Imprimatur

Night the Seventh

Between the 17th and 18th September, 1683

From Doctor Tiracorda's cabinet, tremulous candlelight filtered, while Dulcibeni sat down and laid on the table a bottle full of a greenish liquid. The doctor banged down on the board the goblets which had on the last occasion remained empty, because of the breaking of the bottle.

Atto and I crouched in the shadows of the next room, as we had done the night before. Our incursion into the house of Tiracorda had proved more difficult than expected: for a long while, one of the housemaids tidied up the kitchen, so that we were unable to leave the stables. Once the maid had ascended to the first floor, we tarried no little time in order to be quite certain that no one was moving from room to room any longer. While we were still waiting, Dulcibeni at last knocked at the door; the master of the house welcomed him and led him up to the study on the first floor, where we were now eavesdropping upon the pair.

We had missed the beginning of the conversation, and the two were once again testing one another with incomprehensible phrases. Tiracorda sipped placidly at the greenish beverage.

"Then I shall repeat," said the doctor. "A white field, a black seed, five sowers and two directing them. It is ab-so-lute-ly clear."

"It is no use, no use…" said Dulcibeni, defensively.

At that moment, by my side Atto Melani gave a slight start and I saw that he was silently cursing.

"Then, I shall tell you," said Tiracorda. "Writing."

"Writing?"

"But of course! The white field is the paper, the seed is the ink, the five sowers are the fingers of the hand and the two who direct the work are the eyes. Not bad, eh? Ha ha ha ha ha! Haaaaaa ha ha ha ha!"

The old Archiater once again gave himself up to ribald laughter.

"Remarkable," was Dulcibeni's sole comment.

At that moment, I too understood: enigmas. Tiracorda and Dulcibeni were amusing themselves with riddles. Even the mysterious phrases which we had overheard last night were certainly part of that same innocent entertainment. I looked at Atto and his countenance mirrored my own disappointment: once more we had been racking our brains for nothing. Dulcibeni, however, seemed to appreciate this pastime far less than his companion, and tried to change the subject as he had done during our previous visit.

"Bravo, Giovanni, bravo," said he, again filling the glasses. "But tell me now, how was he today?"

"Oh, nothing new. And did you sleep well?"

"For as long as I was able to," said Dulcibeni gravely.

"I understand, I understand," said Tiracorda, draining his glass and promptly refilling it. "You are so troubled," continued the physician. "But there are still a couple of things which you have not told me. Excuse me for dwelling on the past, but why did you not ask the Odescalchi for help with your daughter?"

"I did, I did," replied Dulcibeni. "I have already told you. But they said that they could do nothing for me. And then…"

"Ah yes, then came that nasty incident, the beating, the fall…" Tiracorda recalled.

"It was no fall, Giovanni. They struck me on the neck and then they threw me down from the second floor. It was a miracle that I escaped with my life," said Dulcibeni, somewhat impatiently, once again filling his friend's glass.

"Yes, yes, please pardon me, I should have remembered that from your collar; it is just that I am rather weary…" Tiracorda's voice was growing drowsy.

"Do not excuse yourself, Giovanni, but listen. Now it is your turn. I have three good ones."

Dulcibeni took out a book and began to read in a warm, resonant voice:

To tell you from A unto Zed, I intend,

What to name I would always presume;

And if I should claim to have Names for it all,

Why, then I'm but Ragges and Spume.

The one thing that counts is to 'wait the Boys' Call;

'Tis for them that my Stuff I consume.

And you, Masters, who tell 'em of me to inquire,

Know well that I am the good Son of a Friar.

The reading continued with two, three, four more bizarre little rhymes, with brief pauses in between.

"What say you, Giovanni?" asked Dulcibeni at length, after reading the series of riddles.

The only reply was a rhythmic bronchial murmur. Tiracorda was asleep.

At that juncture, something unforeseen occurred. Instead of rousing his friend, who had obviously drunk several glasses too many, Dulcibeni returned the book to his pocket and tiptoed to the secret closet behind Tiracorda's back, from which we had seen the latter take two little glasses the night before. Dulcibeni opened the door to the cupboard and began to busy himself with a number of vases and containers of spices. He then pulled out a ceramic vase on which were painted the waters of a pond, a few aquatic plants and strange little animals which I was unable to identify. There were little holes in the sides of the vase, as though to allow air to enter. Dulcibeni raised the vase to the candlelight and, removing its lid, looked into it. He then replaced the vase in the cupboard and began to rummage about in there.

"Giovanni!"

A woman's voice, strident and most disagreeable, came from the staircase and seemed to be approaching. Paradisa, the terrible wife of Tiracorda was beyond any doubt arriving. For a few instants, Dulcibeni stood as though petrified. Tiracorda, who seemed to be fast asleep, gave a start. Dulcibeni probably succeeded in closing the secret cupboard before the doctor awoke and surprised him searching among his things. Atto and I could not, however, observe the scene: yet again, we were caught between two fires. We looked all around, in desperation.

"Giovanniiii!" repeated Paradisa, drawing ever nearer. In Tiracorda's study, too, the alarm must be at its height: we heard a discreet but frenetic shifting of chairs, tables, doors, bottles and glasses; the doctor was hiding the evidence of his alcoholic misdeed.

"Giovanni!" declaimed Paradisa at last with a voice the colour of a clouded sky, as she entered the antechamber. At that precise moment, Abbot Melani and I were face to the ground among the legs of a row of chairs against the wall.

"Oh sinners, oh wretches, oh lost souls," Paradisa began to chant, solemn as a priestess, as she drew near to the door of Tiracorda's study.

"But, my dear wife, here is our friend Pompeo…"

"Silence, child of Satan!" screamed Paradisa. "My nose does not deceive me."

As we could hear from our uncomfortable position, the woman began to turn the study upside down, moving chairs and tables, opening and noisily slamming doors, cupboards and drawers, and knocking statuettes and ornaments one against the other in her search for proof of misconduct. Tiracorda and Dulcibeni strove in vain to calm her, assuring her that never, but never had it so much as entered their minds to drink anything but water.

"Your mouth, let me smell your mouth!" screeched Paradisa. Her husband's refusal provoked yet more screams and a great to-do.

It was at that moment that we resolved to slip out from under the chairs where we were hiding and to flee in silence but with all possible speed.

"Women, women, curses. And we are even worse than they…"

Two or three minutes had passed and we were already underground, commenting upon the events which had just transpired. Atto was furious.

"I shall tell you what Tiracorda and Dulcibeni's mysteries were all about. The first one, that which you heard last night, do you remember it? One had to guess: what was there in common between 'Enter dumb into here' and 'Number to dine: three'. Solution: it is an anagram."

"An anagram?"

"Of course. The same letters in a sentence so disposed as to form another one. The second was a game to test one's presence of mind: a father has seven daughters; if each daughter has a brother, how many children has that father?

"Seven, multiplied by two: fourteen."

"Not even in your dreams! She has eight: as Tiracorda said, the brother of the one is the brother of the others. These are all silly things: that which Dulcibeni read this evening, which begins, 'To tell you from A unto Zed, I intend…' is utterly simple. The answer is: the dictionary."

"And the others?" I asked, stupefied by Atto's prompt wit.

"What does it matter?" he fumed. "I am not a seer. What we need to know is why Dulcibeni was trying to get Tiracorda drunk and then rummaging in his secret cupboard. And that we would have known, had it not been for the arrival of that madwoman Paradisa."

At that moment, I did indeed recall that little was known of Signora Paradisa in the Via dell'Orso. In the light of what we had seen and heard in Tiracorda's house, it was perhaps no accident that the woman almost never left the house.

"And now, what shall we do?" I asked, observing the rapid pace at which Atto was preceding me on the way back to the hostelry.

"We shall do the one thing that remains possible if we are to elucidate matters: we shall take a look in Pompeo Dulcibeni's chamber."

The one risk of such an operation was, of course, the sudden return of Dulcibeni. We, however, trusted to our own celerity, and to the relative slowness of the elderly Marchigiano, who would also need some time to disengage himself from Tiracorda's house.

"Pardon me, Signor Atto," I asked, after a few minutes' hard march, "but what do you expect to find in the apartment of Pompeo Dulcibeni?"

"What stupid questions you sometimes ask. Here we are facing one of the most tremendous mysteries in the history of France, and you ask what we shall find! And how should I know? Surely, something more about the imbroglio in which we are now caught up: Dulcibeni, friend of Tiracorda; Tiracorda, physician to the Pope; the Pope, enemy of Louis XIV; Devize, pupil of Corbetta; Corbetta, friend of Maria Teresa and Mademoiselle; Louis XIV enemy of Fouquet; Fouquet, travelling with Devize; Fouquet, friend of the abbot who stands before you… what more do you want?

Atto needed to unburden himself, and to do so he must needs talk.

"And besides," he continued, "Dulcibeni's apartment was also that of the Superintendent, or have you forgotten?"

He left me no time to reply, but added: "Poor Nicolas, his destiny was to be searched, even after his death."

"What do you mean?"

"Louis XIV had the Superintendent's cell searched continuously and in every possible manner throughout the twenty years of his imprisonment at Pinerol."

"Whatever was he looking for?" I asked with a jolt of surprise.

Melani stopped and, singing with all his heart, intoned a sad air by Master Rossi:

Infelice pensier, chi ne conforta?

Ohime!

Chi ne consiglia?…*

Sighing, he adjusted his justaueorps, wiped his forehead and straightened his red stockings.

"Would that I knew what the King was looking for!" he answered disconsolately. "But I must needs explain: there are still a number of things which you should know," he added, after recovering his calm.

It was thus that, in order to make up for my ignorance, Atto Melani recounted to me the last chapter of the story of Nicolas Fouquet.

When the trial was over and he had been condemned to imprisonment for the rest of his days, Fouquet left Paris forever, bound for the fortress of Pinerol, his carriage making its way through the crowd which tearfully acclaimed him. He was accompanied by the musketeer d'Artagnan. Pinerol was situated in Piedmontese territory, on the border of the kingdom. Many wondered why so distant a place should have been chosen, and one which was, moreover, perilously close to the states of the Duke of Savoy. More than flight, however, the King feared Fouquet's many friends, and Pinerol represented the only way of removing him forever from their assistance.

As his gaoler, a musketeer was appointed from the escort which had accompanied Fouquet from one prison to another throughout the trial: Benigne d'Auvergne, Lord of Saint-Mars, personally recommended to the King by d'Artagnan. Saint-Mars was assigned eighty soldiers to guard one prisoner: Fouquet. He would report directly to the Minister for War, Le Tellier, Marquis de Louvois.

Fouquet's imprisonment was most rigorous: every communication with the outside world was forbidden him, whether oral or written: there were to be no visits of any kind or for whatever reason. He was not even permitted to take a breath of air within the confines of the fortress. He could read, but only such works as the King permitted, and one book at a time. Above all, he must not write: once returned, each book read by the prisoner was to be leafed through thoroughly by the faithful Saint-Mars, in case Fouquet might have annotated something or underlined some word. His Majesty charged himself with seeing to clothing, which was sent to Pinerol with each change of season. * Unhappy thought, / Who can give comfort for't? / Alas! / Who can give counsel?

In that remote citadel, the climate was hard. Fouquet was not allowed to walk. Constrained to absolute immobility, the Superintendent's health declined rapidly. Despite this, he was denied the care of his personal physician, Pecquet. Fouquet did, however, obtain herbs with which to care unaided for his health. He was also allowed the company of two of his valets, who had agreed out of loyalty to share their master's fate.

Louis XIV knew how fascinating Fouquet's mind was. He could not refuse him the comforts of the Faith, but he recommended that his confessors should be changed frequently, lest he should win them over and use them to communicate with the outside world.

In June 1665, lightning struck the fortress and caused the explosion of a powder store. There were many deaths. Fouquet and his valets jumped out of a window. The chances of surviving that leap into the void were minimal; yet all three emerged unharmed. When the news reached Paris, poems circulated which commented upon the occurrence and called it a miracle: God wished to spare the Superintendent and to show the King a sign of His will. Many took up the cry: "Free Fouquet!" The King, however, did not yield; on the contrary, he persecuted whoever clamoured too loudly.

It was necessary to rebuild the fortress. In the meanwhile, Fouquet spent a year in the house of the Commissary for War of Pinerol, and then in another prison.

In the course of the work, Saint-Mars discovered among the ashes of Fouquet's furniture of what the Superintendent's intellect was capable. Louvois and the King were at once sent the little treasures of ingenuity found in the Squirrel's cell: notes written by Fouquet using a few capon's bones as a pen and as ink a little red wine mixed with lamp black. The prisoner had even managed to create an invisible ink and to find a hiding place for his writings in the back of a chair.

"But what was he trying to write?" I asked, shocked and moved by these pitiful stratagems.

"That has never been discovered," replied Atto. "All that was intercepted was sent to the King in great secret."

From that moment onwards, the King ordered that he should be searched thoroughly every day. Only reading then remained to him. He was allowed a Bible, a history of France, a few Italian books, a dictionary of French rhymes and the works of Saint Bonaventure (while those of Saint Jerome and Saint Augustine were not permitted him).

He began to teach Latin and the rudiments of pharmacy to one of his valets.

But Fouquet was the Squirrel in all things: his astuteness and industry could not be bridled. Goaded on by Louvois, who knew the Superintendent well and could not believe that he would allow himself to be so easily defeated, Saint-Mars made a careful inspection of his underclothing. He was found to be wearing little ribbons of lace trimmings covered in minute writing, and many inscriptions were also found on the back of the lining of his doublet. The King at once ordered that Fouquet was to be issued solely with black clothing and undergarments. Towels and napkins were numbered so as to avoid the possibility that he might take possession of them.

Saint-Mars laid the blame on the two valets who gave him no peace with their requests and who always strove to favour their master, to whom they were devoted body and soul.

The years passed, but the King's almost obsessional fear that Fouquet might somehow get away from him in no way lessened. Nor was he mistaken: towards the end of 1669 an attempt to help him escape was found out. It is not known who organised it, perhaps the family, but it was rumoured that Madame de Sevigne and Mademoiselle de Scudery were not unconnected with it. The person who paid the price for this was an old servant, a moving example of fidelity. He was called La Foret, and he had accompanied the Superintendent at the. time of his arrest in Nantes. After the arrest, he had marched for hours and hours to escape the musketeers who had placed a cordon around the city. Thence, he reached the nearest postal stage, whence he rode with all speed to Paris in order to give the grim news of the arrest to Fouquet's pious mother. La Foret had even gone so far as to wait by the roadside for the carriage bearing his master to Pinerol, so as to be able to salute him for the last time. Even d'Artagnan had been moved, for he had the convoy stopped and allowed the two to exchange a few words.

La Foret was, then, the only person not to have lost all hope. He arrived at Pinerol in disguise and even succeeded in finding a number of informers within the fortress and communicating with his adored master by gestures, through a window. In the end, his attempt was discovered and the poor man was hanged immediately. Life became hard for Fouquet. His windows were barred. No longer could he see the sky.

His health declined. In 1670, Louvois travelled to Pinerol in person, sent by the King. After six years of refusals and prohibitions, Louis finally consulted the Superintendent's old physician, Pecquet.

"How strange. Did not the King wish to see Fouquet dead?"

"The one thing that is certain is that, from that moment on, Louis seemed to be concerned about the health of the poor Squirrel. Those of the Superintendent's friends who had not fallen into disgrace, like Pomponne (who had just been appointed Secretary of State), Turenne, Chequi, Bellefonds and Charost, returned to the attack and sent petitions to the Most Christian King. The turning point, however, came later."

In 1671, the number of special prisoners at Pinerol grew to two. Another illustrious captive arrived at the fortress: the Comte de Lauzun.

"Because he had married Mademoiselle, the King's cousin," I interjected, remembering Abbot Melani's previous account.

"Bravo, I see that you have a good memory. And now the tale becomes really interesting."

After subjecting Fouquet to years of isolation, the decision to accord him a prison companion seems inexplicable. Even stranger is the fact that, in the immense fortress, he should have been given the cell next to Fouquet's.

Of Lauzun, all manner of things may be said, but not that he was an ordinary personage. At the outset, he was the youngest scion of a Gascon family, with neither fortune nor skill, a braggart and full of himself, who had, however, the good fortune to be liked by the King when the latter was very young and to become his boon companion. Although only a cheap seducer, he had succeeded in charming Mademoiselle, the very wealthy and very ugly 44-year-old cousin of the King. He was a difficult prisoner, and lost no time in making that quite clear. His attitude was tempestuous, bombastic, insolent; no sooner was he left in his cell than he set fire to it, also damaging a beam in Fouquet's cell. He then gave himself up to painful simulations of sickness or folly, with the clear aim of attempting to escape. Saint-Mars, whose experience as a gaoler was limited to guarding the Superintendent, was unable to tame Lauzun and, faced with such fury, came to call Fouquet "the little lamb".

Very early on (but this was discovered far later) Lauzun succeeded in communicating with Fouquet through a hole in the wall.

"But how is it possible that no one should have realised," I protested incredulously, "what with all the surveillance which Fouquet had to put up with every day?"

"I have asked myself the same question many times," agreed Abbot Melani.

Another year passed. In October 1675 His Majesty authorised Fouquet and his wife to correspond. The couple's letters were, however, first to be read by the King who arrogated himself the right to alter or destroy them. But there was more: without any logical reason, some twelve months later, the King had Fouquet sent a number of books on recent political developments. A little while later, Louvois sent Saint-Mars a letter for the Superintendent, adding that if the prisoner should request writing paper in order to reply, it was to be given to him. And that is what happened: the Superintendent wrote and sent two reports to Louvois.

"What did they contain?"

"No one has succeeded in finding out, although rumours immediately started in Paris that they had been copied throughout the city. Immediately afterwards, however, it became known that Louvois had sent them back to Fouquet, saying that they were of no interest to the King."

This was an inexplicable gesture, commented Melani: first, because if a memorandum is useless, it is simply thrown away; and secondly, because it is practically impossible that Fouquet should not have given the King some good counsel.

"Perhaps they wanted to humiliate him yet again," I speculated.

"Or perhaps the King wanted something from Fouquet which he would not give him."

The concessions, however, continued. In 1674, Louis authorised husband and wife to write to each other twice a year, even though the letters first passed through his hands. The Superintendent's health again worsened and the King became worried: he did not permit him to leave his cell, but had him visited by a physician sent from Paris.

From November 1677, he was at last permitted to take a little air; in whose company? Why, that of Lauzun, of course; and the two were even allowed to converse! With the proviso that Saint-Mars should listen to their every word and faithfully report all that was said.

The King's gracious concessions became more and more numerous. Now, Fouquet even received copies of the Mercure Galant and other gazettes. It seemed almost as though Louis wished to keep Fouquet informed of everything important that was happening in France and in Europe. Louvois recommended Saint-Mars to place the accent, in his dealings with the prisoner, on the military victories of the Most Christian King.

In December 1678 Louvois informed Saint-Mars of his intention to hold a free epistolary correspondence with Fouquet: the letters were to be rigorously sealed and secret, so that Saint-Mars' only duty was to see to their delivery.

Scarcely a month later, the astonished gaoler received an aide-memoire penned by the King in person on the conditions to apply to Fouquet and Lauzun. The two could meet and converse as often as they pleased and could walk not only within the inner fortress but throughout the whole citadel. They could read whatever they wished, and the officers of the garrison were obliged to keep them company if they so desired. They could also request and receive any table games.

A few months passed and another opening came: Fouquet could correspond as much as he pleased with all his family.

"In Paris we were so excited," said Atto Melani, "for we were now almost sure that sooner or later the Superintendent would be freed."

A few months later, in May 1679, another long-awaited announcement was made: the King would soon allow all Fouquet's family to visit him. Fouquet's friends exulted. The months passed, one year passed. With bated breath they awaited the Squirrel's liberation which, however, never came. They began to fear some stumbling- block; perhaps Colbert was up to his usual tricks.

In the end, no pardon came. Instead, like a bolt of lightning reducing hearts to ashes, came news of the sudden death of Nicolas Fouquet in his cell at Pinerol, in his son's arms. It was 23rd March, 1680.

"And what about Lauzun?" I asked, as we climbed the vertical well that led back to the inn.

"Yes, Lauzun. He remained in prison a few months longer. Then he was freed."

"I do not understand; it is as though Lauzun had been imprisoned to stay close to Fouquet."

"That is a good guess. Yet, I wonder, what for?"

"Well, nothing comes to mind, except… to make him talk. To get Fouquet to say something which the King wished to know, something which…"

"That will do. Now you know why we are about to search Pompeo Dulcibeni's chamber."

The search was far less difficult than expected. I kept an eye on the corridor, while Atto entered the Marchigiano's chamber carrying only a candle. I heard him rummage for a long time, with intervals of silence. After a few minutes, I too entered, stirred both by the fear of being discovered and by curiosity.

Atto had already combed through a good many of Pompeo Dulcibeni's personal effects: clothing, books (amongst them the three volumes from Tiracorda's library), a few scraps of food, a passport to travel from the Kingdom of Naples to the Papal States and a number of gazettes. One of these was entitled:

Relation of what took place between the Caesarean Armies and the Ottomans on 10th July, 1683.

"It concerns the siege of Vienna," murmured Abbot Melani.

The other gazettes too, of which there were over a dozen, also dealt with the same subject. We ended by examining the whole room hurriedly; no other object of any significance came to our attention. I was already inviting Abbot Melani to abandon the search when I saw him stop in the middle of the chamber, thoughtfully scratching his chin.

Suddenly, he rushed to the wardrobe and, finding the corner in which the dirty linen was piled, literally plunged into it, groping and pulling with his hands at the underclothing waiting to be laundered. At length, he grasped a pair of muslin drawers. He began to finger them in several places, until his hands concentrated on the piping through which passed the cord that holds up the drawers.

"Here we are. The chore was malodorous, but it was well worth the trouble," said Abbot Melani with satisfaction, extracting from Dulcibeni's drawers a small flattened coil. This consisted of several folded and compressed sheets of paper. The abbot unfolded them and placed them under the candle in order to read them.

I should be lying to the reader of these pages were I to hide the fact that the image of what took place in the minutes that followed remains engraved in my memory, as vivid as it is chaotic.

We began to read aloud avidly, almost in unison, the letter formed by those few leaves of paper. It was a long discourse in Latin, written in a senile, uncertain hand.

"Optimo amico Nicolao Fouquet… mumiarum domino… tributum extremum… secretum pestis… secretum morbi… ut lues debelletur… It is incredible, truly incredible," Abbot Melani murmured to himself.

Some of those words sounded strangely familiar to me. At once, however, he invited me to keep an eye on the corridor, in order not to be surprised by Dulcibeni's return. So I posted myself outside the door, keeping an eye on the stairs. While Abbot Melani completed his reading, I heard him muttering undisguised expressions of surprise and incredulity.

There then occurred what I was by now inured to fearing. Stopping his nose and his mouth, with his eyes narrowed and swollen, Abbot Melani rushed out from the chamber and placed the letter in my hands. He squirmed, again and again desperately repressing a dangerous sneeze.

I went straight to the last part of the letter, which he, in all probability, had been as yet unable to read. I, however, understood little of the content, owing to my excitement and to the bizarre contortions whereby Atto Melani was striving to mount his resistance to the beneficial release. My eyes moved directly to the end, where I understood why the words mumiarum domino had not sounded new to me when, almost incredulously, I deciphered the signature: Athanasius Kircher I.H.S.

Now at the limit of his resistance, Atto pointed at Dulcibeni's drawers, into which I hastily returned the letter. Obviously, we could not remove it. Dulcibeni would certainly discover that, with unforeseeable consequences. A few moments after we had left Dulcibeni's chamber and locked the door, Atto Melani exploded in a noisy, liberating, triumphal sneeze. Cristofano's door opened.

I took to the stairs and rushed down to the cellars. I heard the doctor reproving Abbot Melani. "What are you doing outside your chamber?"

The abbot needed all of his wits about him to arrange a clumsy excuse: he was on his way to call on Cristofano because, said he, of a sudden sneezing attack which was suffocating him.

"Good, then why are your shoes all muddy?" asked Cristofano an-grily.

"Oh well… er… yes, indeed, they did get rather dirty on the journey from Paris and I have not yet had them cleaned here, what with all that has happened," stammered Atto. "But please, let us not talk here, we shall wake up Bedfordi,"-for the Englishman was indeed sleeping nearby.

The physician muttered something and I heard the door close. A few minutes later, I heard the two emerge once again.

"I do not like this business; now we shall see who else is playing the night wanderer," hissed Cristofano, knocking at a door. From within came Devize's voice, half-smothered by sleep.

"No, it is nothing, excuse me, just a little check," explained the doctor.

My sweat ran cold. He was about to knock on Dulcibeni's door. Cristofano knocked.

The door opened: "Yes?"

Pompeo Dulcibeni had returned.

After leaving a while for the waters to calm, I returned to await Atto Melani in my chamber. What we most feared had, alas, come to pass. Not only had Cristofano found Atto wandering about the inn, but Dulcibeni too had witnessed that nocturnal confusion. Clearly, he had returned to his apartment just when Atto was in Cristofano's chamber. At that moment, I myself was on the stairs, some way below. Thus, I did not hear Dulcibeni's return. The old gentleman must have descended the stairs between the little room and the first floor on tiptoe, despite the fact that he was moving in the dark. What had taken place then was bizarre, although not impossible.

What did seem almost incredible was the fact that Dulcibeni should have succeeded in making a timely return after all those comings and goings in the underground galleries, then in Tiracorda's house, and again in the tunnels; hauling himself up through the trapdoor with his own strength, walking in the dark, climbing steep stairs, and all in complete solitude. Dulcibeni was strongly built and far from short-winded. Too far, I thought, for a man of his age.

I did not have to wait long until Abbot Melani came to my door. He was not a little gloomy because of the stupid and ridiculous way in which we had been caught by Cristofano, arousing the suspicions of Dulcibeni himself.

"And what if Dulcibeni runs away?"

"I do not think he will do that. He would fear that Cristofano might raise the alarm and that, in dread of the Bargello's men, you and I might reveal the underground passage and the trapdoor leading directly to the house of his friend Tiracorda; which might irremediably compromise his mysterious plans. I am rather of the opinion that, whatever Dulcibeni may have in mind to do, after what has taken place tonight, he will quicken his pace. We must be on guard."

"Yet, finding that letter in his drawers, we did make a great discovery," I added, recovering my good humour. "By the way, what led you to find the hiding place so quickly?"

"I see that you cannot bear to think matters through. Who accompanied Dulcibeni when he came to the hostelry?"

"Devize; and Fouquet."

"Good. And where did Fouquet hide his writings when he was imprisoned at Pinerol?"

"I thought about all that Abbot Melani had narrated to me an hour previously. "In chairs, in the lining of clothes, and in his undergarments!"

"Exactly."

"But then, Dulcibeni knows everything about Fouquet."

The abbot nodded his assent.

"So, Dulcibeni lied on the morning of our sequestration, when he told the Bargello's men that he had met the old Frenchman only recently," said I in amazement.

"Precisely. To have attained such a degree of intimacy, in reality, Dulcibeni and the Superintendent must have met a long time previously. Do not forget that Fouquet emerged from twenty years' imprisonment in a very poor state of health: I do not believe he can have moved around very much before settling in Naples. Nothing could be simpler than that he should have sought anonymous refuge in a circle of Jansenists, who are among the most bitter enemies of Louis XIV and who are well established in that city."

"And there," I concluded, "he must have made the acquaintance of Dulcibeni, to whom he will have revealed his identity."

"Just so. That would mean that their friendship dates back three years, and not two months, as Dulcibeni would wish us to believe. And now, with God's help, we shall see this matter through to the end."

At this point, I felt bound to confess to Abbot Melani that I was not at all sure that I had fully understood the meaning of the letter which we had furtively read in Dulcibeni's chamber.

"Poor boy, you always need someone to tell you what to think. But it does not matter. That will happen, too, when you become a gazetteer."

As he had told me a few days earlier, Atto had met Kircher four years earlier, when he was already a dotard. The letter which we had just read seemed indeed to result from the great man's mental decline: it was addressed to "Monsieur le Surintendant des Finances Nicolas Fouquet", as though nothing had ever happened to the poor Squirrel.

"He had lost all sense of time," said Atto, "like those old men who think that they have become children again and ask for their mothers."

The content of the letter was, however, unequivocal. Kircher felt himself close to departure from this earth and was turning to his old friend Fouquet to thank him one last time. Fouquet, the Jesuit reminded him, had been the only potentate to whom he had confided his theory. The Superintendent had indeed cast himself down at Kircher's feet when the latter had illustrated for him in detail the great discovery of his life: the secretum pestis.

"Perhaps I understand!" I hastened to conclude, "It is the treatise in which Kircher writes of the pestilence. Dulcibeni spoke of it at the very beginning of our quarantine: Kircher wrote that the pestilence depended, not upon miasmas of unhealthy humours, but upon tiny beings, vermiculi animati or something of the sort. Perhaps that is the secret of the pestilence: invisible vermiculi."

"You could not be more mistaken," retorted Atto. "The theory of the vermiculi was never a secret: Kircher published it some thirty years ago in the Scrutinium phisico-medicum contagiosae luis quae pestis dicitur. In the letter in Dulcibeni's possession, there is far more: Kircher announces that he knows how to praevenire, regere et debellare."

"In other words, to prevent, regulate and defeat the pestilence."

"Bravo. And that is the secretum pestis. However, in order not to forget what I did manage to read, before coming to see you, I went into my chamber and there noted down all the most important phrases."

He showed me a few fragmentary words and phrases in Latin, rapidly scribbled onto a sheet of paper: secretum morbi morbus crescit sicut mortales augescit patrimonium senescit ex abrupto per vices pestis petit et regreditur ad infinitum renovatur secretum vitae arcanae obices celant

"According to Kircher," Atto explained, "the plague is born, grows old and dies just like men. It feeds, however, at their expense: when it is young and strong, it endeavours to extend its estate as much as possible, like a cruel ruler exploiting his subjects, and through the infection brings about the massacre of an infinity of victims. Then, suddenly, it weakens and decays, like a poor old man at the end of his strength; and in the end, it dies. The visitation is cyclical: it attacks people and then rests; years later, it again attacks; and so on ad infinitum."

"Then it is a kind of… well, a thing that is forever turning around."

"Precisely: a circular chain."

"But then the plague can never be defeated, as Kircher promised."

"That is not so. The cycle can be modified, by recourse to the secretum pestis."

"And how does that work?"

"I have read that it is divided into two parts: th e secretum morbi, to cause the plague; and the secretum vitae, to cure it."

"That means: a pestiferous malefice, and the antidote thereto."

"Precisely so."

"But then, how does it work?"

"I do not know. Indeed, Kircher did not really explain it. He insisted greatly, as far as I could understand from what I was able to read, on a single point. There is in the final stages of the pestilence something unexpected, mysterious, foreign to medical doctrine: after reaching its maximum strength, the disease senescit ab abrupto, or suddenly begins to come to an end."

"I do not understand, it is all strange," I commented. "Why did Kircher not publish his findings?"

"Perhaps he feared that someone might make improper use of them. It would take little to steal so precious a thing, once the manuscript was handed over to the printers. Now, can you imagine the disaster for the whole world if such secrets were to fall into the wrong hands?" "He must, then, have greatly esteemed Fouquet to confide such a thing to him alone."

"I can tell you that one needed speak only once with the Squirrel to be won over by him. Kircher added, however, that the secretum vitae is hidden by arcanae obices.

"Arcanae obices? That means 'mysterious obstacles'. But what does it refer to?

"I have not the least idea. Perhaps it is part of the jargon of the alchemists, the spagyrists or the necromancers. Kircher knew religions, rituals, superstitions and devilries from all the world over. Or perhaps arcanae obices is a coded expression which Fouquet could decipher after reading the letter."

"But Fouquet could not receive the letter," I objected, "while he was in prison at Pinerol."

"That is a correct observation. Yet someone must have delivered it to him, since we found it among Dulcibeni's effects. So the decision to allow him to have it was taken by whoever controlled all his correspondence…"

I fell silent, not daring to draw the appropriate conclusions.

"… that is, His Majesty the King of France," said Atto, swallowing, as though he were frightened by his own words.

"But then," I hesitated, "the secretum pestis…"

"Was what the King wanted from Fouquet."

That, I thought, was all that we needed. Scarcely had Atto named him and it was as though the Most Christian King, First-Born and Most Dearly Beloved Son of the Church, had somehow entered the hostelry in a freezing, angry gust, and was about to sweep away all that remained of poor Fouquet within the walls of the Donzello.

"Arcanae obices, arcanae obices" Melani chanted to himself, with his fingers drumming on his knees.

"Signor Atto," I interrupted him, "do you believe that, in the end, Fouquet revealed the secretum pestis to the King?"

"Arcanae… What did you say? I do not know, I really do not know."

"Perhaps Fouquet left prison because he had confessed," I proposed.

"Indeed, had he escaped, the news would have spread at once. I believe that matters must have gone otherwise: when Fouquet was arrested, there were found on him letters from a mysterious prelate which spoke of the secret of the pestilence. Those letters must have been kept by Colbert. If, when I entered the Coluber's study, more time had been given me, I should probably have discovered those too."

"And then?"

"And then began the trial of Fouquet. And now we know why the King and Colbert used every means to prevent Fouquet from being condemned to no more than exile: they wanted him in prison so that they could extort from him the secretum pestis. Moreover, not having understood who the mysterious ecclesiastic might be, they could turn only to Fouquet. Now, if they had understood that it was Kircher…"

"Of what use would the secret of the pestilence have been to them?"

It was all too clear, said Atto, growing fervent: control of the pestilence would have enabled Louis XIV to settle accounts once and for all with his enemies. The dream of using the plague for military purposes was, he said, centuries old. Already Thucydides told how the Athenians, when their city was decimated by the disease, suspected their enemies of the Peloponnesian League of having provoked the visitation by poisoning their wells. In more recent times, the Turks had tried (with scant success) to use the contagion to overcome besieged cities by catapulting infected bodies over the ramparts.

Fouquet held the secret weapon which the Most Christian King would have been more than delighted to use to bring to heel Spain and the Empire and to crush William of Orange and Holland.

His imprisonment had, then, been so rigorous only in order to convince Fouquet to talk, and to be quite sure that he would not pass the secret to one of his many friends. That was why he was forbidden to write. But Fouquet did not yield.

"Why ever should he have done so?" Abbot Melani asked himself rhetorically. "Keeping the secret to himself was his sole guarantee of remaining alive!"

Perhaps the Superintendent had for years simply denied that he really knew how to disseminate the pestilence; or perhaps he had put up a series of half-truths in order to gain time and to obtain less cruel conditions of imprisonment.

"But then, why was he freed?" I asked.

"The letter from Kircher, by now utterly delirious, had reached Paris and Fouquet could therefore no longer deny all knowledge, thus endangering his own life and that of his family. Perhaps in the end Fouquet did give in and promise the King the Secretum pestis in exchange for his own freedom. After that, however, he did not respect his agreement. That is why, then… Colbert's spies set their sights on him."

"Might not the contrary have been the case?" I asked.

"What do you mean to say?"

"Perhaps it was the King who did not respect the agreement."

"Enough of that. I will not permit you to opine that His Majesty…"

Atto never finished his sentence, caught up in a sudden vortex of who knows what thoughts. I understood that his pride could not bear to hear my hypothesis: that the King might have promised the Superintendent his freedom, while intending to eliminate him immediately afterwards. That had not happened solely because, as I began fervidly to imagine, Fouquet had somehow foreseen the move and succeeded in boldly avoiding the ambush. But perhaps my fantasy was getting the better of me. I studied the abbot's face: his eyes staring straight in front of him, he was following the same reasoning as me, of that I was sure.

"One thing, however, is certain," said he suddenly.

"And what might that be?"

"In Fouquet's flight and in the secretum pestis, other persons are involved: many others. Lauzun, first and foremost, who was surely sent to Pinerol in order to loosen Fouquet's tongue, perhaps against the promise that he would soon return to Mademoiselle, his wealthy little wife. Then, there is Devize, who accompanied Fouquet here to the Donzello. Perhaps Corbetta, Devize's master, is also part of the picture, for, like his pupil, he was utterly devoted to poor Queen Maria Teresa, as well as being an expert in cryptography. Do not forget that the secretum vitae has been somehow concealed in arcanae obices. Bear in mind also that Devize has been lying from the start: do you remember his lies about the theatres in Venice? Last, but not least, we have Dulcibeni, Fouquet's confidant, in whose undergarments lay hidden the letter which speaks of the secretum pestis. He is but a merchant, yet when he speaks of the pestilence, one would think he was Paracelsus."

He stopped to draw breath. His mouth was dry.

"Do you think that Dulcibeni knows the secretum pestis?"

"That is possible. Now, however, it is late, and we should be terminating our discussion."

"All this story strikes me as absurd," said I, trying to calm him. "Do you not fear making too many suppositions?"

"I have already told you. If you would understand matters of state, you must take a different view of facts from that which you employ in the ordinary way. What counts is not what you think, but how. No one knows everything, not even the King. And, when you do not know, you must learn to suppose, and to suppose truths which may at first sight appear to be utterly absurd: you will then discover without fail that it is all dramatically true."

Ashen-faced, he went out, scanning the corridor to the left and the right, as though someone might be lying in ambush for him; yet Atto's fear, which had at last become fully manifest, was no longer such a mystery to me. No longer did I envy him his secret mission, his relations in many courts, his skills as a man of action and intrigue.

He had come to Rome in order to serve the King of France and to investigate a mystery. Now he knew that, if he would resolve that mystery, he must investigate the King himself.