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Night the Second

Between the 12th and 13th September, 1683

No sooner had I returned to my chamber than I leaned out of the window and, using a cane, lowered to Atto's window one end of the string which we were to pull to give the alarm. I then laid me down on my bed, keeping my eyes half-open and my ears pricked up. Fearing though I did that I might not be able to resist sleep for long, I prepared nevertheless to keep watch; also because in the bed before me lay my poor master, and Cristofano had asked me to keep an eye on him. I placed some old rags over his loins in order to absorb any urine, and began my wake.

What Abbot Melani had told me had, I reflected, gone some way to making me more tranquil. He had without the least awkwardness admitted to his friendship with Fouquet. And he had explained why the Superintendent had fallen into disgrace: even more than the Most Christian King's disappointment, the determining factor had been Colbert's envy. Everyone knows the malignant force of envy: might not Devize's, Stilone Priaso's and Cristofano's gossip about Atto also be attributable to precisely that? Perhaps too much jealousy had been stirred up by the ascent of a mere bell-ringer's son who, from his beginnings as a poor castrato, had so risen as to dispense counsel to the Sun King. Certainly, the three had shown that they recognised him, nor could their talk be the fruit of mere fantasy. Nevertheless, Cristofano's hostility might be explained by envy of a fellow-countryman: "nemo propheta in patria", says the gospel. What was one then to think of Devize's strange lie? He had spoken of visiting the Teatro del Cocomero in Venice, when it was in Florence. Was I to mistrust him, too?

Atto's tale was not only credible but grandiose and moving. I felt bitter repentance arise in my breast for having thought him a scoundrel, a dissimulator ready to betray and to lie. In truth it was I who had betrayed the sentiment of friendship that had grown out of our first conversation in the kitchen, and which I had taken to be genuine and sincere.

I glanced at my master, who for many hours had been sleeping a heavy and unnatural sleep. We seemed beset by too many mysteries: what had reduced him to that state? And, before him, to what had Signor di Mourai fallen victim? And, last of all, what had induced Brenozzi to present me with those precious pearls, and why had they now been stolen?

My mind was still occupied with these painful thoughts when I woke up: without realising it, I had fallen asleep. A sound of creaking awoke me: I jumped up and rolled out of bed, but immediately a mysterious force cast me to the ground, and only with the greatest of difficulty did I avoid a heavy fall. I cursed: I had forgotten the cord linking my right ankle with that of Abbot Melani. Rising, I had tripped over it; and when I fell, the noise awoke my master, who moaned softly. We were in the dark; perhaps for lack of oil, my lamp had gone out.

I listened carefully; in the corridor, there was not a sound. Hardly had I risen, however, fumbling for the edge of the bed, when I again heard creaking, followed by a heavy thud, then metallic sounds, then yet another creak. My heart was beating hard; this was certainly the thief. I freed myself of the string that had tripped me and groped in search of the lantern which was on the table in the middle of the chamber, but with no success. With great trepidation, I decided then to leave the room and intercept the thief, or at least to discover his identity.

I plunged into the dark corridor, without having the least idea of what to do. Laboriously, I made my way down the stairs to the closet. If I found myself face to face with the mysterious individual, was I to attack him or to call for help? Without knowing why, I ducked and tried to approach the door of the closet, holding my hands out in front of me both to defend my face and to explore the unknown.

The blow was cruel and unexpected. Someone, or something, had struck my cheek, leaving me confused and in pain. Terrified, I tried to avoid a second blow by backing against the wall and screaming. My anguish became insuperable when I realised that no sound was issuing from my mouth; for such was my panic that it crushed my lungs and blocked my vocal cords. I was about to roll desperately on the ground to escape from my unknown adversary, when a hand grasped my arm firmly and at the same time I heard: "What are you up to, you little fool?"

It was beyond any doubt Atto's voice, and it was he who had rushed up when I rose in alarm at the creaking and pulled on the string. I explained to him what had happened, complaining of the blow I had received to the face.

"That was no blow, it was I who was running to help you-but you came tumbling down the stairs like a half-wit and collided with me," he whispered, holding back his anger. "Where is the thief?"

"I have seen no one but you," I murmured, still trembling.

"I heard him. While I was climbing the stairs, I heard his keys jangling. He must have entered the closet," said he, lighting a lantern which he had had the foresight to bring with him. From above, we glimpsed a slit of light issuing from under the door of Stilone Priaso, on the right-hand side of the second floor corridor. The abbot asked me to lower my voice and indicated the entrance to the little passage into which he supposed that the thief had gone. The door was ajar. Within, all was dark.

We looked at each other and held our breath. Our man must be within, aware now that he was trapped. The abbot hesitated for a moment and then opened the door boldly. Inside, there was no one.

"It is not possible," said Melani, visibly disappointed. "If he had escaped downstairs, he would have run into me. If he had run upstairs, even if he had succeeded in getting past you, there is nowhere left to hide. The doorway from Cloridia's tower to the roof has been sealed from the outside. And if he had opened the door of one of the other rooms, we should surely have heard him."

We were utterly disconcerted; but just when we were on the point of beating the retreat, Atto gestured that I was to stay put, and went rapidly down the stairs. I followed his lantern with my gaze and saw him stop at the second-floor window onto the inner courtyard. He put the lantern on the floor and I saw him leaning over the window sill. Thus, he remained awhile. Growing curious, I too approached the grate of the little window which gave light to the closet during the day. But it was too high for me and I could see nothing but the pale moonlit night. Returning to the closet, the abbot knelt down and measured the length of the floor with his palms, until he reached under the sideboard loaded with household utensils which stood against the far wall. There he stopped for a moment, then repeated the operation, taking account this time of the thickness of the wall. He then measured the distance between the window and the end wall. When at last he raised his hands from the dust, he grasped me without uttering a word and lifted me onto a stool; then, putting the lantern on my head, so that I had to hold it in place with my hands, he set me before the grate. "Do not move," he commanded, tapping my nose with his finger.

I heard him grope his way down to the second-floor window. When at long last he returned, I was impatient to know what he was thinking.

"Follow this carefully. The closet is a little over eight hands long; about ten hands, if we include the wall. As one can see quite clearly from the courtyard, the little wing to which this closet belongs was built later than the main body of the inn. Indeed, from the outside, it looks like a great pillar rising up to here from the ground, attached to the posterior corner of the building's west wall. Only, there's something here that does not add up: the pillar is at least twice as wide as the closet. This little window is, as you can see, very close to the shelf, not more than a couple of palms from the end of the room. Therefore it should, when seen from the outside, be close to the outer corner of the wing. But, when I leaned out from the window on the second floor, I saw that the little window, lit up by the lantern which you were holding, was not even halfway along the wall."

The abbot stopped, perhaps waiting for me to reach my conclusions. But I, with my head cluttered to suffocation by all those geometric figures piled one on top of the other and adduced by Atto's rigorous reasoning, had understood nothing. So he continued: "Why so much wasted space? Why was not more room given to this closet, which is so small that the two of us cannot stand up in it without touching one another?"

I too went to look from the second-floor window, happy above all to breathe the fresh night air.

I screwed up my eyes. It was true. The light from the oil lamp which I could descry through the grate of the closet was curiously distant from the far corner, outlined by the pale moonlight. I had never paid attention to this, being too busy by day and tired by night to tarry by that window sill.

"And do you know what the explanation is, my boy?" asked Abbot Melani the moment I rejoined him.

Without awaiting my reply, he reached out with his arm to the sideboard and began busily to explore the wall behind the utensils. Panting, he asked me to help him shift the piece of furniture.

The operation was not too difficult. The abbot seemed not at all surprised by the revelation which met our eyes; half-hidden by the dirt which time's disrespectful hand had spread over the wall, there emerged the outline of a door.

"Here you are," he exclaimed, satisfied.

And without flinching, he gave a push on the door; the old hinges squealed.

The first thing that I noticed was a damp, cold draught blowing in my face. Before our eyes, an obscure cavity opened up.

"He went into there," I concluded, stating the obvious.

"That does indeed appear to be the case," replied the abbot, peering apprehensively over the brink. "This wretched little closet had a double wall. Would you care to enter first?"

My silence spoke for itself.

"Very well," conceded Atto, reaching forward with his lantern to show the way. "It is always up to me to resolve everything."

Hardly had he spoken than I saw him clutch desperately at the old door which he had just opened, pulled down by an irresistible force.

"Help me, quickly," he called.

It was a well, and Melani was about to fall into it, with consequences which would surely have been fatal. He had just managed to hold onto the doorpost with his legs dangling in the voracious darkness opening beneath us. When he had climbed back, thanks to my feeble support, we found ourselves in the dark. The abbot had let go of the lantern, which had been swallowed up by the black hole. So I went to fetch another one from my chamber, which I took care to lock. Pellegrino was sleeping peacefully, happily unaware-thought I-of what was going on in his hostelry.

When I returned, Atto was lowering himself into the hole. He showed himself to be unusually agile for his age. As I often had cause to note thereafter, he possessed a kind of controlled but fluid vigour of the nerves, which constantly sustained him.

It was not really a well, as he showed me, waving the lantern, for in the wall was set a series of iron supports rather like steps, which permitted a cautious descent. We climbed down gingerly into the vertical aperture, not without some trepidation. The descent did not last long: soon we were standing on a rough brick platform. We looked around us, pointing the lantern, and found that the way down was not cut off but continued on one of the short sides of the landing with a stone stairway around a square shaft. We leaned over, trying in vain to descry the bottom of this stairwell.

"We are under the closet, my boy."

I responded with a feeble moan in lieu of comment, seeing that this was of little consolation to me.

We went on in silence. This time, the descent seemed to be without end, also because of a fine slimy film which covered everything and rendered our progress quite perilous. At a certain point, the stairway changed completely in appearance; excavated from the tufa, it became exceedingly narrow and correspondingly uneven. The air had become dense, a sure sign that we were underground.

We continued our descent until we found ourselves in a dark and sinister gallery dug out of the damp earth: our only company, the dense air and the silence. I was afraid.

"This is where our thief went," whispered Abbot Melani.

"Why do you speak so quietly?"

"He could be nearby. I want to be the one to surprise him, not the contrary."

However, the thief was not a few paces off, nor was he beyond that. We proceeded along the gallery, in which Abbot Melani had to walk bending down because of the ceiling-if that it could be called-which was low and rather irregular. He watched me move easily in front of him: "For once I envy you, my boy."

We advanced very slowly along a pathway occasionally made compact by stones and bricks scattered haphazardly here and there. We continued a few dozen paces further, during which the abbot responded to my mute but foreseeable curiosity.

"This passage must have been built to enable one to emerge unseen at some remote point in the city."

"In times of pestilence, perhaps?"

"I think a long, long time before that. It will never have failed to be useful in a city like this. Perhaps it has been used by some Roman prince to unleash his men upon a rival. Roman families have always hated and fought one another with all their might. When the German mercenaries sacked Rome, some households helped them to plunder the city, so long as they struck only at their rivals. It is possible that our inn may originally have served as the headquarters of groups of assassins and cutthroats. Perhaps at the service of the Orsini, who own many houses in the neighbourhood."

"But who built the tunnel?"

"Look at the walls," said the abbot, bringing his lantern close to the side of the gallery. "The stone appears to be rather ancient."

"As ancient as the catacombs?"

"Perhaps. I know that in the past decades, a learned priest explored the cavities to be found in several places in Rome, and discovered and made drawings of innumerable tombs and remains of saints and martyrs. In any case, it is certain that beneath the houses and piazzas of several quarters there are passages and galleries, sometimes built by the ancient Romans, sometimes excavated in periods closer to our own.

"I have heard tell of an underground labyrinth built in Sicily by the great Emperor Frederick, the corridors of which conceal rods which, if trodden upon, release metal grates which fall from above and imprison visitors, or sharp blades which, propelled from invisible slits, are capable of wounding and killing passers-by. Other mechanisms suddenly open up deep wells into which those unwary of such dangers are unfailingly cast. Quite accurate plans have been drawn of some catacombs. It is said that under the ground in Naples, there also exist a surprising number of subterranean passages, but I have no experience there, whereas I have made a few visits to those in Paris, which are certainly quite extensive. I know too that in Piedmont in the last century, near to a place called Rovasenda, hundreds of peasants were ambushed by French soldiers who chased them into some caverns which were to be found near a river. It is said that none left those grottoes alive, neither the assailants nor the assailed."

"Signor Pellegrino never spoke to me of the existence of this passage," I whispered.

"I can believe that. It is not something to be revealed unless it is essential. And probably he himself does not know all its secrets, seeing that he has not been in charge of this inn for very long."

"Then, how did the person who stole the keys find this passage?"

"Perhaps your good master gave in to an offer of money. Or of Muscat wine," sneered the abbot.

While we advanced, I gradually felt myself overcome by a sensation of oppression in my breast and in my head. The obscure wandering on which we had ventured led in an unknown direction: in all likelihood, one that portended many dangers. The darkness, broken only by the oil lantern which Abbot Melani carried before him, was frightful and ominous. The walls of the gallery, because of the tortuous course they followed, made it impossible to look straight in front of us and caused us to foresee some disagreeable surprise with every step we took. And what if the thief had seen the light of our lantern from afar, and was waiting behind some projection to ambush us? I thought, shivering, of the perils populating the galleries of which Abbot Melani knew. No one would ever recover our bodies. The guests at the inn would have a hard time convincing the men-at-arms that I and the abbot had fled from the place, perhaps jumping from some window at night.

Even today, I could not say how long our exploration lasted. At the end, we noticed that the underground passage which had initially led us ever deeper, was gradually beginning to ascend.

"There," said Abbot Melani. "Perhaps we are about to emerge somewhere."

My feet hurt and the damp was beginning to sink its clutches into me. For a while we had not spoken, wanting only to see the end of that dreadful cavern. I was seized by terror when I saw the abbot stumble with a groan on something, almost falling, almost losing his grip on the lantern; to have lost our only source of light would have made our stay down there a nightmare. I rushed forward to support him. With an expression of mixed fury and relief, the abbot cast light on the obstacle. A flight of steps led upwards, as steep as they were narrow. We climbed them almost crawling, so as not to risk falling backwards. During the ascent, a series of curves forced Atto to squeeze through painfully. I, for once, was doing better. Atto looked at me: "I really envy you, my boy," he repeated amusedly, not caring that I showed how little I appreciated his joke.

We were muddied, our brow and our bodies befouled by disgusting sweat. Suddenly, the abbot screamed. A shapeless, rapid and furtive being fell upon my back, sliding clumsily down my right leg before plunging back into the darkness. I twisted my body, raising my arms in terror to protect my head, simultaneously ready to beg for mercy and blindly to defend myself.

Atto understood that the danger, if danger there had been, had lasted the space of a lightning flash. "Strange that we should not have met with any before," he commented as soon as he had regained his composure. "One can see that we really are off the beaten track."

An enormous river rat, disturbed by our arrival, had chosen to climb over us rather than be driven backwards. In its mad leap, it had clung to Abbot Melani's arm while he leaned against the wall, and had then fallen with all its weight onto my back, paralysing me with terror. We stopped, silent and fearful, until our breathing recovered its normal rhythm. We then resumed our ascent, until the steps began at intervals to be replaced by horizontal brick platforms, each one longer than the one before. Fortunately, we had a good supply of oil: contravening the repeated prohibitions issued by the College of Cardinals, I had decided also to use good edible oil.

We felt that we had reached the final stretch. By now we were walking up a gently ascending slope which made us forget the fatigue and the fears which we had only just traversed. We debouched suddenly in a quadrangular space which was no longer excavated but built in masonry. It looked very much like a storeroom or the cellar of a palace.

"We have returned among men," said the abbot, greeting our new surroundings.

From here, a last stairway led upwards, very steep but equipped with a rope handrail, secured to the right-hand wall by a series of iron rings. We climbed up to the top.

"Curses," hissed the abbot.

I understood at once what he meant. At the top of the stairs there was, as might be expected, a doorway. The door was quite solid, and it was closed.

Here was a good opportunity to take a rest, even in so inhospitable a place, and to reflect upon our situation. The little door was bolted with a rusty iron bar running into the wall. From the draught we felt coming through it, there was no difficulty in guessing that it gave onto the open air.

"Now I shall say nothing. You, explain all this," invited the abbot.

"The door is closed from the inside. Yet…" I struggled to make my deduction, "the thief did not leave the gallery. But since we did not meet him nor did we find any junction with another gallery, the conclusion must be that he did not take the same route as ourselves."

"Very well. Then, where did he go?"

"Perhaps he did not even descend into the well behind the closet," I suggested, without for one moment believing that.

"Mmmh," grumbled Atto. "So where did he hide then?"

He went back down the stairs and turned rapidly round the storeroom. In a corner, an old half-rotten boat confirmed the suspicion which I had nourished from the moment of our arrival there: we were close to the banks of the Tiber. I opened the door, not without difficulty working the bolt. Illuminated by faint moonbeams, the beginning of a pathway was visible. Lower down, the river ran past, and I instinctively drew back from the chasm. The fresh, damp wind blew into the store-room, causing us to breathe deeply. Just outside the door, another uncertain path seemed to fork off to the right, where it vanished into the muddy riverbanks.

The abbot anticipated my thoughts: "If we flee now, they will capture us without fail."

"In other words," I moaned disconsolately, "we have come all this way for nothing."

"Quite the contrary," retorted Atto impassively. "Now we know this way out, should we ever need it. We have found no trace of the thief who, however, did not take this route. We have missed some other possibility, either through an oversight or through our incapacity. Let us now turn back, before someone becomes aware of our absence."

The return to the inn was as painful and twice as tiring as the outward journey. Deprived of the hunter's instinct that had then driven us (or so it was, at least, for Abbot Melani), we dragged ourselves forward, suffering even more from the anfractuosities of the way, although my travelling companion was unwilling to admit it.

Once we had climbed back up the first well, with great relief leaving behind us the infernal underground passage, we regained the little closet. The abbot, visibly frustrated by this fruitless expedition, dismissed me with a few hurried instructions for the following day.

"Tomorrow, if you wish, you may advise the other guests that someone has stolen the second copy of the keys, or at least that they have been mislaid. Of course, we shall say nothing of our discovery or of our attempt to identify the thief. As soon as we have an opportunity, we shall consult together separately from the others, in the kitchen or in some other secure place, and we shall keep each other informed of any news."

I nodded lazily, because of my fatigue, but above all because of the doubts I still secretly harboured concerning Abbot Melani. During our return through the gallery, I had again changed my mind about him: I said to myself that, even if the gossip about him was excessive and malevolent, there did nevertheless remain obscure areas in his past; and so, now that the hunt for the thief had failed, I no longer intended to act as his servant and informer and thus to embroil myself in murky, and perhaps even perilous, affairs. And, even if it were true that Superintendent Fouquet, whose companion Melani had been, had been no more than too splendid a Maecenas, victim of the regal jealousy of Louis XIV and the envy of Colbert, it could still not be denied, I repeated to myself as we forged our tiresome way through the darkness, that here I was, in cahoots with one accustomed to the cunning, the sophistries and the thousand guiles of the court of Paris.

I knew how serious the quarrel was between our good Pope, Innocent XI, and the court of France. At the time, I was unable to tell why there should be such bitterness between Rome and Paris. But from the people's discourse and from those who were better informed about political affairs, I had clearly understood that whoever would faithfully serve our pontiff could not, and must not, be a friend of the French court.

And then, was not all that ardour in pursuing the supposed thief of the keys in itself suspect? Why take up that pursuit, so full of unknown consequences and dangers, rather than simply letting events take their course and telling the other guests at once of the keys' disappearance? And what if the abbot knew far more than he had confided in me? Perhaps he already had a precise idea of where the keys were hidden. And what if he himself had been the thief and had simply tried to distract my attention in order to be able to act more at ease, perhaps that very night? Even my beloved master had concealed from me the existence of the gallery, so why should a stranger like Abbot Melani have confided his real intentions to me?

I therefore gave the abbot my broad promise that I would follow his instructions, but did what I could to disengage myself from him as quickly as possible, taking back my lantern and closing myself at once into my chamber, where I intended to resume filling my little diary with the many occurrences of the day.

Signor Pellegrino was sleeping placidly, his breathing almost completely calmed. More than two hours had passed since we entered the horrid subterranean gallery, perhaps no more remained before it would be time to rise, and I was at the limit of my strength. It was by pure chance that, an instant before putting out the light, I glanced at my master's breeches and noticed the lost keys in plain view on his belt.