Secretum

Day the First

7th J uly, 1700

Ardent and high in the heavens above Rome shone the sun on that midday of the 7th of July in the year of Our Lord 1700, on which day the Lord did grace me with much hard labour (but against discreet recompense) in the gardens of the Villa Spada.

Lifting mine eyes from the ground and scrutinising the horizon beyond the distant wrought-iron gates flung open for the occasion, I glimpsed, perhaps even before any of the lackeys who stood guard around the gate of honour, the cloud of white dust from the road which announced the head of the long serpent of the guests' carriages moving in slow succession.

Upon that sight, which I was soon sharing with the other servants of the villa, who had as ever forgathered, drawn by curiosity, the joyous fervour of the preparations became yet more fevered; presently, they all returned to bustle around in the back rooms of the casino — the great house — where the major-domos had for days now fussed impatiently, shouting orders at the servants, as they muddled and collided with the varletry busily heaping up the last provisions in the cellars, while the peasants unloading cases of fruit and vegetables hurried to remount their carts stationed near the tradesmen's entrance, calling back their wives whenever they tarried too long in their search for the right pair of hands into which religiously to deliver majestic strings of flowers as red and velvety as their cheeks.

Pallid embroideresses arrived, delivering damasked cloths, hangings and eburnean hemstitched tablecloths, the very sight of which was blinding under the blazing sun; carpenters finished nailing and planing scaffolding, seats and platforms, in bizarre counterpoint to the disorderly practising of the musicians, who had come to try out the acoustics of the various natural theatres; architects squinted through puckered eyes as they verified the enfilade of an avenue, kneeling, wig grasped awkwardly in one hand, panting because of the great heat, as they checked again and again on the final effect of a mise-en-scene.

All this commotion was not without cause. In barely two days' time, Cardinal Fabrizio Spada would be solemnising the marriage of his one-and-twenty-year-old nephew Clemente, heir to the most copious fortune, with Maria Pulcheria Rocci, likewise the niece of a most eminent member of the Holy College of Cardinals.

In order worthily to celebrate the event, Cardinal Spada would be diverting with entertainments a multitude of prelates, nobles and cavaliers at the family villa, which stands, surrounded by magnificent gardens, on the Janiculum Hill near to the source of the Acqua Paola, whence one enjoys the loveliest and most aerial prospect of the city's roofs.

Such was the summer's heat that the villa seemed preferable to the family's grandiose and celebrated palace down in the city, in the Piazza Capo di Ferro, where the guests would not have been able to taste the delights of the countryside.

In advance of the ceremonies proper, festivities were already commencing that very day when, at around midday, as expected, the carriages of the more eager guests were already to be seen on the horizon. Noble names in plenty would soon be forgathering, together with churchmen coming from far and wide, the diplomatic representatives of the great powers, the members of the Holy College and scions and elders of all the great families. The first official entertainments were to take place on the day of the nuptials, when everything would be ready to bedazzle the guests with scenic effects both natural and ephemeral, with exotic flowers set among the native plants and papier mache challenging the onlooker to recognise it under a thousand guises, richer than the gold of Solomon, more elusive than the quicksilver of Hydria.

The cloud of dust from the carriages, which still moved seemingly without a sound because of the excessive clangour of the preparations, was drawing ever nearer and, from the high point of the great curve before the gates of the Villa Spada one could already descry the first flashes of the magnificent ornaments which adorned coaches and equipages.

The first to arrive, or so we had been told, would be the guests from outside Rome, who would thus be able to enjoy a well-deserved repose after the fatigues of the journey and to savour two evenings of gentle rustic peace. Thus they would come to the festivities refreshed, at ease and already diverted by a little merry-making; all of which would surely augment the general good humour and make for the greatest possible success of the celebrations.

The Roman guests, on the other hand, would have the choice of lodging at the Villa Spada or, if they were too occupied with official business or other matters, of arriving by carriage every day at midday and returning to their own residences in the evening.

After the wedding, there were to be several more days and evenings of the most spectacular and varied divertissements: hunting, music, theatrical performances, several parlour games and even an academy, all culminating in fireworks. Counting the wedding day, this would amount to a full week of festivities, until 15th July, when, before taking their leave, the guests would enjoy the special favour of being escorted into town to visit the resplendent and grandiose Palazzo Spada in Piazza Capo di Ferro, where the great-uncles of Cardinal Fabrizio had, together with the late Cardinal Bernardino and his brother Virgilio of precious memory, assembled half a century earlier a most imposing collection of pictures, books, antiquities and precious objects, not to mention the frescoes, the trompe l'oeil perspectives and all manner of architectural contrivances, on which I had never as yet set eyes but which I knew to have astounded all those who beheld them.

By now, the sight of the carriages on the horizon was accompanied by the distant clatter of their wheels on the cobbles and, looking carefully, I realised that, for the time being, only one carriage was arriving; indeed, said I to myself, gentlemen always took care to maintain a certain distance between their respective trains, so as to ensure that each should be correctly received and to avoid the risk of any involuntary discourtesy, as the latter not uncommonly degenerated into dissensions, lasting enmity and, heaven forfend, even into bloody duels.

On the present occasion, such risks were, in reality, limited by the adroitness of the Master of Ceremonies and the Major- Domo, the irreproachable Don Paschatio Melchiorri; these two would be seeing to the guests' reception, for, as was already known, Cardinal Fabrizio was much busied with his duties as Secretary of State.

As I tried to make out the coat of arms on the approaching carriage and could already distinguish the distant dust clouds from those that followed, once again I bethought myself of how sagacious a choice the Villa Spada had been as the theatre for the celebrations: in the gardens of the Janiculum, after sunset, cool air was assured. That, I knew well, as I had frequented the Villa Spada for no little time. My modest farm was but a short distance from there, outside the San Pancrazio Gate. My spouse Cloridia and I enjoyed the good fortune of being able to sell fresh potherbs and good fruit from our little field to the household of the Villa Spada; and from time to time I would be summoned for some special task, particularly when this involved climbing to some difficult place, such as rooftops or attics, operations which my small stature greatly facilitated. I was also called upon whenever there was a shortage of staff, as was the case on the occasion of the present celebration, when the entire establishment of Palazzo Spada had been transferred to work at the villa, and the Cardinal had taken advantage of the Palazzo being empty to have some work done on the interior decoration, including frescoes for the Alcove of the Spouses.

For two months or so, I had thus been under the orders of the Master Florist, industriously hoeing, planting, pruning and caring for the flowers. There was no little to be done. Villa Spada must not fail to make the right impression on behalf of its masters. The open space before the gates had been covered with little loggias all decorated with greenery which, trained to climb in fecund spirals, snaked soft and sweet-smelling around columns, pilasters and capitals, gradually thinning out until it merged into the fine embroidery of the arcades. The main carriage-drive, which in ordinary times passed between simple rows of vines, was now flanked by two marvellous sets of flower beds. Everywhere the walls had been painted green, with false windows depicted on them; the gentle sward, mown to perfection according to the instructions of the Master Florist, cried out for the contact of bare feet.

Arriving at the casino of the villa, that is to say, the great house, one was greeted by the welcome shade and the inebriating odour of an immense pergola of wisteria, supported by temporary arcades covered with greenery.

Next to the casino, the Italian garden had been made as new again. It was a secret, walled garden. Upon the walls that concealed it were painted landscapes and mythological scenes; from all sides, deities, cupids and satyrs peeped out, while within the garden, in the cool shade, whosoever wished to withdraw in quiet and contemplation, far from prying eyes, could admire, undisturbed, elms and Gapocotto poplars, wild cherry and plum trees, generous vines of sweet Zibibbo and other grapes, trees from Bologna and Naples, chestnuts, wild shrubs, quinces, plane trees, pomegranate bushes and mulberry trees, not to mention little fountains and waterspouts, trompe l'oeil perspectives, terraces and a thousand other attractions.

There followed the physic garden, likewise entirely and freshly replanted from end to end, wherein were grown fresh curative herbs for tisanes, cataplasms, plasters and every use known to the art of medicine. The medicinal plants were enclosed betwixt hedges of sage and rosemary pruned into strict geometrical shapes, their odours penetrating the air and entrancing the visitor's senses. Behind the building, an avenue, passing close to the bosky shade of a little grove, led to the private chapel of the Spada family, where the nuptials were to be solemnised. Thence, following the slopes that led down towards the city, three drives fanned out, one of which led to an open-air theatre (built especially for the festivities, and now almost ready), the second, to a farmhouse (fitted out as a dormitory for the guards, actors, plumbers and others) and the third, to the back entrance.

Returning however to the front of the villa, in the midst of the rustic setting of the vineyard, a long avenue (parallel to that of the main carriage-drive, but more internal) led to the rotunda of the fountain with the nymphaeum and continued until it came at last to a well-tended little meadow whereon had been laid, for light meals in the open air, tables and benches copiously ornate with rich carvings and marquetry, shaded by sumptuous canopies of striped linen.

The unsuspecting visitor would halt, lost in admiration, until he became aware that this display was but the frame and invitation to the most spectacular sight of the whole vineyard; his eyes would squint in sudden amazement at that plunging vista over Roman bastions and battlements, extending on the right towards the horizon, as they emerged from the depths of their invisible, somnolent, millenary foundations. Eyelids would flutter as they beheld that dramatic and unexpected prospect and the heartbeat would quicken. Among those delights, o'erflowing with perfumes and enchantment, every thing seemed born for pleasure, all was poesy.

The Villa Spada rose thus to the occasion, no longer that modest but delightful summer residence almost eclipsed by the wealth and magnificence of the sumptuous Palazzo Spada in Piazza Capo di Ferro, but the great theatre of the forthcoming celebrations.

Now the villa could without blushing contend with the most famed of the summer pavilions built two centuries previously, when Giuliano da Sangallo and Baldassare Peruzzi graced Rome with their services, the former with his commission for the Villa Chigi, the latter with the villa which he designed for Cardinal Alidosi at Magliana, while Giulio Romano created the villa of the Datary Turini on the Janiculum, and Bramante and Raphael built the Vatican Belvedere and the Villa Madama respectively, both to ingenious designs.

In reality, it had since time immemorial been the custom of great lords to have elegant residences built in the nearby countryside in which to forget the daily round of cares and sorrows, even if they stayed there only a few times a year. Without going as far back as the rich mansions which the Romans had erected (and which were celebrated by so many excellent poets, from Horace to Catullus), I was well aware from my reading and from conversations with a few erudite booksellers (but even more with old peasants, who know the vineyards and gardens better than anyone) that, in the past two hundred years in particular, the great princes of Rome had made a fashion of building themselves pleasure pavilions on the outskirts of the city. The desolate no-man's-land and damp little fields within the Aurelian Wall and in its immediate vicinity had gradually given way to the vineyard and its casino, in other words to gardens and to villas.

While the first villas had battlements and turrets (still visible at the entrance of the otherwise undefended Capponi vineyard), an obvious legacy of the turbid Middle Ages when a gentleman's abode was also his fortress, within a few decades styles grew lighter and more serene and soon every nobleman boasted a residence with vineyards, vegetable gardens, fruit trees, woods or pine groves, thus creating the gentle illusion of possessing and exercising lordship over all that the eye could see without so much as moving from one's seat.

The flowering of scenic wonders within the villa's verdant bounds went well with the gay atmosphere reigning in the Holy City. The year of Our Lord 1700 was a Jubilee Year. Multitudes of pilgrims were converging from all the world over in hope of obtaining remission of their sins and benefit of the indulgence. No sooner did they arrive from the Via Romea at the ridge from which they could make out the cupola of Saint Peter's than the faithful (known therefore as "Romei") would intone a hymn to the most excellent of all cities, red with the purple blood of the martyrs and white with the lilies of the virgins of Christ. Hostelries, hospices, colleges and even private houses, which were subject to the law of hospitality, were full to overflowing with pilgrims; alleyways and piazzas resounded night and day to the footsteps of the pious as they filled the air with their litanies. The night was lit up by the torches of the confraternities who ceaselessly enlivened the streets of the central quarters. 'Midst so much fervour, even the cruel spectacle of the flagellants no longer inspired horror: the crack of the scourges with which the ascetics tormented their lacerated sweat- and blood-covered backs formed a counterpoint to the chaste chanting of novices in their cool cloisters.

No sooner had they arrived in the city of the Vicar of Christ than the pilgrims would converge upon Saint Peter's, and only after praying at the tomb of the apostle would they allow themselves a few hours' respite. On the next day, before leaving their lodgings, they would kneel on the ground, raise their hearts heavenward, cross themselves and meditate upon the life of Christ and of the Most Holy Virgin Mary; then, telling their rosary beads, they would begin the tour of the four Jubilee basilicas, followed by the Forty-hour Oration and the ascent of the Holy Ladder, whereby to obtain total and complete remission of sins.

All in all, everything seemed to be moving in perfect and joyous harmony for the twenty-fifth recurrence of those Jubilees which, since the time of Boniface VIII, had brought tens of thousands of Romei to Rome; and yet one could not truly say "everything", for an undertow of anguish and distress moved silently through the crowds of pilgrims and Romans: His Holiness was gravely ill.

Two years previously, Pope Innocent XII (whose baptismal name had been Antonio Pignatelli) had been struck down by a severe form of gout, which had gradually worsened until it prevented him from attending to affairs after the manner accustomed. In January of the Holy Year, there had been a slight improvement in his condition, and in February he had been able to hold a consistory. Owing to age and its infirmities, he was, however, in no condition to open the Holy Gate. The further the Holy Year advanced, the greater the number of pilgrims who arrived in Rome, and the Pope complained of his inability to accomplish the customary acts of devotion, in which bishops and cardinals had to substitute for him. The Cardinal Penitentiary heard the confessions of the faithful at Saint Peter's, where they arrived daily in their thousands.

In the last week of February, the Pontiff suffered a relapse. In April, he found the strength to bless the multitudes of the devout from the balcony of the Papal Palace at Monte Cavallo. In May, he even visited the four basilicas in person, and towards the end of the month he received the Grand Duke of Tuscany. By halfway through June, he seemed almost recovered; he had visited many churches as well as the fountain of San Pietro in Montorio, a stone's throw from the Villa Spada.

Nevertheless, all knew that His Holiness's health was as delicate as a snowflake in the advancing spring, and the heat of the summer months promised nothing good. Those close to the Pontiff spoke sotto voce of frequent crises of debility, of nightlong sufferings, of sudden and most cruel bouts of colic. After all, as the cardinals murmured gravely among themselves, the Holy Father was fourscore-and-five years of age.

There was, in other words, a distinct possibility that the Jubilee of the year 1700, happily inaugurated by Our Lord Innocent XII, might be closed by another pope: his successor. This was something unheard of, so people murmured in Rome; and yet was it not unthinkable. Some predicted a conclave in November, some, even in August. The most pessimistic opined that the heat of the summer would overwhelm the Pontiff's last defences.

The humour of the Curia (and that of every Roman) was thus torn between the serene atmosphere of the Jubilee and the grave tidings concerning the Pope's health. Even I had an intense personal interest in the question; for as long as the Holy Father lived, I would have the honour, however occasionally, of serving him whom Rome feared and honoured above all others: His Eminence Cardinal Spada, whom His Holiness had appointed as his Secretary of State.

I could not of course claim true acquaintance with the most illustrious and benign Cardinal Spada, but I heard it said that he was a most upright man, as well as being astute and exceedingly sharp-witted. It was no accident that His Holiness Innocent XII desired always to have him by his side. I therefore guessed that the festivities which were about to begin would be no ordinary convivial gathering of noble spirits but an august conference of cardinals, ambassadors, bishops, princes and other persons of quality; and all would raise their eyebrows in arches of astonishment at the performances of musicians and actors, the poetical divertissements, the oratorical displays, the rich symposia 'midst verdant settings and the papier mache theatres in the gardens of the Villa Spada, beguilements such as had not been seen in Rome since the times of the Barberini.

Meanwhile, I had been able to identify the coat of arms on the first carriage: it was that of the Rospigliosi family, but under it there was a bright damask bearing their colours, which signified that the carriage bore some honoured guest under the protection of that great family, but not of their lineage.

The carriage was on the point of approaching the gate of honour, but I was no longer curious about the arrival of coaches at the villa, the opening of doors and all the ritual of hospitality among gentlefolk that would duly follow. When first I joined the household, I had indeed hidden behind the corners of the great house to spy on the swarm of footmen, the stools being placed for alighting from the carriages, the servant girls bearing baskets laden with fruit, the first tributes from the master of the house, the speeches by the Master of Ceremonies, invariably broken off half-way by the fatigue of the newly arrived guests, and so on and so forth.

I moved away so as not to disturb the arrival of those gentlemen with my obscure presence and once more set to work. While I was intent on hoeing the borders of lawns, pruning bushes, trimming hedges and weeding, I would from time to time look up to enjoy the view over the city of the seven hills, while the gentle summer breeze bore me the gift of graceful notes from an orchestral rehearsal. Covering my forehead with my hand to deflect the glare of the sun, I beheld to the far left the grandiose cupola of Saint Peter's, to my right the more modest but no less splendid one of Sant'Ivo alia Sapienza, just beside the subdued pagan dome of the Pantheon and, last of all, in the background, the Pontifical Palace of the Quirinale on Monte Cavallo.

After one such brief pause, I bent down and was about to trim a few bushes, when I saw a shadow lengthen beside my own.

For a long time I observed it; it did not move. My hand, however, moved of its own accord, grasping the sickle. The tip of its blade traced the shadow by my shoulders on the sand of the drive. The soutane, the abbot's periwig and hood… It was then that the shadow, as though condescending to inspect my hand, turned slowly towards the sun and revealed its profile; on the ground, I could clearly make out a hooked nose, a receding chin, an impertinent lip… My hand, which was almost caressing those features rather than merely outlining them, began now to tremble. No longer could I be in any doubt.

Atto Melani: still unable to raise my eyes from the silhouette I had discovered in the sand, a tangle of thoughts obscured my vision and my feelings. Signor Abbot Melani… Signor Atto, to me. Atto, Atto himself.

The shadow waited benignly.

How many years had passed? Sixteen? No, seventeen, I calculated, trying to gather the courage to turn around. And, despite the laws of time, a thousand thoughts and memories flashed across my mind within those few seconds. Almost seventeen years without the least sign of life from Abbot Melani, and now he had reappeared; his shadow was there, behind me, merging with my own, so I repeated mechanically to myself as at length I rose and very slowly turned around.

At last my pupils acknowledged the sun's affront.

He was leaning on a walking stick, a little shorter and more bent than I had left him. Seeming almost like some shade from another century, he wore an abbot's wig, hood and mauve-grey soutane, exactly as he had when first we met, little caring that this attire had long been outmoded.

Confronting my glazed and dumbstruck expression, he spoke with the most laconic and disarming naturalness: "I am going to take a rest: I have only just arrived. We shall meet later. I shall have them call for you."

Seeming almost spectral, he disappeared into the blazing midsummer light, moving in the direction of the great house.

I stood as though petrified. I do not know how long I remained thus immobile in the midst of the garden. My breast seemed like the cold white marble of Galatea, and only gradually did the breath of life return to warm it, when I was of a sudden unnerved by the bursting into my heart of that o'erflowing torrent of affection and pain which had for years seized me whenever I recalled Abbot Melani.

The letters which I had sent to Paris had been swallowed up by an abyss of black silence. Year after year, I had uselessly laid siege to the office for post from France, awaiting a reply. If only to put an end to anxiety, I would eventually have been resigned to receive some sadly final message, as I had imagined a thousand times over:

It is my sad duty to inform you of the death of Abbot Melani…

Instead, nothing; until now, when his unexpected reappearance had taken my breath away. I was incredulous; directly upon his arrival, the first action of the illustrious guest of the Rospigliosi, invited with all honours to the Villa Spada, had been to seek me out: me, a mere peasant bending over his mattock. The friendship and faith of Abbot Melani had overcome distances and years.

After finishing what I was doing in all haste, I hurried home on my mule. I could not wait to inform Cloridia! As I rode, I kept repeating to myself, "Why should I be surprised?", tenderly realising that this impetuous and unexpected reappearance was utterly typical of the man. Such emotions, such a tightening of the heart-strings! As in a dream, I relived the turmoil of teachings and intellectual passions which Abbot Melani had revealed to me and the dangerous pursuit into which I had been plunged when I followed him…

Little by little, however, emotions and gratitude came to be attended by a doubt. How had Atto managed to trace me to the Villa Spada? It would have been logical for him to seek me at the Via dell'Orso, in the house which was formerly the Locanda del Donzello, the inn where I had served and in which we had met. Instead, Atto, who had clearly been invited by Cardinal Spada to his nephew's wedding, had come straight to me upon arriving, as though he well knew where to find me.

From whom could he have learned that? Certainly not from anyone at the Villa Spada; none there knew of our erstwhile frequentation, quite apart from the fact that my person was never the object of anyone's attention. Besides, we had no common acquaintances, only the adventure we had both lived through at the Donzello seventeen long years ago. Concerning that extraordinary episode, I had at first kept a concise diary, based on which I had drawn up a detailed memoir, of which I was, moreover, inordinately proud. I had even mentioned it to Atto in the last missive which I had sent him only a few months previously, in one final attempt to obtain tidings of him.

As I trotted across the fields, I gave free rein to memories, and for a few moments I relived in a daydream those distant and remarkable events: the plague, the poisonings, the manhunts in the underground galleries, the battle of Vienna, the conspiracies of the sovereigns of Europe…

How brilliantly, I thought, I had succeeded in telling it all in my memoir, so much so that I had at first taken pleasure in poring over it on sleepless nights. Nor was I perturbed by having once again before my eyes all the iniquitous deeds perpetrated by Atto: his transgressions, his failings and blasphemies. I need only to go to my writings to recover my spirits, even to feel positively merry, and then I was minded of the love of my Cloridia, which still Deo gratias accompanied me, and of the purity of work on the land and, lastly, of my fresh connection with the Villa Spada. Ah yes, the Villa Spada…

As though I had been attacked by a thousand scorpions, 1 spurred on my mule and hastened home. Now I understood only too well.

Cloridia was not at home. I rushed to the trunks in which I kept all my books. Feverishly I emptied them, rummaging at the bottom of each one: the memoir had disappeared.

"Thief, brigand, blackguard," I growled under my breath. "And I am a dolt, an imbecile, a gullible jackass."

How foolish I had been to write to Atto about my memoir! Those pages contained too many secrets, too many proofs of the infidelities and betrayals of which Abbot Melani was capable. No sooner did he know of its existence — alas, only now did I realise this — than he unleashed some ruffian of his to purloin it. It must have been child's play to enter my unguarded house and search it.

I cursed Atto, I cursed myself and whoever he had sent to steal my beautiful memoir. Anyway, what else could I expect of Abbot Melani? I had but to turn my mind to all I knew of his turbid misdeeds.

Castrato singer and French spy: that already said all that was to be said about him. His career as a singer was long since over. In his youth, he had, however, been a famous soprano and had taken advantage of his concerts to spy on half the courts of Europe. Subterfuge, lies and deceit were his daily bread; ambushes, plots and assassinations, his travelling companions. He was capable of grasping a pipe and making it pass for a pistol, of hiding the truth from you without lying, of expressing and inspiring deep feelings out of pure calculation; he knew and practised the arts of stalking and theft.

His intellect, on the other hand, was both fulminating and penetrative. His knowledge of the affairs of state I recalled as reaching into the best-hid secrets of crowned heads and royal families. What was more, his keen and lively mind was capable of dissecting the human soul like a knife cutting through lard. His sparkling eyes gained him sympathy, nor had he ever the slightest difficulty in winning over those around him.

Alas, all his best qualities were at the service of the most sordid ends. If he enlightened you with some revelation, it was only in order to win your compliance. If he said he was on a mission, he certainly did not betray his base personal interests. If, lastly, he offered his friendship, I thought bitterly, it was with a view to extorting whatever favours he needed most.

The proof of all that? His indifference to old friends. He had left me without news for seventeen years. And now, as though nothing had happened, he was calling me urgently to his service…

"No, Signor Atto, I am no longer the young lad I was seventeen years ago." Thus would I speak to him, looking him straight in the eyes. I'd show him that I was now a man well-versed in the business of life, no longer timid in the company of gentlemen, only deferential; capable of weighing up every occasion and discerning where my own interest lay. And if, because of my slight stature, everyone still called me a boy, I was and felt myself to be a very different person from the little prentice whom Atto had known so many years ago.

No, I could not accept Abbot Melani's conduct; and, above all, I could not tolerate the theft of my memoir.

I threw myself down on the bed, trying to rest and to part company with these and other sad cogitations and endlessly tormenting the sheets. Only then did I remember that Cloridia had told me that she would not be returning home; like every good midwife (as she had become after prolonged practice over the past few years) she would spend the last few days before the confinement at the home of the mother-to-be. With her had gone my two adored little ones, no longer so little: at ten and six years of age, already big girls, my daughters had become the full-time helpers of their mother (whom they adored) not only as pupils, to be instructed in this most important discipline, but as assistants ready to meet her every need, for instance by handing her oils and hot greases, towels, scissors and thread for cutting the umbilical cord; or in dexterously pulling forth the afterbirth and other such matters.

I dedicated a few thoughts to them: the little pair followed their mother like a shadow, their behaviour in public as sensible as it was vivacious 'twixt our four domestic walls. Their absence now made the house seem even emptier and sadder, and I was reminded of my melancholy infancy as a poor foundling.

Thus, favoured by solitude, grave thoughts had gained the upper hand. Insomnia wrapped me in its cold embrace and I knew how cold the connubial couch can be without the consolation of love.

After an hour or so, having missed my lunch for lack of appetite,

I resolved to return to the Villa Spada in order to pursue my duties. Such repose as I had taken, however brief, had had the desired effect: the insistent thoughts of Abbot Melani and his sudden return, of which I knew not whether it was most welcome or opportune for me, at long last left me. Abbot Melani had, I thought, emerged like some selfish protean sea-god to perturb the quiet counterpoint of my existence. It was right that I should try now not to think of him.

He would have me called, so he had told me; until then, I could at least dedicate myself to other matters. I had much to do and so I set about one of the tasks which most pleased me: the cleaning of the aviary. The servant who habitually undertook this was more and more frequently confined to bed by an ugly wound to his foot which refused to heal. It was thus not the first time that I was discharging this duty. I went to collect the feed and set to work.

The reader should not be surprised to learn that the Villa Spada was graced by an attraction as exotic as the aviary. In the Roman villas, all forms of diversion were in great demand. At his Villa on the Pincio, Cardinal de' Medici kept bears, lions and ostriches; at the Villas Borghese and Pamphili, roe deer and fallow deer wandered freely. At the time of Pope Leo X an elephant, Annone by name, had even promenaded among the gardens of the Vatican. Apart from animals, sportive entertainments to astound and divert the guests had never been lacking, such as pall-mall (which was played at the Villa Pamphili), or trucco, otherwise known as billiards, which was played at the villa of the Knights of Malta and at Villa Costaguti, on a court polished with soap or a cloth-covered table, or billiards in the open air, which was to be found at the Villa Mattei, to overcome the melancholy humour of the summer evenings.

The aviary was situated in a secluded corner of the villa, between the chapel and the vegetable gardens, hidden from view by a line of trees and by a tall, thick hedge. It had been so placed as to enjoy sunlight in winter and shade in summer, in order to spare the birds the discomfort of inclement weather. Its aspect was that of a little manor built to a square plan, with a tower at each comer and the central corpus covered in metallic mesh cupolas, surmounted in their turn by splendid pinnacles crowned by iron weathercocks. The interior was painted with frescoes depicting views of the heavens and of distant landscapes, so as to give the fowls an illusion of greater space. Holm oaks and bay laurel bushes, which are evergreen, were planted there, and there were vases with brushwood for building nests as well as four large drinking bowls. The birds (of which there were a number of groups in separate cages) were numerous and most pleasing both to the eye and the ear: nightingales, lapwings, partridges, quails, francolins, pheasants, ortolans, green linnets, blackbirds, calandra larks, chaffinches, turtle-doves and hawfinches, to name but a few.

I entered the aviary timidly, immediately provoking a great flapping of wings. Birds, or so I have been told, should always be fed and cared for by the same person. My presence, instead of their usual master, had sown no little disquiet. I made my way in cautiously while a number of lapwings followed me nervously and a flock of little birds darted around me with hostile movements. I shivered when a blackbird settled boldly on my shoulder, somehow avoiding a collision with a francolin which was fluttering defiantly in my face.

"If you do not stop this at once, I shall depart, and then you shall go without lunch!" I threatened.

In response to this I received only a more aggressive and strident wave of cackling, whistling and fluttering, and further dangerous aerial incursions only a hand's breadth from my head. Intimidated, I took refuge in a corner until the squall calmed down. The government of birds and of aviaries was not, I thought, a trade for me.

When even the most impertinent volatiles had returned to order, I began to clean and refill the drinking and feed bowls with fresh water, chicory, beet, yarrow, lettuce, plantain seeds, grain, bird seed, millet and hemp seed. I then furnished the aviary with fresh supplies of asparagus grass, which is good for building nests. As I was scattering a few pieces of dry bread, a hungry young francolin jumped onto my arm, trying to snatch the tasty booty of breadcrumbs from his companions.

Once I had cleaned the feed bowls and swept the dejections from the ground, I moved at last towards the exit, happy to leave behind me the stink and chaos of the aviary. I was just closing the door when suddenly my heart leapt into my throat.

A pistol shot. A projectile whistled by very close to me. Someone was shooting at me.

I bent down with my hands clutching my head in a gesture of protection. Then I heard a hard, loud voice, clearly addressing me: "Arrest him! He's a thief."

Instinctively, I raised my hands in surrender. I turned around, and saw no one. I slapped my forehead and smiled, disappointed at the shortness of my memory. Only then did I slowly look upwards and see him there, in his usual place.

"How witty," I replied, closing the door of the aviary and trying to hide my shock.

"I said, Arrest him, he's a thief!' Boooom!'

That second pistol shot, which seemed even more real than the first one, clearly announced the strangest creature in all the Villa Spada: Caesar Augustus, parrot.

I should take this opportunity to explain the nature and conduct of that bizarre volatile, which was to play no small part in the events I am about to recount.

I knew that, because of its unique qualities, the parrot had been given such grandiose names as "Light of the Avian Realm" and "Monarch of the East Indies", and that the first exemplars had been brought to Alexander the Great from the Isle of Taprobane, since which time many other species had been discovered in the West Indies, especially in Cuba and Manacapan. Everyone knows that the parrot (of which some say there exist over a hundred varieties) possesses the most singular faculty of imitating the human voice, and not only that, but noises, sounds, and much else. Years ago in Rome, the parrot of the most excellent Cardinal Madruzzo and that of the Cavalier Cassiano Dal Pozzo were renowned for imitating the human voice poorly while perfectly mimicking dogs and cats. Then there were those which knew how to imitate the song of other birds, even of more than one species. Outside the Papal States, the parrot belonging to His Most Serene Highness the Prince of Savoy was still remembered for its prompt and fluent eloquence. It is said that Cardinal Colonna's parrot could recite the whole Creed. Lastly, another white and yellow parrot of the same species as Caesar Augustus had just arrived on the Barberini estate, adjoining the Villa Spada, and this one too was said to be a good speaker.

Caesar Augustus was, however, on quite another level from all his fellow parrots. He mimicked human speech to perfection, even the voices of persons whom he had known for only a very short time and whose accents he had barely heard, reproducing tones, cadences and even slight defects in pronunciation. He reproduced the sounds of nature, including thunder, the rushing of torrents, the rustling of leaves and the howling of the wind, even the sound of the waves breaking on the beach. He was no less skilled an imitator of dogs, cats, cows, donkeys, horses and of course all kinds of birds, and perhaps he could also mimic other sounds which I had not yet heard him produce. He would faithfully imitate the squealing of hinges, approaching footsteps, the firing of pistols and muskets, the ringing of a doorbell, horses' hooves trotting, a door slamming hard, the cries of street vendors, an infant crying, the clash of blades in a duel, all the subtleties of laughter and lamentations, the clatter of dishes and glasses, and many more sounds.

It was as though for Caesar Augustus the whole cosmos was an immense gymnasium in which he could day after day refine his indescribable, unsurpassable talents for mimicry. Gifted with a prodigious memory, he was able to bring forth voices and whispers weeks after hearing them, thus surpassing any human faculty.

No one knew how old he was: some said fifty, others even seventy. In truth, anything was possible, given the well-known longevity of parrots, which not infrequently live for over a century and survive their masters.

His incomparable talent, which could have made of Caesar Augustus the most famous parrot of all time, did, however, have its limits. The parrot of the Villa Spada had, indeed, refused to display his gifts for as long as anyone could remember. In short, he pretended to be dumb. Fruitless were requests, flattery, orders, even the cruel fast to which he was subjected, on the orders of Cardinal Spada himself, to convince him to perform. Nothing worked; Caesar Augustus had for years and years (no one knew how many) withdrawn into the most stubborn silence.

Of course, no one knew why this had happened. Some remembered that Caesar Augustus had first belonged to Father Virgilio Spada, the uncle of Cardinal Spada, who had died some forty years previously. It had been Virgilio, a man of letters immersed in antiquities and the classical world, who had named the parrot after the most celebrated Roman emperor. It must have been a token of love; it was indeed said that Virgilio cared much for his feathered friend and there were those among the servants who murmured that the death of his master had cast Caesar Augustus into the blackest melancholy. Had it been the weight of mourning that stopped the parrot's beak? It was indeed as though he had taken a vow of silence, in the sad and insensate expectation of his late master's return to life.

I, however, knew that this was not the case. Caesar Augustus did speak, verily, and I was witness to that: the sole witness, to be exact. I myself could not tell why this should be; I suspected that he felt a particular liking for me. I was in fact the only one who treated him with courtesy; unlike the servants of the villa, I avoided teasing him with twigs or pebbles to make him talk.

I had tried to induce him to speak in the presence of others, swearing that, only minutes before, when we had been alone, he had done so without the slightest difficulty; whereupon he remained silent, looking vacantly at everyone. He made a fool of me, and after one or two more attempts, no one would believe me; the parrot speaks no more, said they, giving me a pat on the shoulder, and what is more, perhaps he never did speak.

Gradually, with the death of the older servants of the Spada household, all memory of the past deeds of Caesar Augustus came to be forgotten. By now I was perhaps the only one to know of what that big white bird with the yellow crest was capable.

On that very day, for a change, the bird had reminded me of this. The false pistol shots and the sergeant's voice (one of many that Caesar Augustus must have heard in Rome) had taken me by surprise, seeming more real than the real thing. It was impossible to know where he might have heard the original sounds. Caesar Augustus in fact enjoyed a unique privilege: he was not held in reclusion like the other birds and had his own special cage with its perch and feed bowl. Thence he would often take flight for who knows what destinations, sometimes simply exploring the villa, sometimes absenting himself for weeks on end. Wandering around the city, he would add to his repertoire of imitations with ever new examples, to which I was in the end to be the one and only stupefied witness.

"Dona nobis hodie panem cotidianum," chanted Caesar Augustus, reciting the verse from the Lord's Prayer.

"I have told you a thousand times not to blaspheme," I warned him, "otherwise… Ah, I see what it is that you want. You are quite right."

I had indeed replenished the water and food of all the other birds, leaving the parrot until last. His pride was hurt, and not only that. Caesar Augustus had always been blessed with an excellent appetite and would eat anything: bread, ricotta, soup (especially when prepared with wine), chestnuts, walnuts, apples, pears, cherries and many other things. But his passion, worthy not of a fowl but of a gentleman, was chocolate. From time to time, some guest of the Villa Spada would push some dregs towards him and he would be permitted to dip his beak and his blackish tongue into the costly and exotic beverage. So greedy was he for it that he was capable of cajoling me for days on end (conduct most exceptional, given his bad character) until at length I procured him a spoonful of it.

I had just renewed his water and filled his little bowl with fruit and seeds when I heard hurried footsteps approaching.

"My boy, are you still here?" chided one of the major-domos. "Someone is looking for you. He is waiting for you at the foot of the back stairs."

"Come, come, weep not. Well you knew that, sooner or later, we were bound to meet again. Atto Melani is as tough as old leather!" exclaimed Atto taking me by the forearms and shaking me fraternally.

"But I am not weeping, I…"

"Quiet, quiet, say nothing, I have just asked after you and they tell me that you have two lovely little girls. What are their names? Such emotions!" he murmured in my ear, caressing my head and rocking me with embarrassing tenderness.

A pair of young peasant girls observed the scene with astonishment.

"What a surprise, you are a father!" continued the Abbot, quite undaunted. "Yet, to see you, one would never imagine that. You seem the same as ever…"

Upon that observation (I could not tell whether it was meant as a compliment or an insult) I at last succeeded with great difficulty in breaking free from Atto's grasp and taking a step backwards. I was as shocked as if I had had to defend myself from an assault. I was incredulous: he seemed to have been bitten by a tarantula. I had in truth noticed how, when he saw me arriving, the Abbot's small triangular eyes observed me closely and how, when confronted with the frown which 1 was unable to banish from my forehead, Atto's mood had changed of a sudden and he had turned into this garrulous old man who was now covering me with kisses and embraces.

He pretended not to notice my coldness and took me by the arm, leading me through the gardens of the villa.

"So tell me, my boy, tell me how life has been treating you," said he in a low voice, and adopting a familiar manner, as with some difficulty we entered the little avenue of locust trees busy with the goings and comings of the hired gardeners making their finishing touches.

"In truth, Signor Atto, you should already be well informed…" I endeavoured to retort, thinking of the theft of my memoir, in which I had also recounted my recent history.

"I know, I know," he interrupted at once in paternal tones, as he stopped in admiration before the fountain of the Villa Spada which had, on the occasion of the festivities, been transformed by means of scaffolding into a splendid work of ephemeral architecture. In the place of the usual modest basin into which the water poured from a great stone pineapple finial, there now arose a magnificent and serpentine Triton who, clinging by the tail to a pyramid- shaped rock, blew vigorously into ajar, causing a capricious spurt of water to gush up from it in the shape of an umbrel, falling at last to the feet of its creator with a musical gurgle. All around, the Nymphaeum's mirror of water offered the languid spectacle of aquatic plants, ornamented by fine white flowers which floated lazily, half open.

Atto observed the Triton and its fine fountain with admiring interest.

"A splendid fountain," he commented. "The Triton is well made, and the imitation rocks too are a fine piece of work. I know that at the Villa d'Este in Tivoli there was once a water organ which was subsequently imitated in the garden of the Quirinale and in the Villa Aldrobrandini at Frascati, but also in France, on the orders of Francis I. It reproduced the sound of trumpets and even birdsong. It sufficed to blow into a few fine metal tubes placed in earthenware vases half full of water, hidden among the water-lilies."

He looked around the fountain. I did not follow him. He stopped at the far end, spying on me through the spray; then he turned to me.

"To see an old friend whom one had feared dead may cause confusion not only for the heart but for the mind," he resumed, "but you will see that, given time, we shall recover our former sentiments."

"Given time? How long do you then intend to sojourn in Rome?" I asked, obscurely anxious at the idea of becoming involved in some dubious undertaking of his.

He stopped. He looked at me through half-closed eyes which he then directed, first towards the fountain, then the horizon, as though he were skilfully distilling his reply.

It was then that for the first time I had leisure enough to observe him. Thus, I saw the soft, falling flesh of his cheeks, the wrinkled skin of his nose and forehead, the furrows that beset his lips and the corners of his mouth, the bluish veins that crossed his temples, the eyes still lively, but small and deep-set, in which the white had grown yellow, and the neck, more than anything else, marked by the cruel scalpel of time. The thick layer of ceruse on his face, instead of softening the effects of age, came close to transforming Atto into the sad simulacrum of a phantom. Last of all, the hands, only in part hidden by the froth of lace at the cuffs, were now shrivelled, blotchy and hooked.

Seventeen years ago, I had met a man mature yet vigorous. Now I faced one with autumn in his bones.

As though he had not noticed my stare, which implacably investigated his decline, he remained silent for a few instants with his regard lost in the azure, as he leaned with one hand on my shoulder. Suddenly he struck me as being terribly tired.

"How long shall I tarry in Rome?" he repeated the question to himself in absent tones. "'Tis true, my goodness, I must decide how long I shall be staying…"

He seemed as though touched by second childhood.

Meanwhile, we had come to the pergola of the wisterias. The fresh breeze which stirred in the shade revived us. We were already at the height of a hot month of July and the nights barely alleviated the burning heat of the day.

"Thank heavens for a little shade," sighed Atto, seating himself on a bench and dabbing at the perspiration on his forehead with the little handkerchief of lace-ornamented white silk which he held in his hand. Then he stood up, stretched towards one of the wisterias, plucked a flower and sat down once more, deeply inhaling the fine perfume. Suddenly, he gave me a little slap on the back and burst out laughing: "Remarkable, you're still asking the same questions as ever! Ah, it is wonderful to find one's friends unchanged, it is truly a great blessing. How long shall I be staying in Rome? But, my boy, the answer is quite obvious! I shall stay here at the Villa Spada for the whole week's festivities, as you may well imagine. But I shall not leave Rome until the conclave! Now, come with me, and enough of questions," said he, springing to his feet as though he were some bold young spark and taking me joyfully by the arm.

What manner of devil is this Melani, thought I, at once troubled and amused; one moment he seemed to have grown dull and aged, and now here he was slipping away like an eel. With him one could never know where the truth lay.

"Signor Atto," I resumed, raising my voice. "Never would I dare to be lacking in respect for you; but yesterday I suffered one of the worst affronts of my whole life, and so…"

"Oh, how very disagreeable for you. And what of it?" quoth he, once again sniffing at the flower while with his other hand he drummed lightly on the pommel of his cane.

"I suffered a theft. Do you understand? I was robbed," I proclaimed emphatically, inflamed by the repressed anger which was once again rising within me.

"Ah, well, you may console yourself," said he complacently. "That has happened to me too. I well remember how at the con vent of the Capuchins at Monte Cavallo, it must have been thirty years ago, they robbed me of three gold rings, set with gems, a heart-shaped diamond, a book of lapis lazuli bound in gold and studded with rubies and turquoises, a coat of French camlet, gloves, fans, pastilles and Spanish wax…"

It was then that I exploded.

"Enough, Signor Atto. Stop feigning innocence: you took my memoir, the account of what took place seventeen years ago, when we first met! Only to you have I confided this, only you knew of its existence, and what was your sole response? To have it stolen off me!"

Atto did not lose his composure. With ostentatious delicacy, he laid the wisteria flower down on a hedge and continued drumming on the silver pommel of his cane, letting me continue with my outburst.

"Not for one minute did you spare a thought for me! I who wept warm tears for you, who wrote to you continually, forever imploring a reply! And your sole concern was that someone might read that memoir and discover that you are an intriguer, that you steal good people's secrets, that you betray your own friends, that you are capable of all manner of infamy and… well… that you are utterly shameless."

I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the palm of my hand, panting with emotion. Atto extended his little lace handkerchief to me, holding it between the tips of two fingers, and in the end I accepted it. I felt empty.

"Have you finished?" he asked at length, distantly.

"I… I am incensed by what you have done. I want my memoir back," I stammered, cursing myself for my inability to convey anything better than the same boyish petulance as had been mine seventeen years before, and this at a time when my age is by no means so green.

"Ah, that is out of the question. Your writings are now in a safe place. I have hidden them carefully in Paris, before anyone could give them their imprimatur"

"Then you admit it: you are a thief."

"Thief, thief…" he chanted. "You really do have too much of a taste for strong words. With the pen, on the other hand, you have some ability. I took much pleasure in reading your little tale, even if you did at times raise the tone too much and even if you wrote things which could give offence to me. And then, you have been very naive indeed. Really… to have written such things about Abbot Melani, and then to have informed him of it…"

"True, I realise that too," I admitted.

"As I told you, I did not mind reading your efforts. At times, on the contrary, I found your writing most effective. Yours is a good pen, sometimes a trifle artless, but never tedious. Who knows whether it may not prove useful to you? 'Tis a pity that you failed to mention that you had become a father, I would have been glad to know that… But I can understand why: the radiant dawning of the new day, which little ones are for every genitor, surely had no place in that sombre old tale."

I maintained a hostile silence, the better to make him understand that I had no intention of speaking with him of my little ones.

"I imagine that during all these years, you will have read books, gazettes, a few rhymes…" said he, changing the subject, as though to move me to speak.

"In truth, Signor Atto," I confirmed, "I am much given to buying books that treat of history, politics, theology and the lives of the saints. Among poets, I enjoy Chiabrera, Achillini and Filicaia. Gazettes… No, those I do not read."

"Perfect. It is you that I need."

"And what for, pray?"

"Showed you this memoir to any persons?"

"No."

"There exist no other copies of it?"

"No, I never had the time to transcribe it. Why do you ask?"

"Will a thousand suffice?" he retorted dryly.

"I do not follow your meaning," said I, beginning, however, to understand.

"Very well, then. One thousand two hundred scudi in Roman coin. But not one more. And the memoirs are to become two."

It was thus that Abbot Melani purchased the lengthy memoir in which I had described our first encounter and all the adventures which had arisen thereafter. In the second place, he was, for that sum, advancing payment for another memoir, or rather, a journal: a description of his sojourn at the Villa Spada.

"At the Villa Spada?" I exclaimed incredulously, as we resumed our stroll.

"Precisely. Your master, the Secretary of State, is present and the conclave is imminent; do you imagine that the flower of the Roman nobility and of the ecclesiastical hierarchy, not to mention the ambassadors, would assemble here merely for the pleasure of the occasion? The chess game of the conclave has already begun, my boy; and at the Villa Spada, many important pawns will be moved, of that you may be sure."

"And you, I suppose, would not wish to miss a single move."

"The conclave is my trade," he replied, without so much as a hint of modesty. "Do not forget that the illustrious Rospigliosi of Pistoia, whose guest I am honoured to be, owe me the distinction of numbering a pope among their family."

I had already heard tell, seventeen years previously, of how Atto went around boasting of having favoured the election of Clement IX, of the Rospigliosi family.

"So, my son," concluded Melani, "you will pen for me a chronicle in which you will give a judicious account of all that you see and hear during the coming few days, and you will add thereto whatever I may suggest to you as being desirable and opportune. You will then deliver the manuscript to me without retaining any copy thereof or thereafter reproducing any of its contents. There, those are my terms. For the time being, that is all."

I remained perplexed.

"Are you not content? Were it not for writers, men and their fame would die together on the same day and their virtues would be entombed with them, but the mem'ry thereof which remains written in books — that can never die!" Thus spake the Abbot with courtly prose and honeyed voice, in his endeavours to flatter me.

He was not so mistaken, I reflected, while Atto continued with his homily.

"Thus spake Anaxarchus, a most wise and learned philosopher, saying that one of the most worthy things that one can possess in this life is to be known by the world as intelligent in one's own profession. Indeed, even where there are millions of men learned and expert in one and the same art, only those who take pains to make themselves known will be held worthy of praise, nor will their fame die out in eternity."

Abbot Melani wished, if I had understood him well, for a sort of biographer to celebrate his deeds during those days: a sign that he was intent upon accomplishing memorable feats, so I bethought myself, as I anxiously recalled the Abbot's enterprising audacity.

"… Wherefore I, considering these things," continued Atto with an air at once pompous and vigorous, "took great pains, when young, to learn, and when I had come of age, to put into practice that which I had learned; and now I strive so to act that the world may know me. Thus, having through my words pleased several princes and great men, and having penned for them divers masterly reports in the art of diplomacy, many there have been who have availed themselves and who yet avail themselves of my skills."

"But not all profited thereby," thought I to myself, recalling the cavalier manner in which Atto would transfer his fidelity from one master to another.

With two little lasses to bring up, all that money was an extraordinary blessing for me and Cloridia. I had therefore not hesitated to accept Atto's offer to acquire from me what he had already stolen, well aware that I would never have my memoir back. "Just one thing, Signor Atto," said I at length. "I do not believe that my pen is worthy to bear witness to your deeds."

In reality, I was terrified by the thought that multitudes of gentlemen and eminent persons might one day hold writings of mine in their hand. Atto understood.

"You fear the readers. And such is your fear that you would prefer simply to continue exercising your peasant's calling, is that not so?" he asked, stopping to pick a plum.

I replied with a look which confessed all.

"Then, in your foreword, instead of addressing the 'kind read er', you must address the 'unkind reader'."

"What do you mean?"

Melani drew breath and, in didactic prose and with a presumptuous little smile on his face, he polished the plum with his lace handkerchief while instructing me as follows: "You know, many years ago, when I first gave some of my essays to be printed, I too followed the common and vulgar custom of presenting to the gentle reader my excuses for such errors as might, through my own fault, be discovered in my opus. Now, however, experience has taught me that the gentle reader, prudently perusing the works of others, will, being replete with goodness, discover the good where'er it may be, and, where he finds it not, will accept the author's goodwill. Thus was I persuaded that it was far more opportune to dedicate the foreword to my books to malign and maledicent readers, whose ears are so tender that they will be scandalised by the minutest error."

Biting the little plum, he stopped to scrutinise my distracted expression.

"To suchlike nasuti (to use the Latin expression), to suchlike slanderers and detractors, to whom every book appears superflu ous, every work imperfect, every concept erroneous and every endeavour vain, I do proclaim my desire that they should refrain from reading my works and turn away from them, for as little as the said works will please them, so much the more will they please others. Do you know what I reply when one of those birds of ill omen importunes me with his acid considerations?"

I responded with a questioning air.

"I reply: if Your Worships find my work long, they should read but half of it; if short, let them add thereto whate'er they will; if it seemeth too clear, let them console themselves, knowing that they will have less trouble understanding it; if too obscure, let them make comments in the margin; if too lowly the matter and the style, so be it, for it will suffer less in falling than it would have, had it fallen from a great height."

The Abbot closed his disquisition, sharply spitting out the plum stone almost as though it were a detractor's pen. I stood in admiration before his sagacity; from Atto Melani, thought I, one never ceased to learn.

"I have never read your works, Signor Atto, but I am sure," I flattered him, "that the worst one could say of them would be that they are too learned."

"Have no fear!" he replied easily, speaking with his mouth full. "That they are too learned, they will never admit; for that too is praise and such is the nature of these crows that they would not know how to give praise, even unintentionally. However, remember that most ancient oracle according to which the greatest misfortune that could befall a man is to be loved and praised by the wicked, and the greatest favour, that of being hated and blamed thereby. The truth is that the works of men are imperfect owing to the defects of our poor wits and they find detractors because of the infelicity of our times. So may it please the Lord our God to grant us the grace to acknowledge our faults, thus to emend them, and others, not to blame us for what was well meant; that the Divine Majesty be not offended either by our own errors or those of others. Do you understand?"

I nodded in affirmation.

Melani looked at me with an air of satisfaction and handed me a letter of exchange, payable by a moneylender in the ghetto. Slowly, I took it. It was done: I had sold myself to Atto for, so to say, a literary service, which nonetheless included in the price (as all too often happens when the pen is a means of gain) my placing myself completely at his disposal. Torn between love, disgust and interest, while the sweet and sour savour of the cherries lingered on in my mouth, I was already at his sendee.

We had meanwhile turned back towards the great house, before which we found the massed carriages of the guests who had just arrived. In the end, what was most dreaded had happened: the guests from Rome had also arrived at the festivities two days early. Knowing that there would already be banqueting from that evening onwards, no one (Atto included) had had the patience and good taste to await the official opening of the celebrations.

Atto seemed to be scrutinising attentively the coats of arms borne by the carriages, doubtless guessing at who might be sharing the magnificent hospitality of the Spada family with him throughout the week's revels.

"I have overheard someone tell a servant of your master that Don Livio Odescalchi is about to arrive, accompanied by the Marchesa Serlupi. Wait…" said he, holding me back and looking towards the carriages, far enough removed to be able to see without himself being noticed. "That is a well-known face; it seems to me… Yes, indeed, it is Monsignor D'Aste," said Atto as in the distance we saw descending from his carriage a hoary and emaciated little old man who seemed almost lost in his cardinal's vestments. "He is so small, scraggy and ill-favoured that His Holiness calls him Monsignor Stracetto — little rag!" he tittered freely, showing off his familiarity with Roman gossip.

"I see a great movement of lackeys over there," he continued. "One of the Barberini or the Colonnas will be arriving and wants to give himself airs; they always think themselves to be the centre of the world. The carriage behind seems to bear the arms of the Durazzo family, it must be Cardinal Marcello. Of course, to have come from Faenza, where he is Bishop, is quite a journey; he'll need to take a good rest if he wants to enjoy himself. Ah, here is Cardinal Bichi," he commented, peering more intently. "I did not expect him to be on such good terms with Cardinal Fabrizio."

"Apropos, Signor Atto, I myself did not know you were acquainted with Cardinal Spada," said I, deliberately interrupting his show of recognising guests from a distance.

"Oh, but he was for years Nuncio in France, did you not know? At one time we frequented one another quite assiduously in Paris. He is — how can I put it? — a most accommodating person. His first concern is not to make enemies. And he does well to act thus, for in Rome that is the best way to reach high office. I'll wager that he well remembers his time in Paris, since it was then that the cardinal's hat was conferred upon him; if I am not mistaken, 'twas in 1676. He had already been Nuncio in Savoy, so he had a certain amount of experience. He has taken part in three conclaves, that of Innocent XI in 1676, that of Alexander VIII in 1689 and that of the present Pope in 1691. The coming election will be his fourth: not bad for a cardinal who is but fifty-seven years of age, what?"

The years had passed, but not Atto's habit of recording in the greatest possible detail the careers of dozens of popes and cardinals. His Most Christian Majesty could count upon an agent who was perhaps no longer athletic but certainly enjoyed a still excellent memory.

"Do you think that he could be elected pope this time?" I asked in the secret hope that I might one day be able to become part of a pontiff's army of servants.

"Absolutely not. Too young. He might reign for twenty or thirty years; the other cardinals have but to think of such things to take to their beds with a fever," laughed Atto; "Now with me, he will be somewhat distant, for he will be afraid to be taken for a vassal of the King of France if he salutes Abbot Melani. Poor things, one feels for these cardinals!" he concluded, grinning scornfully.

In the meanwhile, we continued to loiter by the gate until there appeared from the street that passed before the villa a man ancient and hunchbacked with a tremulous air and two hairs on his head, bearing on his hump a great basket full of papers. Humbly he stopped, hat in hand, to ask something of the lackeys, who responded rudely, trying to chase him away. Indeed, whoever he might have been, he ought to have presented himself at the tradesmen's entrance, where the lowly run no risk of provoking the disdain of the villa's noble guests by their mere presence.

The Abbot drew near and gestured that 1 should follow him. The old man had rolled-up sleeves and his stomach was covered by a blackened apron; he was plainly an artisan, perhaps a typog rapher.

"You are Haver, the bookbinder from the Via dei Coronari, is that not so?" Atto asked him, coming out from the gate and standing in the middle of the road. "It was I who called you. I have work for you," and he drew forth a little bundle of papers.

"How do you want the cover?"

"In parchment."

"Any inscription or sign on the spine or the cover?"

"Nothing."

The two rapidly agreed on other matters and Atto placed a handful of coins in the old man's hands as an advance on pay ment.

Suddenly we heard a piercing scream coming from the greenery by the roadside to our left.

"After him, after him!" called a stentorian voice.

Out darted a swift shadow and passed between us, colliding heavily with the bookbinder and Abbot Melani and causing the latter to tumble onto the gravel with a dull cry of rage and pain.

All the papers which Atto was holding in his hand were scattered into the air in an unhappy and disorderly swirl, and the same fate befell the bookbinder's basketful of papers, while the shadow which had dashed against us rolled on the ground in a series of dramatic and indescribable somersaults.

When at last it stopped rolling, I saw that it was a dirty and emaciated young man with a torn shirt, several days' growth of beard and a dazed and lunatic expression following the wretched accident. Around his neck he bore a poor pouch of cheap material from which various filthy objects had fallen: it seemed to me a leathern bag, a pair of old stockings and a few greasy papers, per haps the miserable fruit of a visit to some rubbish heap in search of something edible or useful for survival.

1 did not, however, have time to observe any better or to offer assistance to Atto or the stranger, for the uproar which I had first heard was growing louder and more violent.

"Catch him, catch him, by all the blunderbusses!" yelled the powerful voice which I had heard before.

1 heard a clamour of cries and curses coming from the building housing the catchpolls guarding the villa. The young man rose to his feet and began to run again, disappearing once more into the bushes.

Atto meanwhile was propping himself up and trying unsuccessfully to rise to his feet. I was coming to assist him and the bookbinder was starting humbly to gather up the papers in his basket, when a pair of catchpolls from the villa rushed shouting out into our midst and joined the pursuer. The latter, alas, collided again with poor Atto, who collapsed on the ground. The pursuer rolled over in his turn, by some miracle avoiding the lackeys, two nuns whom I often saw bringing small hand-made objects to offer Cardinal Spada, and a pair of dogs. What with the cries of the nuns and the barking of the dogs, the road was in utter turmoil.

I rushed to assist Abbot Melani, who lay groaning disconsolately.

"Aahh, first one madman, then the other… My arm, damn it."

The right sleeve of Atto's jacket, which seemed to be soaked with some blackish liquid, was badly lacerated by what looked like a slash from a knife. I freed him from the garment. An ugly wound, from which the blood gushed freely, disfigured the Abbot's flaccid and diaphanous arm.

A pair of pious old maids, who dwelled in the great house, where they worked in the linen-room, had seen all that had happened and gave us some pieces of gauze with a little medicinal unguent which, they assured us, would soothe and bring sure healing to Atto's wound.

"My poor arm, it seems to be my destiny," complained Atto as they bandaged his wound with gauze. "Eleven years ago I fell into a ditch and injured my arm and shoulder badly; indeed, I came close to dying. Among other things, that accident prevented me from coming to Rome for the conclave after the death of Innocent XI."

"One might almost say that conclaves are bad for your health," I commented spontaneously, earning an ugly look from the Ab bot.

Meanwhile, a little crowd of curious onlookers, children and peasants from the neighbourhood, had gathered around us.

"Good heavens — those two!" muttered Melani. "The first was too fast, the second, too heavy!"

"Zounds!" exclaimed the stentorian voice. "How say you, heavy? I had almost caught him, the cerretano."

The circle of people opened up suddenly, growing fearful upon hearing those rough and grave words.

The speaker was a colossus, three times my height, twice my girth and weighing perhaps four times more than I. I turned and stared at him fixedly. Fair he was, and of virile appearance, but an old wound, which had split one of his eyebrows, conferred upon him a melancholy expression, with which his rough and youthful manners contrasted sharply.

"In any case, and that I swear upon the points of all the halberds in Silesia, I had no intention of causing you any offence." Thus spake the uncouth giant, stepping forward.

Without so much as a by-your-leave, he lifted Atto from the ground and effortlessly set him on his feet, as though he were a mere pine-needle. The huddle of bystanders pressed around us, greedy to know more, but was at once dispersed by the lackeys and valets from the villa, who had meanwhile arrived in large numbers. The bookbinder was busy carefully recovering all of Atto's papers, scattered here and there on either side of the gateway.

"You are a sergeant," observed Atto, tidying himself and dust ing down his jacket, "but whom were you following?"

"A cerretano, as I said: a canter, a ragamuffin, a slubberdeguilion, a money-sucking mountebank or whatever the deuce you want to call such rogues. Dammit, Sirrah, perhaps he meant to rob you."

"Ah, a beggar," said I, translating.

"What is your name?" asked Atto.

"Sfasciamonti."

Despite his pain, Atto looked him up and down from head to toe.

"One who smashes mountains… Why, that's a fine name, and eminently well suited to you. Where do you work?" he inquired, not having seen whence Sfasciamonti came.

"Usually, near the Via del Panico, but since yesterday, here," said he, indicating the Villa Spada.

He then explained that he was one of the sergeants paid by Cardinal Spada to ensure that the festivities should take place undisturbed. The bookbinder drew near, as one with pressing tidings.

"Excellency, I have found the arm which injured you," said he, handing Atto a sort of shiny dagger with a squared-off handle.

Sfasciamonti, however, promptly seized the blade and pock eted it.

"One moment, Sir," protested Atto. "That is the knife that struck me."

"Precisely. It is therefore corpus delicti and to be placed at the disposal of the Governor and the Bargello. I am here to supervise the security of the villa and I am only doing my duty."

"Master Catchpoll, have you seen what happened to me? Thank heavens that wretch's dagger caressed my arm and not my back. If your colleagues catch him, I want him to pay for this too."

"That I do promise and swear unto you, by Wallenstein's power derflask!" roared Sfasciamonti, raising a timorous murmur among the bystanders.

The wound was no light one, and the bleeding still by no means staunched. Two maidservants rushed up with more gauze and bandaged the arm so as to stop the flow. I had occasion to admire how stoically Abbot Melani bore pain: a quality of which I was as yet unaware. He even stayed behind in order to settle arrangements with the bookbinder, who had in the meantime gathered up all Atto's papers, upon which he was to confer the form and dignity of a volume. They rapidly agreed on the price and set an appointment for the morrow.

We moved towards the great house, where Atto intended to summon a physician or chirurgeon to examine the ugly wound.

"For the time being, it is not too painful; let us hope that it will not get worse. Heaven help me and my idea of giving an appointment to that bookbinder, but I cared too much about my little book."

"Apropos, what was it that you had bound?"

"Oh, nothing of importance," he replied, raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips.

We had returned to the house without exchanging another word. The affected carelessness with which Abbot Melani had replied (or rather, failed to reply) to my question, had left me in some perplexity. Those one thousand two hundred scudi compelled me to share the fate of the Abbot for a period of several days, in order to keep a record of his sojourn at the Villa Spada. Yet it still was not given to me to know what precisely awaited me.

I requested the Abbot's permission to take my leave, on the pretext of a number of most urgent duties which had accumulated since his arrival. In actual fact, I did not have much to do on that day. I was not a regular servant of the household and, moreover, preparations for the festivities were almost complete. I did, however, desire a little solitude in which to reflect upon the latest occurrences. Instead, the Abbot begged me to attend him until the arrival of the chirurgeon.

"Please tighten the bandages on my arm even more: those women's dressings are causing me to lose blood," he requested with a hint of impatience.

So I waited on him and added yet more bandages which the valet de chambre had taken care to provide.

"A French book, Signor Atto?" I resolved at length to ask him, referring to his previous allusion.

"Yes and no," he replied laconically.

"Ah, perhaps it circulates in France but was printed in Amsterdam, as often happens…" I hazarded, in the hope of extracting something more from him.

"No, no," he cut me short with a sigh of fatigue, "really, it is not even a book."

"An anonymous text, then…" I butted in yet again, scarcely dissimulating my growing curiosity.

I was interrupted by the arrival of the chirurgeon. While the latter was feeling around Atto's arm, giving orders to the valet de chambre, I had a moment in which to reflect.

It was plainly no accident that Atto Melani should have reappeared after seventeen years, asking me, as though it were a mere bagatelle, to be his chronicler; and even less surprising that he should have been among the guests at the nuptials of Cardinal Fabrizio Spada's nephew. The Cardinal was Secretary of State to Pope Innocent XII, who hailed from the Kingdom of Naples, and was consequently of the Spanish party. Pope Innocent was about to die and for months all Rome had been preparing for the conclave. Melani was a French agent: in other words, a wolf in the sheepfold.

I knew the Abbot well and by now I needed few clues to make my mind up about him. One had but to follow one single elementary rule: to think the worst. It always worked. Having learned from my memoir that I worked for the Cardinal Secretary of State, Atto must deliberately have arranged to have himself invited to the Spada celebrations, perhaps taking advantage of his old acquaintance with the Cardinal, to which he had alluded. And now he intended to make use of me, well pleased with the fortuitous circumstance which had placed me where I could serve him. Perhaps he wanted something of me other than a mere chronicle of his feats and deeds with a view to the forthcoming conclave. But whatever could he have in mind this time? That was less easy for me to guess at. One thing was quite clear in my mind: never would I, insofar as my limited means permitted, allow Abbot Melani's plotting in any way to harm my master, Cardinal Spada. In this respect, at least, it was a good thing that Atto had assigned me that task: it enabled me to keep watch over him.

The chirurgeon had meanwhile completed his work, not without extracting from Atto a few hoarse protests at the pain and a fine heap of coin which had to be paid by the wounded man in the temporary absence of the Major-Domo.

"What kind of hospitality is that?" Atto commented acidly "They stab the guests and then leave them to pay for their cure."

The Secretary for Protocol of the Villa Spada then arrived at Abbot Melani's bedside, in the absence of Don Paschatio, the Major-Domo, and ordered that he should at once be served luncheon, that two valets should stay to assist him with his meal, so as to give respite to the injured arm, and that his every desire should be satisfied forthwith; he apologised profusely, cursing in the most urbane language the delinquency and mendacity which with every Jubilee invariably reduced the Holy City to little better than a lazaret and assured him that he would be reimbursed immediately, with the necessary interest, and would indeed most certainly be liberally compensated for the grave affront which he had suffered, and said it was as well that they had hired a sergeant to watch over security at the villa during the festivities, but now the Major-Domo would call the catchpoll to account. He continued in this vein for a good quarter of an hour, without realising that Atto was falling asleep. I took advantage of this to leave.

The strange circumstances of the attack on Atto had left in me a turmoil of dismay, mixed with curiosity, and on the pretext of trimming some hedges by the entrance, I grasped the shears which I had in my apron and marched back to the gate.

"Was today's incident not enough for you, boy?"

I turned, or rather, I raised my eyes heavenward.

"The woods around here must be full of cerretani. Do you want to get into trouble yet again?"

It was Sfasciamonti, who was mounting guard.

"Oh, are you keeping watch?"

"Keeping watch, yes, keeping watch. These cerretani are a curse. May God save us from them, by all the stars of morning," quoth he, looking all around us with a worried air.

Cerretani. his insistence on that sinister-sounding term, the exact meaning of which escaped me, seemed almost an invitation to ask for some explanation.

"What is a cerretano?

"Shhh! Do you want to be overheard by everybody?" hissed Sfasciamonti, seizing my arm violently and dragging me away from the hedge, as though a cerretano might lie concealed under the greenery. He pushed me against the wall of the estate, looking to the right then to the left with an exaggeratedly alarmed demeanour, as though he feared an ambush.

"They are… How can 1 put it? They are starvelings, beggars, vagrants, men of the mobility… Nomads and vagabonds, in other words."

Far away, in the park, the notes of the orchestral players hired for the wedding mingled with the last hammer blows nailing together scaffolding ephemeral and theatrical.

"Do you mean to say that they are beggars, like the Egyp tians?"

"Well, yes. I mean, no!" he shook himself, almost indignantly. "But what are you making me say? They are far more, I mean less… The cerretani have a pact with the Devil," he whispered, making the sign of the cross.

"With the Devil?" I exclaimed incredulously. "Are they perhaps wanted by the Holy Office?"

Sfasciamonti shook his head and raised his eyes dejectedly to the heavens, as though to emphasise the gravity of the matter.

"If you knew, my boy, if you only knew!"

"But what exactly do they get up to?"

"They ask for charity."

"Is that all?" I retorted, disappointed. "Begging is no crime. If they are poor, what fault is it of theirs?"

"Who told you they were poor?"

"Did you not tell me just now that they are mendicants?"

"Yes, but there are those who beg by choice, not only necessity."

"By choice?" I repeated, laughing, beginning to suspect that within that mountain of muscle called Sfasciamonti there might be no more than half an ounce of brain.

"Or better: for lucre. Begging is one of the best-paying trades in the world, whether you believe that or not. In three hours, they earn more than you can in a month."

I was speechless.

"Are they many?"

"Certainly. They are everywhere."

For a moment, I was struck by the certainty with which he replied to my last question. I saw him look about himself and scrutinise the avenue full of carriages and bustling with servants, as though he were afraid of having spoken too freely.

"I have already raised the matter with the Governor of Rome, Monsignor Pallavicini," he resumed, "but no one wants to know about this. They say, Sfasciamonti, calm down. Sfasciamonti, go take a drink. But I know it: Rome is full of cerretani and no one sees them. Whenever something ugly happens, it is always their doing."

"Do you mean that, even before, when you were following that young man and Abbot Melani was wounded…"

"Ah yes, the cerretano wounded him."

"How do you know that he was a cerretano?'

"I was at the San Pancrazio Gate when I recognised him. The police have been on his heels for some time, but one can never catch these cerretani. I knew at once that he was up to some mis chief, that he had some mission to accomplish. I did not like the fact that he was so close to the Villa Spada, so I followed him."

"A mission? And what makes you so sure of that?" I asked with a hint of scepticism.

"A cerretano never goes down the street without looking to the right and to the left, in search of people's purses and many other such knavish and swindling things. They are arrant rogues, forever robbing, loitering and engaging in acts of poltroonery or luxuriousness. I know them well, that I do: those eyes that are too sly, that rotten look, they are all like that. A cerretano who walks looking in front of him, like ordinary people, is certainly on the point of committing some major outrage. I cried out until the other sergeants of the villa heard me. A pity he escaped, or we'd have known more."

I thought of how Abbot Melani would behave in my place.

"I'll wager that you'll manage to obtain information," I hazarded, "and so to discover what became of that cerretano. Abbot Melani, who is lodging here at the Villa Spada, will certainly be most grateful to you," said I, hoping to arouse the catchpoll's cupidity.

"Of course, I can obtain information. Sfasciamonti always knows whom to ask," he replied, and I saw shining in his eyes, not so much the hope of gain as professional pride.

Sfasciamonti had resumed his rounds and I was still watching his massive figure merge into the distant curve of the outer wall when I noticed a bizarre young man, as curved and gangling as a crane, coming towards me.

"Excuse me," he asked in a friendly tone, "I am secretary to Abbot Melani, I arrived with him this morning. I had to return to the city for a few hours and now I can no longer find my way. How the deuce does one get into the villa? Was there not a door with windows in it here in front?"

I explained to him that there was indeed a door with a window, but that was behind the great house.

"Did you not say that you are secretary to Abbot Melani, if I heard you correctly?" I asked in astonishment, for Atto had said nothing to me about his not being alone.

"Yes, do you know him?"

"About time! Where were you hiding?" snapped Abbot Melani, when I brought his secretary to his apartment.

While escorting him to Atto, I was able to observe him better. He had a great aquiline nose planted between two blue eyes which sheltered behind a pair of spectacles with unusually thick and dirty lenses and were crowned by two fair and bushy eyebrows. On his head, a forelock strove in vain to distract attention from his long, scrawny neck, on which sat an insolently pointed Adam's apple.

"I… went to pay my respects to Cardinal Casanate," said he by way of an excuse, "and I tarried awhile too long."

"Let me guess," quoth Atto, half in amusement, half in irritation. "You will have spent plenty of time in the antechamber, they'll have asked you three thousand times who you were and who was sending you. In the end, after yet another half an hour's wait, they will have told you that Casanate was dead."

"Well, just so…" stammered the other.

"How many times must I insist that you are always to tell me where you are going, when you absent yourself? Cardinal Casanate has been dead these six months now: I knew that and I could have spared you the loss of face. My boy," said Atto, turning to me, "this is Buvat, Jean Buvat. He works as a scribe at the Royal Library in Paris and he is a good man. He is somewhat absent-minded and rather too fond of his wine; but he has the honour to serve sometimes in my retinue, and this is one such occasion."

I did indeed recall that he was a collaborator of Atto's, as the Abbot had told me at the time of our first encounter, and that he was a copyist of extraordinary talent. We saluted one another with an embarrassed nod. His shirt ill tucked into his breeches and ballooning out, and the laces of his sleeves tightened into a knot with no bow were further signs of the young man's distracted nature.

"You speak our language very well," said I, addressing him in affable tones, in an attempt to make amends for the Abbot's brutality.

"Ah, spoken tongues are not his only talent," interjected Atto. "Buvat is at his best with a pen in his hand, but not like you: you create, he copies. And he does that like no other. But of this we shall speak another time. Go and change your clothes, Buvat, you are not presentable."

Buvat retired without a word into the small adjoining room, where his couch had been arranged among the trunks and portmanteaux.

Since I was there, I spoke to Atto of my conversation with Sfasciamonti.

"Cerretani, you tell me: canters, secret sects. So, according to your catchpoll, that tatterdemalion came accidentally with dagger drawn to try out his blade on my arm. How interesting."

"Have you another hypothesis?" I asked, seeing his scepticism.

"Oh, no, indeed not. That was just a manner of speaking," said he, laconically. "After all, in France too something of the kind exists among mendicants; even if people know of these things only by hearsay and never anything more precise."

The Abbot had received me with his windows open onto the gardens, wearing a dressing gown as he sat in a fine red velvet armchair beside a table bearing on the remains of a sumptuous luncheon: the bones of a large black umber, still smelling of wild fennel. I was reminded that I had not yet eaten that morning and felt a subtle languor in my stomach.

"I do know of a number of ancient traditions," continued Atto, massaging his wounded arm, "but these are things that have now been somewhat lost. Once in Paris, there was the Great Caesar, or King of Thule, the sovereign of those ragamuffins and vagabonds. He would cross the city on a wretched dog-cart, as though mimicking a real sovereign. They say that he had his court, his pages and his vassals in every province. He would even summon the Estates-General."

"Do you mean an assembly of the people?"

"Exactly, but instead of nobles, priests and ladies, he would summon thousands of the halt, the lame and the blind, thieves, beggars, mountebanks, whores and dwarves… Yes, I mean all manner of beings," he broke off, hastening to correct himself, "but please do remove that apron with all those tools, it must be so heavy," said he, trying to change the subject.

I did not take offence at Abbot Melani's unfortunate expression; well I knew that many of my less fortunate fellows populated the dark lairs of the criminal fraternity, and I was aware that I for my part had been kissed by good fortune.

Buvat had returned, washed, combed and wearing clean clothes, but the sateen of his dark green shoes was visibly threadbare, if not torn; one of the oaken heels was shattered and the buckles dangled, almost completely ripped away from their moorings.

"I left my new shoes behind at the Palazzo Rospigliosi," he at last summoned up the courage to admit, "but I promise you that I shall go and retrieve them before evening."

"Take care not to forget your head, then," said the Abbot with a sigh of resignation that betrayed contempt, "and do not waste time loafing around as usual."

"How is your arm?" I asked.

"Magnificent, I simply adore being sliced up with a sharp blade," he replied, remembering at last to open the letter which had been delivered to him.

As he read it, a rapid succession of contrasting expressions crossed his features: first he frowned, then his face opened for a few instants in a fleshy and heart-warming smile that caused the dimple on his chin to tremble. At length, he looked pensively out of the window, his gaze lost in the sky. He had grown pale.

"Some bad tidings?" I asked timidly, exchanging a questioning glance with his secretary.

We understood from the vacant look on the Abbot's face that he had heard nothing.

"Maria…" I seemed to hear him murmur, before slipping the badly crumpled letter into the pocket of his dressing gown. Suddenly, Atto Melani looked old and tired again.

"Now go away. You too, please, Buvat. Leave me alone."

"But… are you sure that you need nothing else?" I asked hesitantly.

"Not now. Kindly return tomorrow evening at nightfall."

We had left the Abbot's apartments and descended the service stairs, and within moments my forehead and that of Buvat felt again the scorching breath of the afternoon heat.

I was dumbstruck: why had Atto fallen into such grave prostration? Who was the mysterious Maria whose name had so softly touched his lips? Was she a woman of flesh and blood or had he perhaps invoked the Blessed Virgin?

In any case, I thought, as I walked vigorously beside Buvat, it all seemed inexplicable. Atto's faith was certainly not fervent: never — not even at moments of the greatest danger — did I once recall him invoking the assistance of heaven. And yet it would be even stranger if this Maria were a woman of this world. The sigh with which Atto had murmured that name and the pallor which came into his face suggested a promise not kept, an old and unrequited passion, a torment of the heart: in short, a love entanglement.

Love for a woman: the one test, I thought, to which Atto the castrato would never be equal.

"You will have a long ride under the sun to Palazzo Rospigliosi, if you want to recover your shoes," said I, turning to Buvat, as I looked in the direction of the stables, seeking the groom.

"Alas," he replied with a grimace of discontent, "and I have not even had lunch."

I seized the opportunity without an instant's hesitation.

"If you so desire, I shall arrange for something to be prepared for you quickly in the kitchens. That is, of course, if you do not mind…"

Abbot Melani's secretary did not need to be asked twice. We turned swiftly on our heels and, after leaving the great house through the back door we were soon in the chaos of the Villa Spada's kitchens.

There, amidst the to-ing and fro-ing of the scullions who were cleaning and the assistant cooks who were getting ready to prepare the evening meal, I gathered together a few leftovers: three spiny needlefish cleansed of their salt, two unleavened ring-cakes and a fine white and azure chinoiserie in the form of a goblet, full of green olives with onions. I also obtained a small carafe of Muscatel wine. For myself, by now almost dying of hunger, I broke off a pair of rough hunks from a large cheese with herbs and honey and laid them on lettuce leaves which I retrieved still fresh from the remains of the luncheon's garnishings. It was certainly not enough to sate my appetite after a day's work, but it would at least enable me to survive until suppertime came.

In the febrile activity of the kitchens, it was not easy to find a corner in which to consume our late meal. What was more, I was looking for a discreet recess in which to further my acquaintance with that strange being who was acting as secretary to Atto Mel ani. Thus I might perhaps be able to clarify my ideas somewhat about this Maria and the singular behaviour of the Abbot, as well as the plans which the latter was hatching for his own future and, a fortiori, for mine.

I therefore proposed to Buvat, who needed no persuading, that we should sit on the grass in the park, in the shade of a medlar or peach tree, where we should also enjoy the advantage of being able to pluck a tasty fruit for our dessert directly from the tree. Without so much as a by-your-leave, we seized a basket and a double piece of jute and walked along the gravel scorched by the midday sun in the direction of the chapel of the Villa Spa da. The dense grove of delights which stood behind it was the ideal place for our improvised picnic. Once within the perfumed shade of the undergrowth, the soft freshness of the ground gave instant relief to the soles of our feet. We would have settled on the edge of the wood near the chapel if a subdued and regular snoring had not revealed to us the presence of the chaplain, Don Tibaldutio Lucidi, curled up in the arms of Morpheus, evidently having thought the time ripe to enjoy a brief respite from the fatigues of divine service. After, therefore, placing a certain dis tance between the chaplain and ourselves, we at length chose as our roof the welcoming umbrella of a fine plum tree replete with ripe fruit, ringed by little wild strawberry bushes.

"So you are a scribe at the Royal Library in Paris," said I to open our conversation, as we stretched out the ample piece of sacking on the sward.

"Scribe to His Majesty and writer on my own behalf," he re plied, half seriously and half facetiously as he fumbled greedily in the basket of provisions. "What Abbot Melani said of me today is not exact. I do not only copy, I also create."

Buvat had resented Atto's judgement, yet there was a hint of self-deprecating irony in his voice, the fruit of that resigned disposition which — in elevated minds destined to fill subaltern roles — results from the impossibility of being taken seriously, even by themselves."What do you write?"

"Above all, philology, although anonymously. On the occasion of a pilgrimage I made to Our Lady of Loreto, in the Marches of Ancona, I arranged for the printing of an edition of certain ancient Latin inscriptions which I had discovered many years previously."

"In the Marches of Ancona, did you say?"

"Yes," he replied bitterly, allowing himself to fall to the ground as he plunged his fingers into the goblet of olives. " Nemo propheta in patria, saith the Evangelist. In Paris I have never published a thing: I must even struggle to obtain any pay. 'Tis as well that Abbot Melani is there to commission some small piece of work from time to time, otherwise that envious old skinflint of a librarian… But do tell me about yourself. It seems that you too write, or so the Abbot tells me."

"Er… not exactly, I have never had anything printed. I should have liked to do so, but did not have the means," I replied, embarrassedly turning away my gaze and pretending to fuss over serving him some slices of needlefish with butter. I said nothing to him about my one and only opus, the voluminous memoir of the events which had befallen the Abbot and myself at the Donzello inn many years before, and which Atto had now stolen from me.

"I understand. But now, if I am not mistaken, the Abbot has commissioned you to keep a record of these days," he replied, grasping an unleavened focaccia and greedily hollowing it out to make room for the stuffing.

"Yes, although it is still far from clear to me what I am supposed to…"

"He mentioned his intention to me, saying that you do not write at all badly. You are fortunate. Melani pays handsomely," he continued, slipping a pair of fish slices into the focaccia.

"Ah yes," I concurred, glad that the conversation was at last turning towards Atto, "and, by the way, what kind of work were you telling me that Abbot Melani commissions you to carry out?" Buvat seemed not to have heard. He paused, as though reflecting, taking his time and spraying the stuffed focaccia with lemon, whereupon he asked me: "Why not show me what you have written? Perhaps I could help you to find a printer…"

"Mmm, it would not be worth the trouble, Signor Buvat. It is but a diary, and it is written in the vulgar tongue…" said I, fumbling for pretexts with my nose buried in my lumps of cheese with herbs, yet deploring the weakness of my excuse.

"And what does that signify?" retorted Buvat, brandishing his bread in protest. "We are no longer in the sixteenth century! Besides, were you or were you not born free? Therefore, you can work in your own way. And just as you would not be compelled to justify yourself to anyone for having written in German or in Hebrew, so you need not justify yourself for having written in the vernacular."

He broke off to take a bite of his meal, while with his other hand he gestured to me to pass him the wine.

"And is the majesty of the vulgar tongue not such that it may offer a worthy place to every subject, e'en to matters most exquisite?" he declaimed with his mouth full. "The Reverend Monsignor Panigirola expressed therein the deepest mysteries of theology, as did before him those two most singular minds, Monsignor Cornelio Muso and Signor Fiamma. The most excellent Signor Alessandro Piccolomini found a place in it for almost all philosophy; Mattiolo adapted thereto almost all simple medicine and Valve, all anatomy. Can you not find room in it for the mere bagatelle of a journal? Where the Queen, namely Theology, may commodiously dwell, there too may enter the Maiden Philosophy, and with yet greater ease the Housewife Medicine; how then could there be no place for a mere serving wench like a diary?"

"But my vernacular is not even Tuscan but the Roman tongue," I countered, chewing the while.

"Ah, so you have not written in Tuscan!' Thus would the master Aristarchus pass sentence. Yet, I tell you that you wrote not in Tuscan as you wrote not in German, for you are a Roman and whosoever would take pleasure in things Tuscan, let him then read Boccaccio and Bembo. That will soon tire him of his Tuscan tastes." Such was the abrupt riposte of my companion, striking up bizarre poses and speaking with the hoarsest of voices before concluding with a great gulp of Muscatel.

A fine, sharp intellect, this Buvat, thought I, as I tore off a good piece of lettuce. Despite the sweet freshness of the salad, I felt a slight twinge of envy burning my stomach: if only I too possessed his same quick wit. What was more, being French, he was not even expressing himself in his mother tongue. Ah, the lucky man!

"I must say, nevertheless," he was at pains to make clear, as he went for the onions with a will, "that you Italians are beset by the most evil custom: as a people, you are veritable dealers in envy. But what kind of barbarous practice is this? What manner of inhuman trade is it to be the mortal enemy of another's praise! No sooner does a good mind make his way forward among you with growing renown and reputation, than he becomes a prey to great locusts which infest him and tear him to pieces, and spread invective and calumny in his path until his worth often falls back into the dust."

He was surely right, I reflected, with the ease in reaching agreement of one who has just allayed the pangs of hunger, yet I was by no means persuaded that such a vice was exclusively Italian. Had he not himself complained of the vexations which he had been compelled to suffer at the hands of his own envious chief librarian who would let him die of hunger rather than part with a penny? And had he not only moments earlier confessed to me that in Paris they would not let him publish so much as a single line, while in Italy he had found a literary refuge? I did not, however, point this out to him. A weakness common to all peoples, apart from the Italians, is national pride. And I had no interest in wounding that of Jean Buvat; on the contrary.

Our collation was now drawing to a close. I had succeeded in drawing nothing from Jean Buvat about Abbot Melani, indeed, the conversation had been diverted perilously close to my memoir; not that the Abbot did not deserve that I should denounce his theft to his scribe, only that this would surely have unleashed a whole series of questions about Atto from Buvat, nor did it seem in the least judicious to betray the misdeeds of his patron.

I therefore changed the subject, pointing out to Buvat — who, as I spoke, continued tirelessly poking around with his hand in the basket of provisions — that we had just eaten all the food we had brought with us and it remained for us only to pick some good fruit from the boughs of the plum tree whose shade we were enjoying. It was, for obvious reasons, Buvat who took upon himself the task of harvesting the fruit, whilst I looked to polishing the ripe plums with the jute and arranging them in our empty basket. The conversation having died away of its own accord, we swallowed a good basketful in religious silence, interrupted only by the parabolic curves described by the plum stones, laid bare by the labours of our jaws.

Perhaps it was the rhythmical patter of plum stones on the fresh grass under the trees, or perhaps the gentle rustling of the fronds caressed by the zephyrs of early summer, or yet the wild strawberries which — our bodies by now stretched out on the damp maternal bosom of the earth — we picked directly with our lips, or mayhap all these things together; anyway, I know not how it came to pass, but we fell asleep. And, almost in unison, hearing Buvat's snores and telling myself that I must shake him, for he had to go into town to recover his shoes, otherwise he would not return in time before evening, I heard another loud noise grow yet louder, drowning his snoring, and this noise was far nearer and more familiar: I too had dozed off and was blissfully snoring.