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Day the Seventh

17th September, 1683

Even in those days overburdened with emotion, there would sometimes arise and keep turning in my mind an edifying maxim which the old lady who had so lovingly educated and instructed me was wont to chant, as one does with children: never leave a book half-read.

It was with that wise precept in mind that I decided, upon rising, to complete my reading of Stilone Priaso's astrological almanack. My scrupulous teacher was not mistaken: better not to open a book than to read it only in part, thus committing to memory a mere fragment, together with an erroneous judgement. Perhaps, I reflected, the remaining pages might enable me to gain a more balanced view of the obscure powers which I had hitherto attributed to that mysterious booklet.

Upon awakening, moreover, I felt less faint than on the preceding mornings; 1 had slept soundly and sufficiently, even after the carousel of stalking and spying and narrow escapes which had led us to follow Dulcibeni the whole way along gallery C until we came to the underground river; and, above all, after the surprising revelations concerning Devize (and his mysterious rondeau) which the abbot and I had discovered during our return to the inn.

My mind still refused to dwell upon that intricate story. Yet, now I found an opportunity to finish reading the gazette which the corpisantari had taken from Stilone Priaso, and which I still kept under the mattress of my little bed.

This small volume seemed to have predicted accurately the events of the past few months. Now, I wanted to know what the future held in store for us.

So 1 read the predictions for the third week of September, which would soon be upon us.

The Vaticinations which are to be conjectured from the Starres will, during this

Week, be given principally by Mercury, which will receive two Luminaries in its Domiciles and, being in the Third House, in Coniunction with the Sunne, promises Voyages undertaken by Princes, the Sending of voluminous Dispatches and divers Royall Embassies.

Jupiter and Venus conjoined seek to bring together in the Igneous Trine an Assembly of the Virtuous to treat of a League, or a Peace of great Importance.

My attention was drawn at once to "Voyages undertaken by Princes, the Sending of voluminous Dispatches" and "Royall Embassies" and no doubt remained in my mind: these must be the dispatches announcing the outcome of the battle for Vienna, which must by then have been decided.

Soon, indeed, a multitude of mounted messengers, perhaps despatched by the very sovereigns and princes who had taken part in the fray, would spread across Europe, bearing the verdict in three days to Warsaw, in five, to Venice, in eight or nine to Rome and Paris, and later still to London and Madrid.

Once again, the author of the almanack had found his mark: not only had he foreseen a great battle, but the frenetic spreading of the news on the morrow of the final clash.

And was not the "Assembly of the Virtuous to treat of a League, or a Peace of great Importance" of which the Almanack spoke, the peace treaty which would surely be sealed between victors and vanquished?

I read on, coming to the fourth and last week of September:

Ill Tidings for the Sick may be received during this fourth Weeke of September, since the Sun rules the Sixth House and has given over the care of the Infirm to Saturn; hence, there shall reign Quartan Fevers, Fluxes, Dropsy, Swellings, Sciatica, Gout and Pain caused by the Stone. Jupiter, however, rules the Eighth House and will soon bring Health to many Patients.

There would, then, be other threats to health: fevers, disturbances in the circulation of the humours, excessive water on the stomach, pains in the bones, legs and bowels.

These were all grave threats; yet, according to the almanack, they were not insuperable. The worst was indeed still to come:

The first Tidings of this Weeke may be somewhat violent, for they will be sent by Mars, the Ruler of the Ascendant, who, being in the Eighth House, may cause us to hear of the Deathe of Men by Poyson, Steele or Fire. Saturn in the Sixth House, which rules over the Twelfth House, promises Deathe to certain enclosed Noblemen.

Upon reading those last words, I became breathless. I threw the gazette far from me and, with clasped hands, implored heaven's aid. Perhaps nothing that I had read in the course of my life so marked my soul as those few, cryptic lines.

"Violent" events were, then, brewing; such as "the Death of Men by Poyson, Steele or Fire". Death was destined for "enclosed Noblemen": some of the guests at the Donzello were certainly noble and, for sure, all were "enclosed" because of the quarantine!

If ever I had needed another proof that the almanack (the work of the Devil!) foretold events, here I had it: it spoke of us, cloistered in the Donzello by the pestilence, and of the death of certain gentlemen among us.

Violent death, and by poison: and had not Superintendent Fouquet perhaps been poisoned?

I knew that a good Christian must not yield to despair, even when his plight is most tragic. I would, however, be lying if I were to pretend that I faced these unheard-of revelations with manly dignity. Never had I felt myself so abandoned, despite my foundling's condition, in thrall to stars which, for who knows how many centuries, perhaps since their course began, had determined my destiny.

Overcome by terror and desperation, I grasped the old rosary which I had received as a gift from the pious woman who had raised me, kissed it passionately and pocketed it. I recited three paternosters and realised that, in my fear of the stars, I had entertained doubts about divine providence, which every Christian should acknowledge as his sole guide. I felt a burning need to purge my soul and to receive the comfort of the Faith: the time had come for Confession before God; and, thank heaven, there was in the hostelry someone who could help me.

"Well, come in my son, you are right to cleanse your soul at a time as difficult as this."

As soon as he had heard the reason for my visit, Robleda welcomed me to his little chamber with great benevolence. The secret of Confession melted my heart and loosed my tongue and I honoured the sacrament with ardour and commitment.

Once he had given me absolution, he asked me the origin of so many sinful doubts.

Without mentioning the almanack, I reminded Robleda that a while before, he had spoken to me of the predictions concerning the

Angelic Pope and this conversation had caused me to meditate long on the topic of fate and predestination. During the course of these cogitations, the thought had come to me that some held all sublunary things to be determined by the influence of the stars, so that such events could be adequately foretold. I knew that the Church rejected such views, which indeed belonged among the doctrines to be condemned. Yet, the physician Cristofano had assured me that astrology could do much for medical practice, and was therefore a good and useful thing. That was why, torn between such conflicting views, I had thought to ask Robleda to enlighten and counsel me.

"Bravo, my boy, we must always turn to Mother Church when confronting the many and various uncertainties of existence. I can understand that, here in this hostelry, with such comings and goings of travellers, you should have heard speak of the illusions which soothsayers, astrologers and necromancers of all sorts spread among simple souls. You must not listen to such chatter. There exist two forms of astrology, one false and one true. The first sets out, on the basis of men's date of birth, to foretell the events in their lives and their future behaviour. This is a false and heretical doctrine, which, as you know, has long been forbidden. There is, however, a good and true astrology, the aim of which is to investigate the power of the stars through the investigation of nature, for the purpose, not of prediction, but the accumulation of knowledge. And if one thing is absolutely certain, it is that the stars do influence things here on earth."

In the first place, declared Robleda, glad of the opportunity to hold forth and to show off his science, we have the ebb and flow of the tides, known to all and caused by the mysterious influence of the moon. Likewise, mention should be made of the metals in the deep bowels of the earth, reached neither by the light nor the heat of the sun, and which must therefore be produced thanks to the influence of the stars. Many other experiences, too, (which he could have listed ad abundantiam) would be difficult to explain without admitting the intervention of celestial influences. Even that modest little plant, penny-royal (or Menthapulegium), according to Cicero in De Divinatione, flowers only at the winter solstice-on the shortest day of the year. Other demonstrations of the power of heavenly bodies over bodies terrestrial could be drawn from meteorology: the rising and setting of the seven stars situated at the head of the constellation of Taurus, which the Greeks called the Hyades, are usually accompanied by abundant rainfall. And what can be said of the animal kingdom? It is well known that, with the waxing and waning of the moon, oysters, crabs and other similar creatures lose vital energy and vigour. What Cristofano had said was, moreover, true: Hippocrates and other highly skilful physicians knew that dramatic shifts took place in the progression of illnesses at the solstices and equinoxes. All of this was, said the Jesuit, in accordance with the teaching of the angelic doctor, Saint Thomas, and with that of Aristotle, in the Meteora, and was confirmed by many other philosophers, including Domingo Soto, Iavello, Dominique Bagnes, and I could have learned far more, had I read The True and False Astrology, a wise and truthful volume by his brother Jesuit Giovanni Battista Grassetti; which had gone to press only a few months previously.

"But if, as you say, good astrology is not in conflict with the Christian religion," I objected, "then there must exist a Christian astrology."

"And it does indeed exist," replied Robleda, now indulging himself in the display of his own knowledge, "and it is a pity that I do not have with me the Enriched Christian Zodiac or the Twelve Signs of Divine Predestination, a work of the purest doctrine and the product of the ingenuity of my brother Jeremiah Drexel, published in this holy city some forty years ago."

In that volume, explained Robleda, the twelve signs of the astrological tradition were at last replaced by as many symbols of the One True Religion: a burning candle, a skull, a golden ciborium of the Eucharist, a bare, unveiled altar, a rosebush, a fig tree, a tobacco plant, a cypress, two lances conjoined with a crown of olive leaves, a scourge, with fasces, an anchor and a shield.

"And would these be the signs of the Christian zodiac?" I inquired, full of wonderment.

"More than that: each of these is the symbol of the eternal values of the Faith. The burning candle represents the inner light of the immortal soul, as it is written Lucerna pedibus meis verbum tuum et lumen semitis meis, the cranium symbolises meditation upon death, the golden ciborium represents the frequency of Confession and Communion, the altar… Look, you have dropped something."

In drawing the rosary from my pocket, some of the leaves found by Ugonio and Ciacconio, which I kept in the same pocket, had fallen to the ground.

"Oh, it is nothing," I lied. "It is… a curious spice which they gave me at the market on the Piazza Navona a few weeks ago."

"Give it to me," quoth Robleda, almost tearing one of the leaves from my hand. He turned it over several times in his hand, visibly astonished.

"How curious," said he, at length. "I wonder how it came to be here."

"Why?"

"It is a plant that does not grow in Europe. It comes from far overseas, from Peru in the Western Indies."

"And what is it called?"

"Mamacoca."

Padre Robleda then told me the surprising story of mamacoca, an unusual little plant which was to have much importance in the events of the days that followed.

In the beginning, he informed me, when the Western Indies were conquered and the local savages (followers of false religions and cultivators of blasphemy) duly subjugated, no sooner had the Jesuit missionaries undertaken the holy work of evangelisation than they passed at once to the study of the innumerable varieties of plants of the New World. It was an endless universe: while the ancient and authoritative Materia Medica of Dioscurides mentioned some three hundred plants in all, the physician Francisco Hernandez had in the seventeen volumes of his Historia Natural de las Indias counted over three thousand plant species.

In the midst of all these marvellous discoveries, grave dangers were however concealed. It was in fact impossible for the colonists to distinguish between plants and drugs, between infusions and poisons, and, in the native population, between physicians and necromancers. The villages abounded in wizards who swore that, through the power of herbs and roots, they could raise the Demon or foretell the future.

"Like the astrologers!" I exclaimed, hoping to discover some connection with the events which had taken place at the Donzello.

"No, no, astrology has nothing to do with this," replied Robleda, disappointing my hopes. "I am speaking of far graver matters."

According to the magicians, it seems, every single plant could be used in two ways: to cure an illness or to see the Devil. And in the Indies, there seemed to abound plants suited to the second purpose.

Donanacal (thus, Padre Robleda seemed to me to pronounce the exotic name), which the Indians called the "wonder mushroom" was held to be able to bring about communication with Satan. The same suspicion hung over oliuchi seeds and another mushroom known as peyote. A plant called pate was used by the magicians to listen to the fallacious oracles of the Inferno.

The Inquisition therefore decided to burn all the fields cultivated with forbidden plants, along with, from time to time, a few magicians. But the fields were too extensive and the magicians too numerous.

"Fears arose for the integrity of Christian doctrine!" whispered Robleda, his voice burdened with concern, waving the leaf of mama-coca under my nose as though to put me on guard against the Evil One.

Because of these accursed plants, the tale resumed, even converted and baptised savages blasphemed against the holy name of the doctors of the Church. Some of these held that Saint Bartholomew had travelled to America for the sole purpose of discovering plants possessed of miraculous powers, and that Saint Thomas had also preached in Brazil, where he had found trees, the leaves of which were mortal poison, but that he had toasted these on fire and had transformed them into a wonder-working medicine. The natives converted to our faith then used a number of potent drugs during prayer: something obviously prohibited by doctrine. In sum, new heresies spread, which were both unusual and most pernicious.

"There were even those who taught new gospels," said Robleda in a trembling voice, returning the little leaf to me with an expression of disgust, as though it were pestiferous. "In these blasphemous gospels," he continued, crossing himself, "it was said that Christ, as soon as he attained manhood, had been compelled to flee because the devils had attacked him in order to steal his soul. Mary, when she returned home and did not find her son, mounted a donkey and set out in search of him. Soon, however, she lost her way and entered a forest where, out of hunger and desperation, she felt herself growing ever more faint. Jesus saw her in that state and came to her aid: he blessed a mamacoca bush which grew nearby. The donkey was drawn to that bush and would not leave it; thus, Mary understood that it had been blessed for her. She chewed a few leaves and, as if by a miracle, felt neither hunger nor weariness. She continued on her way until she came to a village where some women offered her food. Mary replied that she was not hungry and showed the blessed branch of mamacoca. She handed a leaf to the women, saying: 'Sow this, it will put forth roots and a bush will grow.' The women did as Mary had said and four days later a bush sprang up, laden with fruit. From the fruit came the seeds for the cultivation of mamacoca, of which women have been devotees ever since."

"But that is monstrous!" I commented. "Thus to blaspheme against the Madonna and Our Lord Jesus Christ, saying that they fed on witches' plants…"

"You have spoken well, it is indeed monstrous," said Robleda wiping the perspiration from his cheeks and his brow, "nor was that an end to it."

The prohibited specialities were so numerous that the colonists (and even the Jesuits, said Robleda resignedly) were completely unable to maintain any control over events. Who could safely distinguish oliuchi from donanacal, peyote from cocoba, pate from cola, opium from mate, or guarana from mamacoca?

"Was mamacoca used for prayer, too?"

"No, no," he replied with an air of slight embarrassment, "it was used for another purpose."

The leaves of that seemingly innocent bush, said the Jesuit, had the stupefying power to annul weariness, remove all hunger and make those who took it euphoric and vigorous. Mamacoca also, as the Jesuits themselves had discovered, calmed pain, gave new strength to broken bones, warmed the limbs and healed old wounds which were beginning to become infested with worms. Last, (and perhaps, according to Padre Robleda, most important), thanks to mamacoca, workers, farm hands and slaves were able to work for hours on end without tiring.

Among the conquistadores, there were those who thought that this plague should be exploited rather than extirpated. Mamacoca enabled the Indians to stand up to the most exhausting conditions; and the Jesuit missionaries in the Indies, observed Padre Robleda, were in constant need of labourers.

Consumption of the plant was therefore made lawful. Native workers were paid in leaves of the plant, which for them were worth more than money, silver, even gold. The clergy had permission to raise tithes on the crop and the revenues of many priests and bishops were paid thanks to the sale of mamacoca.

"But was this not an instrument of Satan?" I objected in astonishment.

"Ah, well…" stammered Padre Robleda, "the situation was very complex, and a choice had to be made. By granting the natives greater freedom to use mamacoca, more missions could be built, the better to bring them civilisation, in other words, to win over more souls to the cause of Christ."

I turned over the little leaf in the palm of my hand. I tore it and brought it to my nose, sniffing at it. It seemed to be a thoroughly ordinary plant.

"And how could this have come to Rome?" I asked.

"Perhaps some Spanish ship brought a cargo of it to Portugal. From there, it will have made its way to Genoa, or Flanders. What more can I say? I recognised the plant because a brother showed me some, and I have since seen it mentioned in letters from missionaries in the Indies. Perhaps the person who gave it to you knows more."

I was on the point of leaving when one last question came to mind.

"Just one more question, Padre. How does one consume mama-

Coca?’

"For heaven's sake, my boy, I trust that you do not intend to use it?"

"No, Padre, I am simply curious."

"Generally speaking, the savages chew it, after spreading saliva and some ashes on the leaves; but I do not exclude that there may be other ways of taking it."

I descended the stairs to prepare luncheon, not without first making a passing visit to the apartment of Abbot Melani to tell him what I had learned from Padre Robleda.

"Interesting, how very interesting," commented Atto, with an expression of deep absorption. "At present, however, I have no idea where this all leads. We shall have to reflect on the matter."

In the kitchen, I found Cristofano, as usual, shuttling back and forth between the cellars and the stoves. He attended to the preparation of the most diverse and, to tell the truth, singular remedies for the pestilence which held Bedfordi in its thrall. In those days, I had seen a growing ferment in the Sienese physician's activities with spices; and now, he seemed to be trying almost everything. I had even seen him finish off my master's reserves of game, on the grounds that it would go bad and that concealing its taste with spices, as Pellegrino did, was lethal to health. Yet, during the night, he had seized partridges, stock doves, woodcock, quails and hazel-hens, for the sole purpose of stuffing them with Damascene and Amarena plums, whereupon he placed the birds in a white canvas bag and put it under a press, thus extracting from the delicate meat a beverage with which he hoped to restore the poor Englishman to health. Hitherto, all his attempts to find an efficacious remediam appeared to have come to nothing. Yet, young Bedfordi still lived.

Cristofano said that he found the other guests to be in rather good health, with the exception of Domenico Stilone Priaso and Pompeo Dulcibeni: the Neapolitan had awoken with the first signs of a cold sore on his lips, while the elderly Marchigiano was suffering from an attack of the piles, doubtless caused by the dinner based on cows' teats. For both these cases, he explained, the remedy was the same: we would therefore prepare a caustic.

"It mortifies putrid and corrosive ulcers such as, for example, itching herpes and other rashes and eruptions," he pronounced, and then ordered me: " Recipe: the strongest vinegar."

He then mixed the vinegar with crystalline arsenic, sal-ammoniac and sublimated quicksilver. He ground the lot and put it to boil in a beaker.

"Good. Now, we need to wait until half of the vinegar has evaporated. Then I shall go up to Stilone Priaso and dry his blisters with the caustic. You, meanwhile, prepare luncheon: I have already selected a few turkeys, suited to the needs of our guests. Boil them with parsnips until they are light brown in colour and serve them up with a broth of grated bread."

I set to work. As soon as the caustic was ready, Cristofano gave me my last instructions before climbing the stairs to visit Stilone Priaso. "I shall have need of you with Dulcibeni. Meanwhile, I shall help you to serve the meal, so that you will soon be free, given the propensity of the guests at this hostelry to chatter with you for rather too long," he concluded meaningfully.

After luncheon, we went to feed Bedfordi. Thereafter, we were not a little busy with my master. Pellegrino seemed not to appreciate the effluvia of the cleansing meal personally prepared for him by the physician, which did in truth have the appearance of a curious, greyish porridge. My master at least seemed more lively. The slow but progressive improvements of the last few days did not disappoint my hopes that he might soon recover completely. He sniffed at the porridge, then looked all around him, closed his right hand into a fist and then raised it, rhythmically pointing his thumb at his mouth. This was the unmistakeable gesture with which Pellegrino was accustomed to mime his desire for a good drink of wine.

I was on the point of inviting him to be more reasonable and patient for at least a few more days, but Cristofano stopped me with his hand.

"Are you not aware of his greater presence of mind? Spirits call for spirits: we can certainly allow him half a glass of red wine."

"But he made free with the wine until the day when he fell sick."

"Precisely. The point is that wine should be consumed in moderation: it is nutritious, it aids the digestion, it produces blood, it comforts and calms, brings joy, clarity of mind and vivacity. So go down to the cellar and fetch a little red wine, my boy," said he, with a trace of impatience in his tone, "For a little beaker will do Pellegrino the world of good."

While I was descending the stairs, the doctor called after me "Please make sure that it is chilled! In Messina, when they began to use snow to chill wine and food, all pestiferous fevers caused by constipation of the first veins ceased forthwith. Since then, a thousand fewer have died each year!"

I reassured Cristofano: in addition to bread and leathern bottles full of water, we were kept regularly supplied with pressed snow.

I returned from the cellars with a little carafe of good red wine and a glass. Hardly had I filled it than the doctor explained that my master's failing had been an immoderate consumption of wine, and that could turn a man raving mad, stupid, lustful, garrulous and even murderous. Temperate drinkers included Augustus and Caesar; while winebibbers included Claudius, Tiberius, Nero and Alexander, who, out of drunkenness, would sleep two days in a row.

Thereupon, he grasped the glass and downed half of it in a single gulp. "It is not too bad; both robust and smooth," said he, raising the glass with the few remaining drops in it and observing its fine ruby colour. "And, as I was saying, the right dose of wine changes the vices of nature into their opposites, so that the impious man becomes pious, the miser, liberal, the proud, humble, the lazy, energetic, the timid, bold: mental taciturnity and sloth are transformed into astuteness and eloquence."

He emptied the glass, refilled it and then emptied it in one rapid gulp.

"But beware of drinking after fulfilling one's bodily functions or after the sexual act," he warned me, while wiping his lips with the back of one hand and pouring himself a third dose with the other. "It is best to drink after consuming bitter almonds and cabbage or, following one's meal, peaches, quince jelly, pomegranates and other astringents."

He then administered the few remaining sips to poor Pellegrino.

Thereupon, we repaired to Dulcibeni's chamber, where the latter seemed somewhat irked to see me at Cristofano's side. I soon understood why: the physician had asked him to uncover his private parts. The old man glanced at me and complained. I understood that I had violated his privacy, and turned around. Cristofano assured him that he would not need to expose himself to my sight and that he should not be ashamed before a physician. He then requested that he kneel on all fours upon the bed, leaning on his elbows, so that his sores would be well exposed. Dulcibeni consented unwillingly, not without first helping himself to the contents of his snuffbox. Cristofano made me squat before Dulcibeni, so as to be able to grasp him firmly by the shoulders. The doctor would soon be beginning to anoint the haemorrhoids with his caustic, and a false movement could cause the liquid to flow onto his cullions or his tail, which would be cruelly injured thereby. When the physician warned him, Dulcibeni suppressed a shiver and took a pinch of his indispensable snuff.

Cristofano set to work. Initially, as expected, Dulcibeni struggled with the burning pain and emitted brief, restrained moans. In order to distract him, the doctor tried to engage him in conversation, asking from what city he came, how he had come to the Donzello from Naples and so on, all questions which I had prudently avoided putting to him. Dulcibeni (as Abbot Melani had foreseen) always replied in monosyllables, letting one conversational opening after another die away without supplying a single element of information that might be of use to me. The doctor then turned to the dominant topic of those days, namely the siege of Vienna, and asked him what they were saying about that in Naples.

"I would not know," he replied laconically, as I had expected.

"But there has been talk of this for months, all over Europe. Who do you expect to win, the Christians or the Infidels?"

"Both, and neither," said he with evident distaste.

I wondered whether, on this occasion too, Dulcibeni might launch into another soliloquy on the topic which now seemed so to irritate him, once the physician and I had left the apartment.

"What do you mean?" insisted Cristofano, while his manipulations drew a hoarse cry from Dulcibeni. "In a war, for as long as no treaty is concluded, there is always a victor and a loser."

The patient reared up and it was only by grasping him by the collar that I could hold him down. I could not understand whether it was the pain that so irritated him: the fact is that, this time, Dulcibeni preferred an interlocutor of flesh and blood to his reflection in the mirror.

"But what do you know of it? There is so much talk of Christians and of Ottomans, of Catholics and Protestants, of the faithful and the Infidels, as though the faithful and the Infidels really existed. Whereas, in reality, all alike scatter the seeds of hatred among the members of the Church: here, the Roman Catholics, there the Gallicans, and so on and so forth. But greed and the thirst for power profess no faith in anything but themselves."

"But I beg of you!" interrupted Cristofano. "To say that Christians and Turks are one and the same thing! What if Padre Robleda should hear you?"

Dulcibeni, however, was not listening to him. While he angrily sniffed the contents of his precious box (part of which, however, fell on the floor) his voice was sometimes coloured by rage, as though in protest at the painful burning of the sores which Cristofano was inflicting upon him. While holding him firm, I endeavoured not to look too directly at him, which was no easy thing to do, given the position which I was constrained to adopt.

At a certain juncture, the austere patient began to inveigh against the Bourbons and the Habsburgs, but also against the Stuarts and the House of Orange, as I had already heard him do in his bitter and solitary invective against their incestuous marriages. When the physician, good Tuscan that he was, uttered a few words in defence of the Bourbons (who were related to the Grand Duke of Tuscany, his prince), he checked him, raging with particular rancour against France.

"To what a pass have the antique feudal nobility come, they who were the mark and pride of that nation! The nobles who crowd Versailles today, what do you suppose they are now, but the King's bastards? Conde, Conti, Beaufort, the Duke of Maine, the Duke of Vendome, the Duke of Toulouse… Princes of the Blood, they call them. But what blood? That of the whores who happened to pass through the Sun King's bed or that of his grandfather Henry of Navarre."

The latter, continued Dulcibeni, had marched on Chartres for the sole purpose of laying his hands upon Gabrielle d'Estrees who, before granting her favours, demanded that her father be made governor of the city and her brother, bishop. D'Estrees succeeded in selling herself to the King for her weight in gold, despite the fact that she was a veteran of the beds of Henry III, (from whom old d'Estrees had extracted six thousand ecus), the banker Zamet, the Duke of Guise, the Duke of Longueville and the Duke of Bellegarde. And all that despite the ambiguous fame of her grandmother, the mistress of Francis I, Pope Clement VI and Charles de Valois.

"Should one be surprised," asked Dulcibeni, "if the great feudal lords of France wanted to purge the kingdom of such abominations, or if they stabbed Henry of Navarre? But it was already too late! The blind power of sovereigns has ever since despoiled and robbed them without mercy."

"It seems to me that you are exaggerating," retorted Cristofano, raising his eyes from his delicate work and anxiously observing his overheated patient.

In my eyes, too, Dulcibeni seemed to be exaggerating. Of course, he was exhausted by the painful burns inflicted by the caustic. Yet, the doctor's calm and almost distracted objections really did not merit those reactions of boiling wrath. The almost febrile trembling of his members suggested that, in reality, Dulcibeni was prey to a singular state of nervous overexcitement. He was calmed only by repeated pinches of snuff. I again promised myself that I would report all this as soon as possible to Abbot Melani.

"If I am to believe you," Cristofano then added, "one would conclude that there is nothing good at Versailles or indeed at any other court."

"Versailles, you speak to me of Versailles; where the noble blood of the fathers is daily defiled! What has become of the cavaliers of old? There they are, all herded together by the Most Christian King and his usurer Colbert in a single palace, squandering their inheritance on balls and hunting parties, instead of defending the fiefs of their glorious ancestors."

"But thus Louis XIV put an end to plotting," protested Cristofano. "The King his grandfather died by an assassin's dagger, his father died of poison and he himself as a child was threatened by the nobles in the Fronde revolt!"

"It is true. Thus, however, he has taken possession of their riches. And he has not understood that the nobility, who once were spread throughout France, may well have threatened the Sovereign but were also his best protection."

"What do you mean?"

"Every sovereign can control his kingdom only if he has a vassal in each province. The Most Christian King has done the opposite: he has united the aristocracy in a single body. And a body has only one neck. When the day comes that the people want to cut through it, a single blow will suffice."

"Come, come! That can surely never happen," said Cristofano forcefully. "The people of Paris will never behead the nobles. And the King…"

Dulcibeni ranted on without listening to the doctor: "History," he almost screamed, causing me to give a start, "will have no pity for those crowned jackals, sated with human blood and infanticide; evil oppressors of a people of slaves, whom they have sent to the slaughter every time that their homicidal fury has been unleashed by whatever their low, incestuous passion lusted after."

Every single syllable he pronounced with inflamed rage, his lips livid and contracted, and his nose all covered in powder from his many inhalations.

Cristofano gave up attempting to answer him: we seemed to be witnessing the outburst of a deranged mind. Besides, the physician had almost completed his painful duty and silently arranged pieces of fine gauze between the buttocks of the Marchigiano who, with a great sigh, let himself collapse exhausted on his side. And thus he remained, sans culotte, until we had left the room.

No sooner had I informed him of Dulcibeni's lengthy harangue than Atto had no more doubts: "Padre Robleda was right: if he is not a Jansenist, no one is."

"And why are you so sure?"

"For two reasons: first, the Jansenists detest the Jesuits; and in that respect I think that Dulcibeni's discourse against the Society of Jesus could hardly have been plainer: the Jesuits are spies, traitors, papal favourites, and so on: the usual propaganda against the Order of Saint Ignatius."

"Do you mean that it is untrue?"

"On the contrary, it is all perfectly true, but only the Jansenists have the courage to say so publicly. Our Dulcibeni is indeed afraid of nothing: he is all the more unafraid in that the only Jesuit in the vicinity is that coward Robleda."

"And the Jansenists?"

"The Jansenists say that the Church of the origins was purer, like the torrents near a spring. They hold that several truths of the gospel are no longer as evident as they once were. To return to the Church of the origins, one must submit to the severest of trials, penances, humiliations and renunciations; and while bearing all this, one must place oneself in the merciful hands of God, forever renouncing the world and sacrificing oneself to divine love."

"Padre Robleda told me that the Jansenists like to remain in solitude…"

"Correct. They tend towards asceticism, severe and chastened customs: you will have noticed how Dulcibeni boils with indignation whenever Cloridia approaches…" sniggered the abbot. "It goes without saying that the Jansenists utterly detest the Jesuits, who permit themselves every freedom of conscience and action. I know that in Naples there is an important circle of followers of Jansenius."

"So that is why Dulcibeni settled there."

"Perhaps. It is a pity that since the very beginning, for a number of theological reasons which I shall not now attempt to explain to you, the Jansenists have been accused of heresy."

"Yes, I know. Dulcibeni could be a heretic."

"Forget that. It is not what matters. Let us move on to the second motive for reflection."

"Namely?"

"All that hatred for princes and sovereigns. It is… how could I put it? It is all too Jansenist a sentiment. The obsession with kings who commit incest, marry harlots, beget bastard children; and the nobles who betray their elevated destiny and grow soft. These are themes which lead to rebellion, to disorder and turbulence."

"And so?"

"Nothing. It seems curious to me; where do those words come from? And above all, where can they lead? We know much about him, but at the same time, we know too little."

"Perhaps such ideas have something to do with the business about three to dine, the brothers and the farm."

"Do you mean the strange expressions which we heard in Tiracorda's house? Perhaps. We shall see tonight."