," said Devize, nodding his head in agreement. "What is, however, certain is that Fouquet's ambiguous reply saved Melani from prison. He slept in Fouquet's house and immediately afterwards left for Rome, escaping the beating. In Rome, however, other bad news reached him: the arrest of Fouquet, the scandal, his good name besmirched, the King's fury…"

"And how did he extricate himself from that predicament?" asked Stilone Priaso.

"He managed very well," interrupted Cristofano. "In Rome, he placed himself at the service of Cardinal Rospigliosi who, like him, hailed from Pistoia, and who then became Pope. So much so that to this day Melani boasts that he had him elected Pontiff. Believe me, those Pistoiesi are the world's greatest braggarts."

"Perhaps," replied Devize prudently. "But to make a pope, one must needs manoeuvre well in conclave. Now, during that conclave, Rospigliosi was indeed assisted by Atto Melani. And it is well known that not only has Melani always been on familiar terms with those cardinals who are most in the public eye, but also with the most powerful French ministers."

"He is an intriguer, to be feared and never trusted," cut in Stilone Priaso, conclusively.

I was utterly stupefied. Was the individual of whom the three lodgers were speaking really the same man with whom I had conversed only last night, a few paces from where they now sat? He had introduced himself to me as a musician, and now he was revealed to me as a secret agent, involved in turbid palace manoeuvres, and even in scandals. It seemed almost as though I had known two different persons. Surely, if what the abbot himself had told me was true (namely that he still enjoyed the favours of many princes) he must have recovered his reputation. But after hearing the conversation between Stilone Priaso, Cristofano and Devize, who would not be suspicious of his word?

"Wherever there is a political question of any importance, Abbot Melani is always to be found," resumed the French musician, laying stress on the word "Abbot". "Perhaps it will be discovered only after the event that he too was involved. He always manages to worm his way in everywhere. Melani was among Mazarin's assistants during the negotiations with the Spaniards at the Isle of Pheasants, when the Peace of the Pyrenees was concluded. They also sent him to Germany, to convince the Elector of Bavaria to stand as a candidate for the Imperial Throne. Now that his age no longer permits him to travel as he used to, he endeavours to make himself useful by sending the King reports and aide-memoires concerning the court of Rome, which he knows well and where he still has many friends. In more than one affair of state, it is said that voices have been heard in Paris anxiously requesting the suggestions of Abbot Melani."

"Does the Most Christian King grant him audiences?" inquired Stilone Priaso."That is another mystery. A personage of such dubious reputation should not even be admitted to court, yet he enjoys direct relations with several ministers of the Crown. And there are those who swear that they have seen him slipping out from the King's apartments at the most unseemly hours. His Majesty is said to have summoned him for interviews most urgently and in the utmost secrecy."

So it was true that Abbot Melani could obtain audiences with His Majesty the King of France. At least on that point he had not lied to me.

"And his brothers?" asked Cristofano, as I approached with a bowl of hot soup.

"They always move in a pack, like wolves," commented Devize with a grimace of disapproval. "Hardly had Atto settled in Rome, after the election of Rospigliosi, than he was joined by his two brothers, one of whom immediately became maestro di cappella at Santa Maria Maggiore. In their own city of Pistoia, they have laid their hands on benefices and the collection of excise duties and are justifiably held in execration by many citizens."

There could be no further doubt. I had met not with an abbot, but a deceitful sodomite, skilled in gaining the confidence of trusting sovereigns, and this too thanks to the rascally connivance of his brothers. My promise to assist him had been an unpardonable error.

"It is time for me to check on Master Pellegrino," announced Cristofano, after administering the oil of sulphur to his two boon companions.

Only then did we realise that Pompeo Dulcibeni had returned downstairs, who knows how long since: he had remained in complete silence, seated in an alcove of the other room, pouring himself liquor from a flask of aqua vitae which my master was wont to keep on one of his tables, surrounded by small drinking glasses. He must, I thought, surely have overheard the conversation about Atto Melani.

So I followed the trio. Dulcibeni, however, did not move. On the first floor, we encountered Padre Robleda. The Jesuit had restrained himself, controlling his mad fear of the infection, and had remained for a moment on the threshold of his chamber, wiping the perspiration which glued his grizzling curls to his low forehead and struggling to maintain his dignity. Now he had propelled himself just outside the chamber, and there he stood rigidly close to the wall, yet without touching it, erect and comical. He stayed there, looking at us, in the vague and anxious hope of gleaning some good news from the physician, with all his great body weighing down on his toes and his chest exaggeratedly thrust backwards, so that his black profile formed a great curve.

Not that he was really fat, apart from the rather rotund forms of his brown face and his neck. He was tall, and the moderate prominence of his belly did not spoil his appearance but endowed him with an air of mature wisdom. However, his bizarre pose compelled the Jesuit to cast his eyes downwards, with his eyelids slightly lowered, if he wished to face whoever he would speak to; and this, together with his long and widely spaced eyebrows and the dark rings around his eyes, conferred upon him an air of extreme nonchalance. Much good did it do him, for scarcely had Cristofano caught sight of him than he invited him peremptorily to accompany us, as Pellegrino might be urgently in need of a priest. Robleda would have liked to make some objection, but as none came to mind, he resigned himself to following behind us.

Having climbed to the upper floor to look at what we feared might already be my master's corpse, we realised that he was still alive. And he was still breathing, hoarsely but regularly. The two spots had neither diminished nor grown: the diagnosis remained in the balance between the plague and the petechial fever. Cristofano proceeded to clean him all over and to refresh him with damp towels, after wiping away his sweat.

I then reminded the Jesuit, who had remained prudently outside the doorway that, as matters stood, the sacrament of Extreme Unction should be administered to Pellegrino. The edict which laid down that holy images were to be present in hostelries also-I made it clear-required that if anyone were to fall ill in hostelries or taverns, they were to be administered the Oil for the Sick.

Father Robleda gave a start, but could not refuse his services.

He then ordered me to bring him olive oil, as indicated specifically by Saint James, so that he could bless it for the ceremony; and also a little rod. A few minutes later, the Jesuit was by Master Pellegrino's bedhead to administer Extreme Unction.

The thing was over unbelievably soon: he dipped the rod into the oil and, making sure that he remained as distant as possible from the sick man, he anointed one of his ears, rapidly gabbling only the brief formula Indulgeat tibi Deus quidquidpeccasti per sensus, which was very different from the familiar long form.

"The University of Louvain," said he, turning to his perplexed audience in self-justification, "ruled in 1588 that, in the event of the plague, it should be licit for the priest to impart the Holy Chrism with a rod rather than with his thumb. And instead of anointing the mouth, nostrils, eyes, ears, hands and feet, each time pronouncing the canonical formula Per istassanctas unctiones, etsuampiissimam misericordiam indulgeat tibi Deus quidquidper visum, auditum, odoratum, gustum, tactum deliquisti, many theologians there held that the Sacrament was valid with a single unction effected rapidly on one of the sensory organs, pronouncing the brief universal formula which you have just heard."

Whereupon, the Jesuit withdrew in great haste.

So as not to attract attention to myself, I waited until the group had dispersed, then at once followed Padre Robleda. I caught up with him just as he was crossing the threshold of his own apartment.

Still half out of breath, I said to him that I was most apprehensive for my master's soul: had the oil cleansed Pellegrino's conscience of sins, so that he would run no risk of perishing in the Inferno? Or must he confess himself before dying? And what would happen if he did not regain consciousness before he died?

"Oh, if that is what is troubling you," replied Robleda hurriedly, "you need not worry: 'twill not be your master's fault if, before dying, he is unable to return to his senses for long enough to render a full confession of his little sins to the Lord."

"I know," I promptly retorted, "but if there should also be mortal sins, as well as venial ones…"

"Do you perhaps know of some grave sin committed by your master?" asked the Jesuit, growing alarmed.

"As far as I know, he has never gone beyond some intemperance and a few glasses too many."

"Still, even if he had killed," said Robleda, signing himself, "that would not mean much."

And he explained to me that the Jesuit fathers, having a special vocation for the sacrament of Confession, had always made a careful study of the doctrine of sin and pardon: "There are greater sins that lead to the death of the soul, and these are in the majority. But there are also sins which are partially permissible," said he, lowering his voice bashfully, "or even sins which are permitted. That depends upon the circumstances, and for the confessor, I can assure you, the decision is always difficult."

The study of case histories was limitless, and was to be considered with the greatest prudence. Should absolution be accorded to a son who, in legitimate self-defence, kills his father? Does he commit a sin who, in order to avoid an unjust condemnation, kills a witness? And what of a wife who kills her husband, knowing that he is about to render her the same service? May a nobleman, in order to defend his honour before his peers (which for him is of the uttermost importance) assassinate someone who has offended him? Does a soldier sin who, obeying a superior's order, kills an innocent? Or again: may a woman prostitute herself in order to save her own children from hunger?

"And is stealing always a sin, Padre?" I insisted, remembering that my master's over-indulgence in the contents of the cellar did not always draw upon what belonged to him.

"Anything but. Here, too, one must consider the inner and outer circumstances in which the act was accomplished. It is certainly not the same when a rich man robs a poor one as when a poor man robs a rich one, or a rich man another rich man, or a poor man another poor man, and so on, and so forth."

"But cannot one gain pardon in all cases when one returns what has been stolen?"

"You are too hasty! The obligation to return stolen goods is, of course, important, and the confessor is in duty bound to bring this to the attention of whoever confides the matter to him. But the obligation may also be subject to limitations, or even be cancelled out. It is not necessary to return what has been stolen if that means impoverishing oneself: a nobleman may not deprive himself of servants, and a distinguished citizen may certainly not demean himself by working."

"But if I am not under any obligation to restore what was wrongfully taken, as you put it, then what must I do to obtain pardon?"

"That depends. It may sometimes be best to visit the offended party at home and to beg his forgiveness."

"And taxes? What happens if one does not pay what is owed?"

"Well, well, that is a delicate matter. Taxes fall within the category of res odiosae, in the sense that no one pays them willingly. Let us say that it is surely a sin not to pay those which are just, while in the case of unjust taxes, the matter should be examined case by case."

Robleda then enlightened me on many other instances in which, not knowing Jesuit doctrine, I would doubtless have reached very different conclusions: a man who has been unjustly condemned may escape from prison and may get the guards drunk and help his fellow prisoners to escape; it is licit to rejoice at the death of a relative who leaves one a great inheritance, so long as that is done without personal enmity; one may read books which have been banned by the Church, but for no more than three days and six pages at a time; one may steal from one's parents without sinning, but no more than fifty gold pieces; and whoever swears on oath but only pretends to do so is not obliged to keep his word.

"In other words, one may perjure oneself!" I concluded in utter astonishment.

"Do not be so crude. It all depends on the intention. Sin is deliberate detachment from the Word of God," intoned Robleda solemnly. "If, however, one commits it only in appearance, but without real intent, then one will be saved."

I left Robleda's chamber, vacillating between disquiet and prostration. Thanks to the learning of the Jesuits, I thought, Pellegrino had good chances of saving his soul. But from this discourse it seemed almost as though white were black, truth the same as lies, and good and evil one and the same thing.

Perhaps Abbot Melani was not as upright as he would wish one to believe. But, I thought, Robleda was even less to be trusted.

Luncheon was already late, and our guests, who had fasted since the evening before, descended rapidly to the kitchen. After hastily regaling themselves with my broth containing little dumplings and hop shoots, which no one cared for, it was Cristofano who called our attention to what was to be done next. The men-at-arms would soon be calling us to appear at the windows. The presence of another sick person would surely cause the Congregation for Public Health to decree there was a danger of pestilence and the quarantine would then be maintained and strengthened. Perhaps a pest-house might be improvised to which we would all sooner or later be transferred. Such a possibility was enough to make even brave men tremble.

"Then, our only hope is to try to escape," gasped the glass-blower Brenozzi.

"It would not be possible," observed Cristofano. "They will already have erected gates and closed off the road, and even if we were to succeed in getting past them, we would be hunted down throughout the Papal States. We could try to cross the territory in the direction of Loreto, fleeing through the woods, and to embark on the Adriatic and flee by sea. But I have no sure friends along that way, nor do I think that any of us is better off in that respect. We would be reduced to begging strangers to take us in, always running the risk of betrayal by whoever offers us hospitality. Otherwise, we could try to take refuge in the Kingdom of Naples, travelling by night and sleeping by day. I am certainly no longer of an age to support such heavy exertions; and there are others among you who have perhaps not been favoured by nature. Besides, we would, of course, need a guide, a shepherd or a villager, who would not be so easy to persuade, to lead us through the hills and vales, and who must above all not guess that we are hunted fugitives, or he would hand us over to his master without thinking twice. Lastly, we are too numerous to escape, and none of us bear certificates of health: so we would all be stopped at the first border post. Our chances of success would, in other words, be negligible. And all that without counting the fact that, even were we to succeed, we would be doomed never to return to Rome."

"And so what?" rejoined Bedfordi, snorting disdainfully and letting his hands dangle ridiculously from his wrists in a gesture of impatience.

"And so, Pellegrino will reply to the roll-call," replied Cristofano without the slightest loss of composure.

"But if he cannot even stand on his feet," I objected.

"He will," replied the physician. "He must."

When he had finished, he retained us yet longer and proposed, in order to strengthen us against any possible infection, that we should take physick to modify the humours. Some remedies were, he said, already prepared, others he would make ready with the herbs and essences which he carried with him, and drawing upon Pellegrino's well-stocked pantry.

"You will like neither the taste nor the smell. But they are prepared with great authority," and here he stared significantly in Bedfordi's direction. "They include the elixir vitae, the quinte essence, second water and prepared mother of balsam, oleumphilosophorum, the great liquor, caustic, diaromatic, the angelic electuary, oil of vitriol, oil of sulphur, imperial musk tablets and a whole series of fumigants, pills and odoriferous balls to be worn on the chest. These purify the air and will not allow any infection to enter. But do not abuse them: together with distilled vinegar, they contain crystalline arsenic and Greek pitch. In addition, I shall every morning administer to you my original quinte essence, obtained from an excellent matured white wine grown in mountainous regions, which I have distilled in a bain-marie, then enclosed in a glass decanter with a stopper of bitter herbs and buried upside-down in good, warm horse manure for twenty days and twenty nights. Once the decanter has been extracted from the manure-an operation which, I insist, must always be carried out with the greatest dexterity so as not to contaminate the preparation-I separate the sky-blue distillate from the lees: that is the quinte essence. I store this in small, hermetically sealed vessels. It will preserve you from all manner of corruption and putrefaction and from every other kind of disease, and such indeed are its virtues that it can resuscitate the dead."

"What matters to us that it should not kill the living," sneered Bedfordi.

The physician was piqued: "Its principle has been approved by Raymond Lull, Philip Ulstad and many other philosophers, both ancient and modern. But I should like to conclude: I have for each of you the most excellent pills, of half a drachm each, to be carried in your pocket and taken at once, the moment you feel yourselves to be in the least touched by the infection. They are all made up of the most appropriate simples: four drachms of Armenian bole, terra sigillata, zedoary, camphor, tormentil, burning bush and hepatic aloes, with a scruple of saffron and cloves, and one of diagrydium, juice of savoy cabbage and cooked honey. They are designed especially to dissipate the pestilence caused by the corruption of natural heat. The Armenian bole and terra sigillata extinguish the great fire in the body and mortify the alterations. Zedoary has the virtue of desiccating and resolving. Camphor refreshes, and it, too, has the effect of drying. Burning bush is a counter-poison. Hepatic aloes preserve one from putrescence and free the body. Saffron and cloves preserve and cheer the heart. And diagrydium dissolves the superfluous humidity of the body."

The audience remained silent.

"You may be confident," insisted Cristofano. "I myself have perfected the formulae, drawing inspiration from the famous recipes tried and proven by the most excellent masters during visitations of the most fearsome pestilences. Such as the stomachic syrups of Master Giovanni of Volterra, which…"

At that moment a hubbub arose in the group of onlookers: quite unexpectedly, Cloridia had arrived.

Until that moment, she had remained in her chamber, careless as ever of mealtimes. Her entry was greeted variously. Brenozzi tormented his sapling, Stilone Priaso and Devize tidied their hair, Cristofano drew in his paunch discreetly, Padre Robleda blushed, while Atto Melani sneezed. Only Bedfordi and Dulcibeni remained impassive.

It was precisely between those two that the courtesan took her place, without being invited.

Cloridia's appearance was indeed singular: beneath the extreme whiteness of her face powder, her complexion was, despite her efforts, distinctly dark, forming a strange contrast with the thick, curly and artificially lightened tresses which framed her spacious forehead and the regular oval of her face. A snub nose, though small and graceful, large velvety black eyes, perfect teeth with never a gap between them in a full mouth: these were only the accompaniment to what most struck the eye: a most ample decolletage, underlined by a polychrome bandeau of entwined kerchiefs which encircled her shoulders and terminated in a large bow between her breasts.

Bedfordi made room for her on the bench, while Dulcibeni remained immobile.

"I am sure that some of you would like to know how many days it will be before we leave here," said Cloridia in amiably tempting tones, as she laid a pack of Tarot cards on the table.

"Libera nos a malo" murmured Robleda, crossing himself and rising hurriedly, without even taking his leave.

No one responded to Cloridia's invitation, which all believed to be merely introductory to other deeper but financially more onerous inquiries.

"Perhaps this is not the best of moments, dear lady," said Atto Melani courteously, to save her from embarrassment. "So sad is our plight that it overshadows even your delightful company."

To everyone's surprise, Cloridia then grasped Bedfordi's hand and drew it gently to her: precisely in front of that luxuriant bosom, decollete after the French fashion.

"Perhaps it would be better to have a nice palm reading," proposed Cloridia, "but gratis, of course, and only for your pleasure."

This once, Bedfordi remained speechless, and, before he could refuse, Cloridia had lovingly opened his fist.

"Here we are," said she, caressing the Englishman's palm with a fingertip. "You'll see, you will really enjoy this."

All present (including myself) had imperceptibly stretched forward, the better to see and to hear.

"Has anyone ever read your palm?" asked Cloridia, gently smoothing first his fingertips and then his wrist.

"Yes. I mean no… I mean, not like this."

"Calm down, and Cloridia will explain to you all the secrets of the hand and of good fortune. First of all, the fingers of the hand are unequal for decency's sake, and for greater ease in using them. The great finger is known as the thumb or Pollex, quiapollet, meaning that it is stronger than the others. The second is called the Index, because it is used to indicate; the third is called Infamous, because 'tis a sign of derision and contumely; the fourth is the Medical or Annular, meaning that it is the ring finger; and the fifth is the Auricular, because 'tis used to pick and to clean the ears."

While she conducted her review of the digital apparatus, Cloridia underlined her every phrase by wantonly tickling Bedfordi's fingers, while he strove to conceal his agitation with a weak smile, showing a sort of involuntary aversion before the fair sex which I have observed only in travellers coming from northern climes. Cloridia went on to illustrate other parts of the hand: "Here, you see, this line which ascends from the wrist towards the index finger, right here, is the Life Line, or Heart Line. This one which cuts across the hand more or less from left to right is the Natural Line or Head Line. Its sister line, close by, is known as the Convivial Line. This little swelling is known as the Girdle of Venus. Do you like that name?" inquired Cloridia insinuatingly.

"I do, very much so," interrupted Brenozzi.

"Get back, you idiot," retorted Stilone, repelling Brenozzi's attempt to conquer a position closer to Cloridia.

"I know, I know, it is a lovely name," said Cloridia, turning first to

Bedfordi, then to Brenozzi with a knowing little smile, "but these too are beautiful: the Finger of Venus, the Mount of Venus, the Finger of the Sun, the Mount of the Sun, the Finger of Mars, the Mount of Mars, the Mount of Jupiter, the Finger of Saturn, the Mount of Saturn and the Seat of Mercury."

While she thus illustrated fingers, knuckles, wrinkles, lines, joints, swellings and hollows, in skilful and sensual counterpoint, Cloridia shifted her index finger alternately from Bedfordi's palm to her own cheeks, to the Englishman's palm and then to her own lips, again to Bedfordi's wrist, then to the first gentle slopes of her generous bosom. Bedfordi swallowed.

"Then we have the Line of the Liver, the Line or Way of the Sun, the Line of Mars, the Line of Saturn, the Mount of the Moon, and it all concludes with the Milky Way…"

"Oh yes, the Milky Way," gulped Brenozzi, swooning away.

By now, almost all the group had gathered around Cloridia, as not even the ox and the ass did with Our Lord on the night when he came into the world.

"However, you do have a fine hand, and your soul must be even finer," said Cloridia obligingly, drawing Bedfordi's palm for a brief instant to the brown skin between her bosom and her neck.

"As to your body, however, I cannot tell," said she, laughing and playfully pushing Bedfordi's hand far from her, as though in self defence, then seizing Dulcibeni's.

All eyes were fixed on the older gentleman. He, however, broke free of the courtesan's grasp with a brusque, ill-humoured gesture and, rising from the table, made his way towards the stairs.

"But what a to-do," commented Cloridia ironically, trying to hide her pique by vexedly arranging a lock of her hair. "And what an ugly temper!"

At that very moment, the thought crossed my mind that in the past few days Cloridia had sat ever closer to Dulcibeni, who had, however, repulsed her with growing irritation. Unlike Robleda, who made an exaggerated show of being scandalised by the courtesan but had perhaps willingly visited her on several nights, Dulcibeni seemed to experience a real, deep disgust in the young woman's presence. No other guest at the inn dared treat Cloridia with such disdain. But, perhaps precisely because of that, or because of the money which (as seemed clear) Dulcibeni did not lack, the courtesan seemed to have set her heart on speaking to the gentleman from Fermo. Since she was unable to extract one word from him, Cloridia had several times asked me about Dulcibeni, being curious to learn any particulars concerning him.

The doctor took advantage of the abrupt break in the palm reading to resume his explanations about the remedies against the risk of infection. He distributed various pills, odoriferous balls and other things to us. We then all filed up behind him when he went to check on the state of Pellegrino's health.

We entered my master's chamber, where he lay on his bed, seeming now a little less livid. The daylight from the window gave us comfort while the physician inspected his patient.

"Mmmh," groaned Pellegrino.

"He is not dead," affirmed Cristofano. "His eyes are half-open, he still has a fever, but his colours have improved. And he has wet himself."

We commented on the news with great relief. Soon, however, the Tuscan physician found that his patient was catatonic and able to respond only weakly to external stimuli.

"Pellegrino, tell me what you understand of my words," murmured Cristofano.

"Mmmh," repeated my master.

"He cannot," observed the physician, with conviction. "He is able to discern voices but not to answer. I have already encountered such a one: a peasant who was crushed by a tree trunk blown down by the wind. For months, he was unable to utter a word, although he was perfectly able to understand whatever his wife and children said to him."

"And then what happened?"

"Nothing. He died."

I was asked to say a few words gently to the patient, to try to revive him. But I met with no success; not even by murmuring to him that the inn was in flames and his stock of wine in danger could I get him to overcome the torpor that enveloped him.

Despite this, Cristofano was relieved. The two protuberances on my master's neck were becoming lighter in colour and receding; so they were not tokens. Whether petechiae or mere bruises, they were now regressing. We no longer seemed to be threatened by a visitation of the plague. We could at last relax a little. We did not, however, abandon the sick man to his fate. We at once checked that Pellegrino was able to swallow both solids and liquids, however slowly; and I offered to feed him regularly. The inn remained nevertheless deprived of the person who best knew it and was best equipped to serve us. I was just reflecting on these considerations when the others, satisfied with their visit to their host's bedside, gradually dispersed. I remained alone by the physician's side, while he continued his careful observation of Pellegrino's inert and supine body.

"I would venture that matters are improving; but one must always beware of being over-sure when dealing with distempers," he commented.

We were interrupted by the vigorous ringing of a bell in the Via dell'Orso, just under our windows. I leaned out; there stood three men sent to make our roll-call and ensure that none of us had escaped the watchman's attention. First, however, Cristofano must report to them on our state of health. I ran to the other chambers and gathered all the guests together. Some looked apprehensively at my poor master, who was totally incapable of standing on his own feet.

Fortunately, the sagacity of Cristofano and Abbot Melani soon saw that problem resolved. We assembled on the first floor, in Pompeo Dulcibeni's apartment. Cristofano was the first to show himself at the window, assuring the men that nothing special had happened, no one had shown the slightest sign of infirmity and all seemed in perfect health.

We then began to file before the window, one by one, in order to be inspected. But the doctor and Atto had so arranged matters as thoroughly to confuse the three inspectors. Cristofano led Stilone Priaso, then Robleda, and finally Bedfordi to the window, while the three were calling the names of other guests. Cristofano excused himself several times for involuntarily mixing up names, but in the meanwhile a considerable confusion had arisen. When Pellegrino's turn came, Bedfordi succeeded in creating yet more chaos: he began to scream and shout in English, asking (as Atto Melani explained) to be freed forthwith. The three inspectors responded with insults and mockery, but in the meantime Pellegrino passed by rapidly. He seemed to be in perfect form: his hair was well combed, his pale cheeks had been coloured with Cloridia's rouge. At the same time,

Devize began to gesticulate and to protest at our reclusion, completely distracting the inspectors' attention from Pellegrino. Thus it was that they concluded their visit without becoming aware of my master's wretched state of health.

While I was considering these expedients, Abbot Melani plucked my sleeve and drew me through the door. He wanted to know where Pellegrino was wont to deposit the valuables which travellers entrusted to him on their arrival. I drew back, manifestly shocked by the question: the place was obviously secret. Even when no treasures were stored there, that was where my master always hid the sums of money which customers left in his care. I recalled the dismal repute in which Cristofano, Stilone Priaso and Devize held Atto.

"I imagine," added the abbot, "that your master always keeps the key on his person."

I was about to reply when I glanced at Pellegrino through the doorway while he was being brought back into his chamber. The bunch of keys on an iron ring which my master kept attached to his breeches night and day was not in its place.

I rushed down to the cellar, where I kept the spare keys hidden in a hole in the wall of which only I knew the existence. They were there. Taking care not to attract the attention of the guests (who, still in a state of excitement at the success of our stratagem, were making their way downstairs for their evening meal), I returned to the third floor.

Now, I should explain that between each floor there were two flights of stairs. At the top of each of these was a landing. Well, on the landing between the second and third floors was the little door that gave access to the closet where the valuables were kept.

I made sure that no one was in the vicinity, then entered. I drew out the stone, set into the wall, behind which lay the little coffer. I opened it. Nothing was missing: neither money nor the notes of deposits countersigned by customers. I grew calmer.

"Now, the question is: who has taken Master Pellegrino's keys?"

The voice was Abbot Melani's. He had followed me. He entered and closed the door behind him.

"It would appear that we have a thief among us," he commented, almost amusedly. Then he stopped, looking alarmed: "Silence. Someone is coming." And he nodded in the direction of the landing.

He signalled to me to look outside, which I did most unwillingly. I heard vague notes from Devize's guitar rising from the ground floor. Nothing more.

I invited the abbot to quit the closet forthwith, desiring as I did to keep our contacts to a minimum. While he was slipping out through the narrow doorway, I saw him look at the little coffer with a rather worried expression.

"What is it now, Signor Abbot?" I asked, striving to hide my growing anxiety and to restrain the discourteous tone that was rising to my lips.

"I was thinking: it makes no sense that whoever stole the bunch of keys should have taken nothing from the strong-box of the inn. Are you really sure that you looked through it thoroughly?"

I went back to see: the money was there, the deposit notes too; what else should there be? Then, I remembered: the little pearls which Brenozzi had given me.

Gone was the Venetian's bizarre and fascinating gift, which I had jealously concealed among the other valuables. But why had the thief taken nothing else? After all, there were considerable sums of money there, far more visible and readily exchangeable than my little pearls.

"Calm down. We shall now go down to my apartment and there we shall examine the situation," said he.

Then, seeing that I was about to refuse, he added: "If you want to see your pearls again."

Reluctantly, I consented.

Once in his chamber, the abbot invited me to take a seat. He was aware of my agitation.

"We are faced with two possibilities," he began. "Either the thief has already done all that he intended to, in other words, to steal your pearls, or else he did not succeed in completing whatever it was that he planned. And I tend towards the second option."

"Why? I have already told you what Cristofano explained to me: those pearls have to do with poison and with seeming death. And perhaps Brenozzi knows something."

"For the time being, at least, let us drop the matter, my boy," said he, laughing. "Not that your little pearls are worthless, on the contrary; nor that they lack the powers which our physician ascribes to them.

But I opine that the thief had something else to do in that closet. It is halfway between the second and the third floor; and ever since Master Pellegrino's inert body was found, there has been so much coming and going in that vicinity, that he has been unable to operate at ease."

"So?"

"So, I think that the thief will have more to do in that cupboard, and that he will act under cover of night. No one yet knows that you have discovered the theft of the keys. If you do not warn the lodgers, the thief will think that he can operate in peace."

"Very well," said I, acquiescing at last, albeit diffidently. "I shall let the night pass before I put them on their guard. Pray heaven that no ill befalls them."

I looked obliquely at the abbot and decided to put to him the question which I had been holding in reserve for some time: "Do you think that the thief killed Signor di Mourai and perhaps tried to do the same to my master?"

"Everything is possible," replied Melani, inflating his cheeks curiously and pursing his lips. "Cardinal Mazarin was wont to say to me: thinking bad thoughts, one commits a sin; but one always guesses rightly."

The source of my diffidence about him must have been clear to the abbot, yet he asked no questions and continued imperturbably: "As regards Mourai, this morning I was about to propose to you that we undertake a little exploration, but then your master fell ill."

"What do you mean?"

"I think the time has come to search the rooms of the poor old man's two travelling companions. And you have copies of all the keys."

"You intend to enter Dulcibeni's and Devize's apartments by stealth? And you want me to help you?" I asked in consternation.

"Come, do not look at me like that. Think about it: if anyone is to be suspected of having something to do with the death of the old Frenchman, it must indeed be Dulcibeni and Devize. They arrived at the Donzello together with Mourai, coming from Naples, and have stayed here for over a month. Devize, with his tale of the Cocomero, has shown that he probably has something to hide. Pompeo Dulcibeni even shared his chamber with the dead man. They may well be innocent, but they surely know more than anyone else about the dead man."

"And what do you hope to find in their apartments?"

"I shall not know until I have entered," he replied coldly.

Once again my ears resounded with the horrible things which Devize had uttered about Melani.

"I cannot give you a copy of their keys," said I, upon reflection.

Melani understood that it would be useless to insist and remained silent.

"For the rest, however, I am at your service," I added in a gentler tone, thinking of my lost pearls. "I could, for instance, put some questions to Devize and Dulcibeni, and try to make them talk…"

"Please, please… You would obtain nothing from them and you would put them on their guard. Let us move step by step: let us first endeavour to understand who it was that stole the keys and your pearls."

Atto then explained his idea to me: after dinner, we would watch over the stairs from our respective chambers, I on the third floor and he on the second. We would pass a string between my window and his (our chambers being one exactly above the other) and both would tie one end to a foot. When one of us noticed something, he would pull hard, several times, to make the other run and thus to prevent the thief's escape.

While he spoke, I weighed up the facts. The knowledge that Brenozzi's pearls might be worth a fortune had in the end disheartened me: no one had ever given me anything so precious. Perhaps I should bear with Abbot Melani a little. I ought, of course, to keep my eyes open: I must not forget the dire judgements which I had heard concerning him.

I assured him that I would follow his instructions, as moreover-I recalled in order to reassure him-I had already promised last night during our singular and lengthy colloquy. I mentioned vaguely that I had overheard three guests at the inn discussing Superintendent Fouquet, whose name the abbot had mentioned to me the evening before.

"And what did they say?"

"Nothing that I can recall with any precision, as I was busy tidying up the kitchen. They simply caused me to remember your promise to tell me something about him."

A gleam appeared in Abbot Melani's penetrating pupils: he had at last found the source of my sudden diffidence towards him.

"You are right," he said, "I am indebted to you."

His regard suddenly grew distant, lost in past memories. He sang sotto voce, in melancholy tones:

Ai sospiri, al dolore,

Ai tormenti, alpenare,

Torna o mio cuore…'*

"There," he added, seeing my questioning expression, "thus would my master, Seigneur Luigi Rossi, have spoken to you of Fouquet. But since it is now my turn to do the telling, and we must wait until dinner time, make yourself at ease. You ask me who Nicolas Fouquet was. I tell you, he was before all else a man vanquished."

He fell silent, as though at a loss for words, while the dimple on his chin trembled.

"A man defeated by envy, by raison d'etat, by politics, but above all one vanquished by history. Because, bear this well in mind, history is always made by the victors, be they good or bad. And Fouquet lost. And so, now and forever, in France and in the world, you may ask anyone who Nicolas Fouquet was, and they will reply that he was the most thieving, corrupt, factious, frivolous and prodigal minister of our times."

"And you, besides being a man vanquished, who do you say he was?"

"The Sun," he replied with a smile. "Thus was Fouquet called, when Le Brun painted him in that guise in the Apotheosis of Hercules, on the walls of the Chateau of Vaux-le-Vicomte. And truly, no heavenly body was better suited to describe a man of such magnificence and generosity."

"And so the Sun King took that name because he wished to copy Fouquet?"

Melani looked at me pensively. He resumed, explaining to me that the arts, like the delicate inflorescence of roses, need someone who will arrange them in the right vase, or who will till and enrich the soil and, day after day, lovingly sprinkle the water with which to quench their thirst; as to the gardener, added Abbot Melani, he must possess the best of implements with which to care for his charges; a gentle touch, lest he offend their tender leaves, an expert eye to recognise their infirmities and, lastly, knowledge of how to transmit his art. *To sighs, to suffering, / to torments, to chagrin, / return o my heart…

"Nicolas Fouquet had all that was needful to that end," sighed Abbot Melani. "He was the most splendid patron of the arts, the most grandiose, the most tolerant and the most generous, the most gifted in the art of living and making politics. But he was ensnared in the web of avid, jealous, proud, intriguing and dissimulating enemies."

Fouquet came of a wealthy family from Nantes, which had already a century before made a well-merited fortune trading with the Antilles. He was entrusted to the Jesuit Fathers, who found in him a superior intelligence and exceptional charisma: the followers of the great Ignatius made of him a nobly political spirit, able to weigh up every opportunity, to turn all situations to his advantage and to persuade his every interlocutor. At the age of sixteen, he was already a counsellor at the Parlement of Metz, and at twenty, he became a member of the prestigious corps of the maitres des requetes, the public servants who administer justice, finance and the military.

In the meanwhile, Cardinal Richelieu had died and Cardinal Mazarin had ascended: Fouquet, being a protege of the former, passed without difficulty into the service of the latter. This was also because when the Fronde, the famous revolt of the nobility against the Crown, had broken out, Fouquet had defended the young King Louis well and had organised his return to Paris, after the troubles had compelled the Sovereign and his family to leave the city. He had shown himself to be an excellent servant of His Eminence the Cardinal, most faithful to the King and a man of daring. Once the tumult was over, at the age of thirty-five, he purchased the charge of Procurator- General of the Parlement of Paris, and in 1653 he was finally appointed Superintendent of Finances.

"But these facts," ventured Abbot Melani, "are merely the gilded frame of all his noble, just and eternal deeds."

His house was open to men of letters and artists and to business men; both in Paris and in the country, all awaited the precious moments which he stole from the duties of state to gratify those who had talent in poetry, in music and in the other arts.

It was no accident that Fouquet was the first to have understood and loved the great La Fontaine. The poet's scintillating talent was more than worthy of the rich pension which the Superintendent bestowed on him from the very dawning of their acquaintance. And to ensure that his friend's delicate soul should suffer no oppression, he asked him to repay his debt by periodic instalments, but in verse. Moliere himself was indebted to the Superintendent, but never would this be held against him, because the greater debt was moral. Even the good Corneille, now aged and no longer kissed by glory's ardent and capricious lips, was, at this the most difficult moment of his life, gratified materially, and thus saved from the coils of melancholy.

But the noble nuptials of the Superintendent with letters and with poesy were not exhausted in a mere sequence of presents and patronage, however long the catalogue of his munificence. The Superintendent did not stop short at material assistance. He read works still in gestation, he proffered advice and encouragement, he corrected, admonished, criticised where necessary, and praised where praise was opportune. And he gave inspiration: not only in words but through his noble presence. The good heart which shone forth from the Superintendent's countenance instilled courage, comfort and confidence: those great childlike cerulean eyes, the long nose, retrousse at the tip, the wide fleshy mouth and the dimples which creased his cheeks when he smiled his open smile.

Early in life, architecture, painting and sculpture had knocked at the door of Nicolas Fouquet's soul. Here, however, warned the abbot, a sorrowful chapter opens.

In the country, near Melun, there stands a chateau, a jewel of architecture, marvel among marvels, which Fouquet had built with incomparable taste and executed by artists whom he himself had discovered: the architect Le Vau, the gardener Le Notre, the painter Le Brun, recalled from Rome, the sculptor Puget, and so many others whom the King was soon to take into his own service, making them the foremost names in French art.

"Vaux, the castle of illusions," moaned Atto, "an immense affront in stone: the decor of a glory that lasted a single summer's night, that of the 17th of August, 1661. At six of the clock in the afternoon, Fouquet was the real King of France, at two the next morning, he was nothing."

On that 17th of August, the Superintendent, who had recently inaugurated his chateau, organised a day of festivities in honour of the King. He wished to please and delight him. He did this with his usual gaiety and munificence, but alas for him, without having understood the Sovereign's warped character. He had delivered to Vaux, for the still incomplete salons, day-beds decked in brocade with gold braided trimmings, tapestries, rare furniture, silverware, crystal chandeliers. Through the streets of Melun came a procession of treasures from a hundred museums and a thousand antiquaries: carpets from Persia and from Turkey, Cordovan leather wall coverings, porcelains sent from Japan by the Jesuits, lacquers imported from China via Holland, thanks to the privileged route which the Superintendent had created for the importation of rare merchandise from the Orient; and then, the paintings which Poussin had discovered in Rome and sent to him through his brother, the Abbe Fouquet. All the artists and poets who were his friends were recruited, including Moliere and La Fontaine.

"In every salon, from that of Madame de Sevigne to that of Madame de la Fayette, the Chateau of Vaux was the one subject of conversation," continued Melani, lost now in memories of those days. "The entrance to the chateau welcomed the visitor with the austere tracery of its wrought-iron grille and the eight busts of deities who seemed to hover on either side. Then came the immense outer courtyard, the cour d'honneur, linked to the dependencies by a series of bronze pilasters. And, in the three round arches of the imposing entrance portal, the climbing squirrel, Fouquet's emblem."

"A squirrel?"

"In Breton, the Superintendent's native dialect, the word fouquet means a squirrel. And my friend Nicolas resembled the little creature in complexion and temperament: industrious, moving suddenly and rapidly, nervous in body, with a playful, attractive gaze. Under his coat of arms, the motto: ' Quo non ascendant?' — or 'How high shall I not climb?'-which referred to the squirrel's passion for reaching ever-greater heights. By this, I mean of course, heights of generosity: Fouquet loved power as a little boy might. His was the simplicity of one who never takes himself too seriously."

Around the chateau, continued the abbot, spread the splendid gardens of Le Notre: "Velvet lawns and flowers from Genoa, where the begonia borders had the regularity of hexameters. Yews so clipped as to form cones, box bushes fashioned to resemble braziers, and then the great cascade and the lake of Neptune, leading to the grottoes; and, behind these, the park, with those celebrated fountains which so astonished Mazarin. All was ready to receive the young Louis XIV"

The King and the Queen Mother had left the Palace of Fontainebleau in the afternoon. At six, they arrived at Vaux with their retinue. Only Queen Maria Teresa, who was carrying the first fruit of her husband's love, was not among the guests. Manifesting indifference, the royal party passed between the ranks of guards and musketeers with their swelling chests and then through the busy swarms of pages and valets bearing gold chargers overburdened with the most ornate victuals, adjusting triumphs of exotic flowers, dragging cases of wine, arranging chairs around enormous damasked tables on which the candlesticks, the services and the cutlery were of gold and silver, the cornucopias full of fruit and vegetables, and the drinking glasses of the finest crystal, also ornamented in gold: all these things combined to make a splendid, stupefying, inimitable, irritating display.

"It was then that the pendulum of fate began to swing back," commented Abbot Melani, "and the reversal was as sudden as it was violent."

The young King Louis disliked the almost insolent ostentation of the fete. The heat and the flies, which were as anxious as the guests to take part in the celebrations, enervated both the Sovereign and his retinue, who were constrained by the conventions to make a punishing tour of the gardens of Vaux. Roasted by the sun, throats hemmed in by tight lace collars and lawn cravats pulled through the sixth buttonhole of their justaucorps, they were dying to be rid of their breeches and periwigs. It was with infinite relief that they saluted the cool of evening and at last sat down to dine.

"And how was the dinner?" I asked, my appetite whetted, imagining that the cuisine must have been on the same level as the house and the ceremony.

"The King did not like it," said the abbot gloomily.

Above all, the young King did not like the array of thirty-six dozen solid gold dishes and the five hundred dozen silver ones on the tables. He did not like the fact that so very many guests had been invited, hundreds and hundreds of them, or that the file of carriages and pages and little coaches waiting outside the chateau should be so long and so gay, almost a second fete. He did not like the whispered comment of a courtier, uttered as though it were some gossip which he was entitled to share, to the effect that the festivities had cost more than twenty thousand livres.

The King did not like the music which accompanied the banquet- cymbals and trumpets with the entrees, followed by violins-nor did he like the enormous sugar basin which was placed in front of him, and which hampered his movements.

He did not like being received by one who, although not a crowned head, was demonstrating that he was more generous, more rich in fantasy, more skilled in astounding his guests and at same time winning them over, uniting hospitality and magnificence; and thus more splendid. In a word: more royal.

After the miseries of the meal, Louis must needs endure those of the open-air spectacle which followed. While the banquet dragged on, Moliere in his turn, pacing nervously back and forth in the shelter of the great tents, cursed the Superintendent: Les Facheux, the comedy which he had prepared for the occasion, should have begun two hours earlier. Now the daylight was fading. In the end it was under the dark blue and green shield of the setting sun's last rays that he came on stage, while in the east the first stars dotted the heavens. There now followed yet another marvel: on the proscenium, there appeared a great clam, whose valves opened; whence a dancer, the sweetest of naiads, arose; and it was then as though all Nature spoke, and the surrounding trees and statues, moved by the subtlest of divine forces, gathered around the nymph to intone with her the sweetest of hymns: the eulogy of the King with which the comedy opened:

Pour voir sur ces beaux lieux le plus grand roi du monde Mortels, je viens a vous de ma grotte profonde…*

At the end of the sublime spectacle came the fireworks prepared by that Italian, Torelli, who, thanks to the magic of those explosions and colours which he alone knew how to stir with such consummate skill in the black, empty cauldron of heaven, was known in Paris as the Great Wizard.

At two o'clock in the morning, or perhaps even later, the King signalled with a nod that the time had come to take his leave. Fouquet was dumbfounded to see that his visage was dark with anger; perhaps he understood, and he grew pale. He approached and, on bended knee, with a sweeping gesture of the hand, publicly offered him Vaux as a gift. *To behold in this fine place the greatest King in the world, / Mortals, I come to you from my deep cavern…

Young Louis did not respond. He climbed into his carriage and cast a last glance at the chateau outlined in the dark: it was perhaps then (some swear to this) that there passed before his eyes an image from the Fronde, a troubled afternoon from his childhood, an image of which he no longer knew whether it was his own memory or what others had told him; an uncertain reminiscence of that night when, with the Queen Mother Anne and Cardinal Mazarin, he had escaped from Paris by stealth, his ears deafened by detonations and the clamour of the crowd, and in his nostrils, the sickening scent of blood mingling with the stink of the plebeians, ashamed to be King and despairing of ever returning to the city, his city. Or perhaps the King (some swear this, too) beheld the proud, arrogant jets of the fountains of Vaux, whose plashing he could still hear even as his carriage drove away, and suddenly realised that there was not a drop of water at Versailles.

"And then what happened?" I asked with a small voice, moved and troubled by the abbot's narration.

A few weeks passed, and the noose swiftly tightened around the Superintendent's neck. The King feigned the need to visit Nantes in order to make Brittany feel the weight of his authority and to impose those tributes which the Bretons had been slow to pay into the coffers of the realm. The Superintendent followed him without excessive anxiety, since Nantes was his own native city and many of his friends dwelled there.

Before he left, however, some began to suggest that he should cast an eye over his shoulder; his most faithful friends warned discreetly that a plot was being hatched against him. The Superintendent requested an audience with the King and opened his heart to him: he begged his pardon if the Treasury was in difficulties, but he had until a few months earlier been at Mazarin's orders, as Louis well knew. The King was perfectly understanding and treated him with the utmost consideration, asking his advice on even the most insignificant matters and following his indications without batting an eyelid.

Fouquet sensed, however, that something was wrong and he fell ill: he again began to suffer from those intermittent fevers which had struck him down following prolonged exposure to damp and cold when supervising the works at Vaux. More and more frequently he lost restoring sleep. He was seen once, weeping silently behind a door.

At last he left in Louis' retinue and, at the end of August, arrived in Nantes. At once, however, fever forced him again to take to his bed. The King, who had taken up lodgings in a castle at the far end of town, even showed signs of concern and sent visitors to inquire after his health. Fouquet recovered, although with difficulty. At last, on 5th September, the Sovereign's birthday, he was summoned at seven o'clock in the morning. He worked with the King until eleven, after which the Sovereign unexpectedly kept him back to discuss certain matters. When at length Fouquet left the castle, his carriage was stopped by a company of musketeers. A second lieutenant of musketeers, a certain d'Artagnan, read him the arrest warrant. Fouquet was incredulous. "Sir, are you certain that it is I whom you are to arrest?" Without according him one moment more, d'Artagnan confiscated all the papers which he had with him, even those which he carried on his person. All these were sealed and he was placed in a convoy of royal carriages which took him to the Chateau of Angers. There he remained for three months.

"And then?"

"That was but the first step on his via dolorosa. A trial was prepared, which lasted three years."

"Why so long?"

The Superintendent defended himself with incomparable skill. But in the end he was doomed to succumb. The King had him imprisoned for life in the fortress of Pinerol, beyond the Alps.

"And did he die there?"

"From that place, no one leaves save at the King's pleasure."

"But then it was the King's envy that destroyed Fouquet, because he could not tolerate his magnificence; and the fetes…"

"I cannot permit you to speak like this," he interrupted. "The young King was, at that time, beginning to cast his eyes over the various aspects of the state, and those eyes were not indifferent: they were those of a master. Only then did he understand that he was King and that he had been born to reign. But it was already too late for him to call to account Mazarin, the now deceased master and godfather of his youthful years, who had refused him everything. There remained, however, Fouquet, the other Sun, whose fate was thus sealed."

"So the King took his revenge. And what is more, he had not appreciated the solid gold dinner service…"

"No one can speak of the King taking vengeance, for he is the most powerful of all the princes of Europe; and a fortiori no one can say that His Most Christian Majesty was envious of the Superintendent of the Royal Finances, when those finances belonged to the Sovereign and to no one else."

He again fell silent, but he himself understood that his reply was not sufficient to satisfy my curiosity.

"It is true," he added at last, staring at the last rays of daylight as they entered the chamber, "you would not know the truth unless I told you of the Serpent who caught the Squirrel in his coils."

If the Superintendent was the Squirrel, in his footsteps there followed insidiously the Serpent. This slimy creature is known in Latin as coluber, and, strangely enough, that appellation pleased Monsieur de Colbert, who was convinced that the similarity with a reptile could (an idea as erroneous as it was revealing) best lend lustre and magnificence to his name.

"And he truly did know how to conduct himself like a thousand- coiled serpent," said the abbot. "For it was the Serpent, whom the Squirrel so trusted, that was to thrust him into the abyss."

In the beginning, Jean-Baptiste Colbert, the son of a rich textile merchant, was lord of absolutely nothing.

"Even if," sneered Atto, "he did lay claim to august forebears by having himself made a false tombstone which he claimed to be that of an ancestor from the thirteenth century, and before which he was even so mendacious as to kneel."

"Poorly educated, fortune smiled on him early in the guise of a cousin of his father, with whose help he acquired a post at the Ministry of War. There, his talent for toadying enabled him to make the acquaintance of Richelieu and to tie himself to his chariot; then, after the Cardinal's death, to become secretary to Michel le Tellier, the powerful Secretary for War. In the meanwhile, Richelieu's place had been taken by an Italian Cardinal, Jules Mazarin, who was very close to the Queen Mother.

"During that time, thanks to the money accruing to him through trade, he had succeeded in purchasing himself a minor title. And if he needed more money, the matter was resolved by his marriage to Marie Charron and above all by her dowry of one hundred thousand livres," added Abbot Melani with a further touch of spite. "But what made his true fortune," he resumed, "was the King's misfortune."

In 1650 the Fronde, which had begun some two years earlier, reached its climax, and the Sovereign, the Queen and Cardinal Mazarin had to flee Paris.

"The main problem for the state was certainly not the absence of the King, who was still a boy of twelve, nor that of the Queen Mother, who was above all the Cardinal's mistress, but that of the Cardinal himself."

To whom were the affairs and secrets of state, which the Cardinal handled so skilfully, now to be entrusted? Colbert drew on all his qualities as a zealous functionary: he was to be found in the office at five o'clock in the morning, he kept the most absolute order and never undertook anything of importance on his own initiative. All that, while Fouquet worked at home, forging ideas in the white heat of his furnace-like mind, amidst the uttermost chaos of papers and documents.

Thus the Cardinal, who in 1651 was beginning to feel threatened by Fouquet's enterprising ways, chose Colbert to look after his affairs. The more so, as the latter had shown himself to be highly proficient in the art of coded correspondence. Colbert served Mazarin not only until his triumphal re-entry to Paris with Louis and Anne of Austria at the end of the Fronde, but until the Cardinal's death.

"He entrusted to him even the administration of his own property," said the abbot with a sigh which expressed all the bitterness of one who has seen so much trust placed in the wrong hands. "He taught him all that art which the Serpent would never have been able to cultivate on his own. The Serpent, instead of manifesting gratitude, ensured that he was well paid. And he obtained favours for himself and for his family," said he, rubbing his thumb against his index as a vulgar indication that he was speaking of money. "He succeeded in obtaining audiences with the Queen Mother almost every day. To look at, he was almost the exact opposite of Nicolas: squat and stocky, with a wide, marked face, a livid, yellowish complexion, long, sparse crow-black hair under his skull-cap, an avid expression, hooded eyelids, moustaches as fine as whiplashes over thin, unsmiling lips. His glacial, prickly and recondite character would have made him a man to be dreaded, were it not for his ridiculous ignorance, ill-camouflaged by those misplaced Latin quotations which he was wont to parrot, after learning them from young assistants especially appointed for the purpose. He became a figure of fun but was even less liked for it, so much so that Madame de Sevigne nicknamed him 'the North', the iciest and most disagreeable of the cardinal points."

I did not ask Melani why there transpired from his tale such aversion for Colbert but not for Mazarin, to whom Colbert seemed so closely tied. I already knew the answer: had I not heard Devize, Cristofano and Stilone Priaso say that the castrato Atto Melani had, from his earliest youth, been helped and protected by the Cardinal?

"Were Colbert and Superintendent Fouquet friends?" I hazarded instead.

He hesitated an instant before replying.

"They met at the time of the Fronde and at first they quite liked one another. During the troubles, Fouquet's behaviour was that of the best of subjects, and Colbert revered him, rendering him services when he became Procurator-General of Paris, an office which he combined with that of Superintendent of Finances. But this did not last: Colbert could not bear that Fouquet's star should shine so high and so bright. How could he forgive the Squirrel his celebrity, his fortune, his charm, his agility at work and his promptitude of mind, (while he, Colbert, must sweat so hard to bring forth good ideas), and finally, for his sumptuous library which he, being uneducated, would not even have known how to use? So the Serpent played Spider, and set his hand to the web."

The fruits of Colbert's cunning were not long in coming. First, he instilled the poison of mistrust in Mazarin, then in the King. The realm was then emerging from decades of war and poverty and it was not difficult to falsify papers so as to accuse the Superintendent of accumulating wealth at the Sovereign's expense.

"Was Fouquet very rich?"

"He was not rich at all, but for reasons of state he needed to appear so: only thus could he continue to obtain more and more credit and thus satisfy Mazarin's pressing demands for money. He, the Cardinal, was exceedingly wealthy. Yet, when the King read his will a short time before he died, he found nothing to comment on therein."

This was, however, not the real question for Colbert. When the Cardinal died, a decision had to be made as to who was to take his place. Fouquet had adorned the realm, had endowed it with glory, had given of himself day and night to satisfy the demands for more revenue: he rightly thought that the honour should be his.

"But when the young King was asked who was to succeed Mazarin, he replied: "C'est moi. " There was no room for another prime actor alongside the Sovereign, and Fouquet was of too refined a material to play the subordinate. Colbert, on the other hand, was perfect in the part of bootlicker: he was consumed by the thirst for power, and even resembled the King too much in his manner of taking himself seriously; and that is precisely why he made not a single false move. Louis XIV fell headlong into the trap."

"So it was Colbert's envy that led to the persecution of Fouquet."

"That is quite clear. During the trial, the Serpent covered himself in infamy: he suborned the judges, he falsified documents, he threatened and extorted. To Fouquet there remained only La Fontaine's heroic defence, the peroration of Corneille, the courageous letters which his friends wrote to the King, the wholehearted support and friendship of noble ladies and, among the people, a hero's fame. Only Moliere kept cowardly silence."

"And you?"

"Well, I was not in Paris and there was little that I could do. Now, however, it would be better if you left me. I can hear the other guests making their way downstairs for dinner and I do not wish to catch our thief's attention: he must think that no one is on guard."

In the kitchen, seeing the late hour and the fact that the other guests had already been waiting for a long time, the best I could do was to serve up the remains of luncheon, with the addition of a few eggs and white endives. Truly, I was a mere prentice with no experience at the cooking stove: I could not compete with my master, and the guests were beginning to become aware of the fact.

During the meal, I noticed nothing unusual. Brenozzi, with his rosy cherub's face, continued to pluck at the parsnip between his thighs, gravely observed by the physician, who with one hand tugged at the black goatee on his chin. Stilone Priaso, with his bristling black owl-like frown, was more than ever given over to nervous fidgeting: rubbing the bridge of his nose, cleaning his fingertips, shaking an arm as though he wanted to bring his sleeve down, pulling his shirt away from his collar and smoothing his temples with the palms of his hands. Devize meanwhile ate as he was wont to: so noisily as almost to drown out the unstoppable loquacity which Bedfordi directed in vain at Dulcibeni, who grew ever more impenetrable, and at Padre Robleda, who nodded vacantly in the Englishman's direction. Abbot Melani consumed his meal in almost complete silence, only rarely looking up. He rose twice, seized by a great fit of sneezing, and brought a lace handkerchief to his nose.

When the meal was almost over and everyone was on the point of returning to their apartments, Stilone Priaso reminded the physician of his promise to enlighten us as to what hope we might entertain of escaping from the quarantine with our lives.

Cristofano needed no asking: "You must, before all else, know that the prime cause of the pestilence's coming into the world is the divine will, and there exists no better remedy for it than prayer. For the rest, no one knows with any certainty how the distemper is propagated. I can affirm that many visitations certainly began with a sick man bringing the disease from an infected zone," he answered. "Here in Rome, for instance, during the last visitation, the infection was said to have arrived from Naples, borne by an unsuspecting fishmonger. But my father, who was Proveditor for Public Health in the great Plague of Prato in 1630 and who cared for many struck down by the pestilence, confided in me many years later that the nature of the disease is mysterious, nor had any of the ancient authors been able to penetrate its secret."

"And he was right."

The harsh voice of Pompeo Dulcibeni, the aged traveller who had accompanied Mourai, took us all by surprise.

He began to hold forth in subdued tones: "A most learned man of the Church and of science has shown the way to proceed. But unfortunately, he was not listened to."

"A man of the Church and of science. Let me guess: Father Athanasius Kircher, perhaps," hazarded the doctor.

Dulcibeni did not reply, thus giving us to understand that the physician had guessed rightly. Then he recited: " Aerem, acqiiam, terrain innumerabilibus insectis scatere, adeo certum est.'"*

"He is saying that the earth, the air and water pullulate with minuscule beings invisible to the naked eye."

"Now," resumed Dulcibeni, "these minuscule beings come from organisms in a state of putrefaction, but it has only been possible to observe them since the invention of the microscope, and so…"

"He is known to many, this German Jesuit," interrupted Cristofano with a hint of scorn, "whom Signor Dulcibeni is, it seems, quoting from memory."

To me, Kircher's name meant nothing. But he must have been very well known: on hearing the name of Father Athanasius Kircher, the whole audience nodded its assent.

"Kircher's ideas, however," continued Cristofano, "have not yet supplanted those of the great authors, who, on the other hand…"

"Perhaps Kircher's ideas may to some extent be founded, but only sensation can provide a solid, trustworthy basis for our knowledge."

This time, the interjection came from Signor Bedfordi, the young Englishman, who seemed freed from last night's terror and was again his usual bumptious self.

"The same cause," he continued, "may in different cases produce opposite effects. After all, does not the same hot water harden eggs and make meat tender?"

"I know perfectly well," hissed Cristofano harshly, "who it is that circulates these sophisms: Master Locke, and his colleague Sidenamio, who know all there is to be known about the senses and the intellect; but in London they claim to cure the sick without being physicians."

"And so what? Their interest is in obtaining a cure," rebutted Bedfordi, "and not in attracting patients with their quacking, like certain physicians. Twenty years ago, when the pestilence in Naples was killing twenty thousand people in a day, Neapolitan chirurgeons and specialists came to London to sell their secret prophylaxis against the plague. Fine rubbish it was too: papers to hang around one's neck with the Jesuits' mark I.H.S. in a cross; or the famous parchment to be hung from the neck with the inscription:

At this point, the young Englishman, after arranging his red mane with some vanity and fixing his audience (except for me, to whom he paid no attention at all) with his glaucous, squinting eyes, stood up and leaned upon the wall, so that he could address us with greater ease.

The door posts of houses and the corners of streets were plastered over with doctors' bills inviting the people to buy "the infallible preventive pills", " matchless potions", " royal-antidotes " and "the universal anti-Plague-Water".

"And when they were not gulling the poor people with such-like quackeries," continued Bedfordi, "they sold potions based on mercury, which poisoned the blood and killed more surely than the plague itself."

This last phrase of the Englishman worked on Cristofano like a fuse, leading to a violent renewal of the dispute between them.

At that moment, Father Robleda joined the discussion. At first, he had muttered unintelligible comments under his breath, but now Robleda sallied forth in defence of his fellow Jesuit. The reactions were not long in coming and an indecorous altercation broke out, in which each struggled to impose his views by the force of his vocal cords rather than by that of reason.

It was the first time in my poor apprentice's life that I had witnessed so learned a contest, and I was both somewhat shocked and disappointed by the quarrelsomeness of the participants.

It was, however, thus that I obtained my first information about the theories of the mysterious Kircher, which could but arouse one's curiosity. In the course of a half-century of tireless study, the learned Jesuit had poured forth his multiform doctrine in over thirty magnificent works on the most varied topics, including a treatise on the plague, Scrutinium physicomedicum contagiosae luis quaepestis dicitur, published some twenty-five years previously. The Jesuit scientist claimed that he had with his microscope made great discoveries, which would leave the reader incredulous (as indeed they did) and which proved the existence of tiny invisible beings which were, in his opinion, the cause of the pestiferous infection.

In Robleda's view, Father Kircher's science was the product of faculties worthy of a seer, and in any case inspired by the Most High. And (I found myself thinking) what if that strange Father Kircher really had discovered how to cure the plague? However, the atmosphere was so torrid that I dared not ask questions.

Throughout all this, Abbot Melani was as attentive as myself, indeed more so, to the information concerning Father Kircher. He kept rubbing his nose, in a vain attempt to suppress several resounding sneezes, and while he did not intervene again, his sharp little eyes darted from one to the other of those mouths full of the German Jesuit's name.

I, for my part, was at once terrorised by the looming danger of the plague and fascinated by these learned theories concerning the infection, of which I was hearing for the first time.

That was why my suspicions were not aroused (as indeed they should have been) by the fact that Dulcibeni was so conversant with Kircher's old and forgotten theory about the plague. Nor had I noticed how Atto pricked up his ears when he heard the name of Kircher.

After hours of argument, most of the guests-overcome at last by boredom-had gradually slipped away to their beds, leaving only the antagonists. And a little later we all retired to sleep, without any peace being in sight.