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Day the Fourth

14th September, 1683

Next morning I found myself under the blankets with aching bones and my head in no small state of confusion, evidently as a result of insufficient and fitful sleep and all the adventures of the day before. The long descent into the gallery, the efforts of climbing through trapdoors and up stairways, as well as the horrifying struggle with the corpisantari, all had left me worn out in body and in spirit. One thing, however, both surprised and delighted me: the few hours of sleep left to me were not disturbed by nightmares, despite the dreadful death-filled visions which the encounter with Ugonio and Ciacconio had reserved for me. After all, not even the unpleasant (but necessary) search for the thief of the only object of value that I had ever possessed was worth disturbing my night's sleep.

Once I opened my eyes, I was-on the contrary-pleasantly assailed by the sweetest of dreamlike reminiscences: everything seemed to be whispering to me of Cloridia and her smooth and luscious countenance. I was unable to compose into a picture that blessed concert of illusory yet almost real sensory impressions: the lovely face of my Cloridia (thus I called her, already!), her melting, celestial voice, her soft and sensual hands, her vague, light conversation…

I was fortunately dragged away from these melancholy imaginings before languor could irremediably overcome me, giving rise to solitary pursuits which might have robbed me of the little strength that remained to me.

It was the sound of moaning to my right that caught my attention. I turned and saw Signor Pellegrino, sitting up in bed with his back resting against the wall, holding his head in his hands. Exceedingly surprised and delighted to see him in better condition (since the onset of his illness, he had indeed never raised his head from the pillow) I rushed to him and bombarded him with questions.

His only response was to drag himself with difficulty to the edge of the bed and to glance at me absently, without uttering a sound.

Disappointed, and also worried by his inexplicable silence, I rushed to fetch Cristofano.

The doctor came running at once and, trembling with surprise, began hurriedly to examine Pellegrino. But, just when the Tuscan was observing his eyes at close quarters, Pellegrino emitted a thundering flatus ventris. This was followed swiftly by a light eructation and then more flatulence. Cristofano needed only a few minutes to understand.

"He is somnolent, I would say aboulic; perhaps he has yet to wake up properly. His colours are still unhealthy. True, he is not speaking, but I do not despair that he may soon recover completely. The hae- matoma on his head seems to have gone down, and I am no longer so worried about that."

For the time being, Pellegrino seemed utterly stunned and his fever had gone; yet, according to Cristofano, one could not be completely reassured about his condition.

"And why can one not be reassured?" I asked, understanding that the physician was reluctant to entrust me with bad news.

"Your master is suffering from an evident excess of air in the belly. His temperament is bilious and it is rather hot today: that would suggest a need for caution. It will be as well to intervene with an enema, as indeed I already feared that I might have to."

He added that, from that moment onwards, in view of the kind of cures and purgative treatments that he would need, Pellegrino would have to remain alone in his room. We therefore resolved to carry my bedding into the little chamber next door, one of the three that had remained almost completely undisturbed since the death of the former innkeeper, Signora Luigia.

While I was seeing to this quick removal, Cristofano took out from a leather bag a pump with bellows as long as my forearm. At the end of the pump, he inserted a tube, and to that tube, he joined another long, fine one, which ended with a little aperture. He tried out the mechanism a couple of times in order to make sure that the bellows, correctly used, blew air into the conduit and expelled it through the little hole at the end.

Pellegrino assisted at these preparations with an empty stare. I observed him with a mixture of contentment, seeing that he had at last opened his eyes, and apprehension about his bizarre state of health.

"Here we are," said Cristofano at the end of his testing, ordering me to fetch water, oil and a little honey.

Hardly had I returned with the ingredients, when I was surprised to find the doctor busying himself with Pellegrino's half-naked body.

"He is not cooperating. Help me to keep him still."

So I had to help the doctor to denude my master's posterior rotundities, despite his unwillingness to accept the initiative. In the moments that followed, we came close to a struggle (more due to Pellegrino's lack of co-operation than to any real resistance on his part), and I was able to ask Cristofano the purpose of our efforts.

"It is simple," he replied. "I want to make him expel a good deal of useless wind."

And he explained to me that, thanks to the way in which the tubes were arranged at right angles, this particular apparatus enabled one to perform the inflation on one's own, thus saving one's modesty. Pellegrino, however, did not seem to be in any position to look after himself, and so we had to perform the action for him.

"But will it make him feel better?"

Cristofano, almost surprised by the question, said that a clyster (which is the name given by some to this remedy) is always profitable and never harmful: as Redi says, it evacuates the humours in the mildest manner possible, without debilitating the viscera, and without causing them to age, as is the case with medicines taken orally.

While he was pouring the preparation into the bellows, Cristofano praised purgative enemas, but also altering, anodyne, lithotrip- tic, carminative, sarcotic, epulotic, abstergent and astringent ones. The beneficial ingredients were infinite: one could use infusions of flowers, leaves, fruit or seeds of herbs, but also the hooves or head of a castrated lamb, animals' intestines or a broth prepared from worn- out old cocks whose necks had been duly wrung.

"How very interesting," said I, trying to please Cristofano and conceal my own disgust.

"By the way," the physician added, following these useful disquisitions, "in the next few days, the convalescent will have to follow a diet of broths and boiled liquids and waters, in order to recover from so great an extenuation. Today, you will therefore give him half a cup of chocolate, a chicken soup and biscuits dipped in wine. Tomorrow, a cup of coffee, a borage soup and six pairs of cockerel's testicles."

After dealing Pellegrino a series of vigorous piston strokes, Cristofano left him half-naked and charged me with watching over him until the bodily effects of the enema were crowned with success. This happened almost at once, and with such violence, that I could well understand why the doctor had made me remove my things to the little chamber next door.

I went down to prepare luncheon, which the physician had recommended must be light but nutritious. I therefore prepared spelt, boiled in ambrosian almond milk with sugar and cinnamon, followed by a soup of gooseberries in dried fish consomme, with butter, fine herbs and scrambled eggs, which I served with bread sliced and diced, and cinnamon. I dished this up to the guests and asked Dulcibeni, Brenozzi, Devize and Stilone Priaso when it would be convenient to apply the remedies which Cristofano had prescribed against the infection. But all four, taking the meal with signs of irritation, having sniffed it, sighed that for the time being they wanted to be left in peace. I had a suspicion that such unwillingness and irritability had something to do with my inexpert cooking. I therefore promised myself that I would increase the size of the helpings in the future.

After luncheon, Cristofano advised me that Robleda had asked for me, since he needed a little water to drink. I furnished myself with a full carafe and knocked at the Jesuit's door.

"Come in, my son," said he, welcoming me with unexpected urbanity.

And after copiously slaking his thirst, he invited me to sit down. Curious at this behaviour, I asked him if he had had a good night's sleep.

"Ah, tiring, my boy, so tiring," he replied laconically, putting me even more on guard.

"I understand," said I, diffidently.

Robleda's complexion was unwontedly pale, with heavy eyelids and dark bags under his eyes. It looked almost as though he had passed a sleepless night.

"Yesterday, you and I conversed," broached the Jesuit, "but I beg you not to accord too much weight to certain discussions which we may too freely have conducted. Often our pastoral mission encourages us, in order to excite new and more fecund achievements in young minds, to adopt unsuitable figures of speech and rhetorical devices, distilling concepts excessively and indulging in syntactical disorder. The young, on the other hand, are not always ready to receive such fruitful stimulation of the intellect and the heart. The difficult circumstances in which we all find ourselves in this hostelry may also incite us sometimes to interpret others' thoughts erroneously and to formulate our own infelicitously. Therefore, I beg you simply to forget all that we said to each other, especially concerning His Beatitude our most beloved Pope Innocent XI. And, above all, I am deeply concerned that you should not repeat such transitory and ephemeral disquisitions to the guests of the inn. Our reciprocal physical separation might give rise to misunderstandings; I am sure you understand me…"

"Do not worry," I lied, "for I retained little of our conversation."

"Oh, really?" exclaimed Robleda, momentarily vexed. "Well, so much the better. After reconsidering all that was said between us, I felt almost oppressed by the weight of such grave discourse: as when one enters the catacombs and, suddenly, being underground, one feels out of breath."

As he moved towards the door to dismiss me, I was astounded by that sentence, which I saw as being highly revealing. Robleda had betrayed himself. I strove swiftly to devise some argument that might prompt him further to expose himself.

"While standing by my promise not to speak again of these matters, I did in truth have one question on my mind concerning His Beatitude Pope Innocent XI, and indeed all popes in general," said I, the moment before he opened the door.

"Speak on."

"Well, that is…" I stammered, trying to improvise, "I wondered whether there exists a way of determining who, among past pontiffs, were good, who were very good and which ones were saints."

"It is curious that you should ask me this. It was just what I was meditating on last night," he replied, almost as though speaking to himself.

"Then I am sure that you will have an answer for me too," I added, hopeful that this might prolong the conversation.

So the Jesuit asked me again to be seated, explaining to me that there had, over the centuries, been an innumerable succession of statements and prophecies concerning the pontiffs, present, past and future.

"This is because," he explained, "especially in this city, everyone knows or thinks that they know the qualities of the reigning pope. At the same time, they lament past popes and hope that the next one will be better, or even that he will be the Angelic Pope."

"The Angelic Pope?"

"He who, according to the prophecy Apocalipsis Nova of the Blessed Amedeo, will restore the Church to its original holiness."

"I do not understand," I interrupted with feigned ingenuousness. "Is the Church, then, no longer holy?"

"I beg of you, my son… Such questions are not to be asked. Rome has always been the target of the propaganda of the papacy's heretical enemies: ever since, a long time ago, the Super Hieremiam and the Oraculum Cyrilli foresaw the fall of the city and Thomas of Pavia announced visions which foretold the collapse of the Lateran Palace, and both Robert d'Uzes and Jean de Rupescissa warned that the same city in which Peter had laid the first stone was now the City of the Two Columns, the seat of the Antichrist. Such prophecies have one aim: to instil the idea that the Church is to be completely demolished and that the pope is not worthy to remain in his post."

"Which pope?"

"Well, unfortunately, such blasphemous attacks have been directed against all the pontiffs."

"Even against His Beatitude, our own Pope Innocent XI?"

Robleda grew solemn, and in his eyes I noted a shadow of suspicion.

"They include all popes, including indeed His Beatitude Pope Innocent XI."

"And what do they foretell?"

I noticed that Robleda was returning to the subject with a bizarre mixture of reluctance and self-indulgence. He resumed in slightly graver tones, and explained to me that, among many others, there existed a prophecy which claimed to know the whole sequence of popes from about the year 1100 until the end of time. And as though for many years he had had nothing else on his mind, he recited from memory an enigmatic series of Latin mottoes: " Ex castro Tiberis, Inimicus expulsus, Ex magnitudine montis, Abbas suburranus, De rure albo, Ex tetro carcere, Via transtiberina, De Pannonia Tusciae, Ex ansere custode, Lux in ostio, Sus incribro, Ensis Laurentii, Ex schola exiet, De rure bovensi, Comes signatus, Canonicus ex latere, Avis ostiensis, Leo sabinus, Comes laurentius,

Jerusalem Campaniae, Draco depressus, Anguineus vir, Concionator gallus, Bonus comes..?

"But these are not the names of popes," said I, interrupting him.

"On the contrary, they are. A prophet read them in the future, before they came into the world, but he identified them by the symbolic mottoes which I have just been reciting for you. The first was Ex castro Tiberis, meaning 'from a castle on the Tiber'. Well, the Pope designated by that motto was Celestine II who was indeed born at Citta di Castello on the banks of the Tiber."

"So the prediction was accurate."

"Indeed, it was. But so was the next one, Inimicus expulsus, which surely indicated Lucius II of the Cacciaenemici family, a precise translation of the Latin which speaks of expelling enemies. The third pope is Ex magnitudine montis this is Eugene III, born in the city of Grammont, which in French is an exact translation of the motto. Number four…"

"These must be very ancient popes," I interrupted. "I have never heard of them."

"They are of great antiquity, it is true. But even the modern ones were foretold with the greatest of exactitude. Jucunditas cruris, number 82 in the prophecy, was Innocent X. And he became pope on the 14th of September, the Feast of the Holy Rood. Montium custos, the guardian of the mountains, number 83, was Alexander VII, who founded the Montes Pietatis* Sydus olorum, or the star of the swans, number 84, is Clement IX. He in fact lived in the Chamber of the Swans in the Vatican. The motto of Clement X, number 85, was De flumine magno or 'from the great river', and he was in fact born in a house by the Tiber, just where the river overflowed its banks."

"So, the prophecy has always come true."

"Let us say that some, indeed many, maintain that," said Robleda indulgently.

At that juncture, he fell silent, as though awaiting a question. In the list of popes foretold by the prophecy, he had stopped at Pope Clement X, number 85. He knew that I would not be able to resist the temptation to ask about the next one: this was His Beatitude Pope Innocent XI, our Pope.

"And what is the motto of number 86?" I asked excitedly. * Monti di Pieta: a system of pawn offices, now run by the Italian State. (Translator's note.)

"Very well, since you ask me…" said the Jesuit with a sigh, "his motto is, shall we say, rather curious."

"And what is it?"

"Belua insatiabilis," said Robleda with a colourless voice, '"insatiable beast'."

I struggled to hide my surprise and dismay. While all the mottoes of the other popes were innocuous enigmas, that of our beloved pontiff was atrocious and menacing.

"But perhaps Our Lord's motto does not refer to his moral qualities!" I objected indignantly, as though seeking reassurance.

"That is unquestionably possible," agreed Robleda tranquilly. "Now that I come to think of it, the arms of the Pope's family include a lion passant gardant and an eagle: in other words, two insatiable beasts. That could be, indeed it must be, the explanation," concluded the Jesuit with a calmness more conniving than any smile.

"In any case, you need lose no sleep over this," he added, "for according to the prophecy, there will be 111 popes all in all, and today we are only at number 86."

"But who will be the last pope?" I insisted.

Robleda frowned and seemed thoughtful.

"From Celestine II, the series includes 111 popes. Towards the end, will come the Pastor angelicus or the Angelic Pope of whom I spoke to you earlier, but he will not be the last. Five popes will indeed follow, and, at the end, says the prophecy, in extrema persecution Sacrae Romanae Ecclesiae sedebit Petrus romanus, qui pascet oves in multis tribulationibus; quibus transactis, civitas septicollis diruetur, et judex tremendus judicabit populum."

"In other words, Saint Peter will return, Rome will be destroyed and the Last Judgement will come."

"Bravo, that's it exactly."

"And when will that happen?"

"I told you: according to the prophecy, there is still much time to run. But now it would be in order if you were to leave me: I would not wish you to neglect the other guests listening to these unimportant fables."

Disappointed by the sudden ending of the colloquy, and without having succeeded in obtaining any other useful clue from the mouth of Robleda, I was already on the threshold when I realised that I wanted to satisfy one last, this time genuine, curiosity.

"By the way, who is the author of the prophecy of the popes?"

"Oh, a holy monk who lived in Ireland," said Robleda hurriedly, while closing the door. "He was, I seem to remember, called Malachy."

Excited by the unexpected and alarming news, I ran straight to Atto Melani's chamber at the other end of the same floor, to inform him of it. Hardly had I opened the door than I found the room submerged in a sea of papers, books, old prints and packets of letters, all spread in disorder over the bed and the floor.

"I was studying," said he, welcoming me.

"It is he," said I breathlessly.

And I told him of the colloquy with Robleda in which the latter had without any apparent reason referred to the catacombs. The Jesuit had then (but only because I had encouraged him to talk) begun a lengthy discourse in which he spoke of vaticinations concerning the coming of the Angelic Pope, and then, a prophecy concerning the end of the world after a series of 111 pontiffs, which speaks of an "insatiable beast," who is said to be Our Lord Pope Innocent XI, and in the end he had admitted that the prediction had been made by the Irish prophet Malachy…

"Calm down, calm down," broke in Atto. "I fear that you are becoming somewhat confused. I know that Saint Malachy was an Irish monk who lived a thousand years after Christ, quite different from the Prophet Malachi in the Bible."

I assured him that I knew that perfectly well too, nor was I confusing anything, and I repeated the facts, this time setting them out more calmly.

"Interesting," commented Atto at the end. "Two different prophets called Malachi cross our path in the space of a few hours: too much to be pure coincidence. Padre Robleda mentioned to you that he was meditating on Saint Malachy's prophecy just last night, while we found the chapter from the Book of Malachi in the underground galleries. He claims not to remember the Saint's name with any certainty, yet it is known universally. And then he comes out with the catacombs. That the thief of the keys should be a Jesuit would come as no great surprise to me: they have done far worse than that. I would, however, like to know what he might have been looking for under the ground. Now, that would be really interesting."

"To be quite sure that it was Robleda, we should check on his Bible," I observed, "and see if the torn page comes from it."

"Correct. And, to do that, we have but one opportunity. Cristofano has warned us that there will soon be another roll-call for the quarantine: you will have to take advantage of Robleda's absence from his chamber to sneak in and look for his Bible. I think you know where to find the Book of Malachi in the Old Testament."

"After the Book of Kings, among the twelve minor prophets," I promptly replied.

"Bravo. I can do nothing, since Cristofano will be keeping an eye on me. He must have got wind of something: he asked me whether by chance I left my chamber last night."

It was just then that I heard the physician's voice calling my name. I quickly joined him in the kitchen where he informed me that he had heard the Bargello's men announcing from the street that they were ready to make their second roll-call. The hope which all of us had secretly been nourishing, namely that the inspectors might have been distracted by the wait for the outcome of the battle of Vienna, had vanished.

Cristofano was in a state of great anxiety. If Bedfordi did not pass the test, we would almost certainly be transferred to a pest-house.

Following Cristofano's instructions, the whole group assembled in trepidation on the first floor, before the chamber of Pompeo Dulcibeni. I felt a tender twinge when I saw sweet Cloridia smiling at me, sadly too (or at least so I fondly imagined) at the thought that no verbal or other intimacy would be possible at that time. I saw the doctor arrive last, with Devize and Atto Melani. Contrary to what I had hoped, they were not carrying Bedfordi's almost inert body with them: the Englishman (and this was plain from the consternation on Cristofano's face) was absolutely in no condition to stand on his feet, let alone to reply to the roll-call. While they approached, I saw Atto and the guitarist terminate an intense conversation with nods of agreement. Cristofano made way for us in the chamber and leaned first out of the window below which the Bargello's ruffians were already craning their necks to observe us. The physician introduced himself and showed at his side the youthful and obviously healthy face of Devize. Abbot Melani, Pompeo Dulcibeni and Padre Robleda were then called and briefly observed. There was a short pause, during which the inspectors conferred among themselves. I saw that Cristofano and Padre Robleda were almost beside themselves with fear. Dulcibeni, however, stood by impassively. I noticed that, of all the group, only Devize had left the room.

The inspectors (who even to a layman like myself did not seem very expert in the art of medicine) put a few more generic questions to Cristofano who had in the meanwhile hastened to lead me too to the window, so that I could be duly observed. Then came Cloridia's turn, and she immediately met with some coarse banter on the part of the inspectors, together with allusions to unspecified diseases of which the courtesan might be a carrier.

Our fears were at their height when Signor Pellegrino's turn came at last. Cristofano led him firmly to the window, but without any humiliating tugging or jerking. We all knew that Cristofano was trembling: the very fact of leading my master into the presence of the authorities without expressing any prior reservations meant that he was the first to attest his good health.

Pellegrino smiled weakly at the three strangers. Two of them exchanged questioning glances. A few rods' distance now separated Cristofano and my master from their inquisitors. Pellegrino tottered.

"I warned you!" exclaimed Cristofano angrily, extracting an empty bottle from my master's breeches. Pellegrino belched.

"He has been talking too much with the Greek," jested one of the three from the Bargello, alluding to my master's now notorious weakness for wine. Cristofano had succeeded in passing Pellegrino for drunk rather than ill.

It was then (and I shall never forget the scene) that I saw Bedfordi appear miraculously among us.

He strode towards the window, affectionately greeted by Cristofano, and offered himself to the view of the fearsome triumvirate. I was, like everyone, terrified and confused, almost as though I had witnessed a resurrection. I could have believed that I was seeing his spirit, so utterly did he seem free from the sufferings of the flesh. The trio from the Bargello were not so surprised, being ignorant of the illness that had struck him down in the preceding hours.

Bedfordi uttered something in his own language, which the three ruffians showed with some vexation that they did not understand.

"He is again saying that he wants to be free to leave," explained Cristofano.

The trio, remembering Bedfordi's protests on the occasion of the previous roll-call, and being certain that they would not be understood, mocked him with great and vulgar amusement.

Bedfordi-or rather, his miraculous simulacrum-responded to the jokes of the officious trio with a symmetrical volley of insults and was immediately led away by Cristofano. All of our group then returned, some glancing incredulously at one another, astounded by the Englishman's inexplicable recovery.

Hardly had I entered the corridor than I sought out Atto Melani, in the hope of receiving some explanation. I caught up with him just as he was about to climb the stairs to the second floor. He looked at me with an air of amusement, guessing at once what I yearned to know, and mocked me, singing:

Fan battaglia i miei pensieri, e al cor dan fiero assalto.

Cosi al core, empi guerrieri, fan battaglia, dan guerra i miei pensieri…*

"Did you see how our Bedfordi has recovered?" he asked ironically.

"But it is not possible," I said, protesting incredulously.

Atto stopped halfway up the staircase.

"Did you really believe that a special agent of the King of France would allow himself to be manipulated like a small boy?" he whispered derisively. "Bedfordi is young, small of stature and fair haired; and you just saw a small, fair young man. The Englishman has blue eyes and our Bedfordi this evening likewise had bright glaucous orbs. At the last roll-call, Bedfordi protested because he wanted to leave, and this time he did so yet again. Bedfordi speaks a language which the three from the Bargello do not understand, and indeed they understood nothing of what he said this time either. So, where is the mystery?"

"But it could not be he who…"

"Of course it was not Bedfordi. He is still half-dead in his bed, and we pray that he may one day rise from it again. But if you had a good * My thoughts do battle, / And proudly storm my heart. / Thus, to my heart, pitiless warriors / Give battle, my thoughts make war… memory (and to become a gazetteer, you must have a good memory) you would recall that there was some confusion during the last roll- call: when I was called, Cristofano brought Stilone Priaso to the window; when it was Dulcibeni's turn, Cristofano presented Robleda, and so on, all the time pretending that he was making mistakes. In your opinion, after that pantomime, could the Bargello's three men be sure of recognising all the guests at the inn? Bear in mind that the Bargello does not have our effigies, for none of us is the Pope or the King of France."

My silence answered for me.

"Of course, they could recognise no one," the abbot reaffirmed, "apart from the young gentleman with fair hair who protested in a foreign language."

"And so Bedfordi…"

I broke off and had a sudden illumination as I watched Devize disappear through the door of his chamber.

"… plays the guitar, speaks French, and sometimes pretends that he knows English," said Atto with a conspiratorial smile.

"But then Signor Devize went to the window a second time in the place of Bedfordi and I did not realise it!"

"You did not realise it because it was absurd, and absurd things, even when true, are the most difficult to see."

"But the Bargello's men called us one by one," I objected, "when the inn was closed down on suspicion of infection."

"Yes, but that first inspection was too confused and chaotic, because the officials had to see to the blocking of the road and the boarding up of the inn as well. And several days have passed since then. The visual obstacle, namely the grille over the first-floor window, did the rest. I myself, from behind that grille, would not be able to identify any of our jailers with any certainty in a day or two's time. And, speaking of eyes, pray, remind me again: what colour are Bedfordi's?"

I reflected for a moment, and a smile came to my lips: "They are… crossed."

"Exactly. If you think carefully on the matter, his squint is his most distinctive trait. When the three inspectors saw two converging blue eyes looking at them (and here, our Devize played his part well) they had no doubt: it was the Englishman."

I remained lost in silent amazement, turning the matter over and over in my mind.

"And now, go to Cristofano," said Atto, dismissing me. "He will certainly want you to be with him. Do not discuss with him the little tricks which he has helped me to put into effect: he is ashamed of them because he fears he may betray the principles of his art. He is mistaken, but we had better leave him to think as he will."

No sooner had I rejoined him than Cristofano gave me comforting news: he had conferred with the Bargello's men, whom he had assured that the condition of the entire group was good. He had then offered them his personal guarantee that any news of importance would be communicated to an emissary, who would call on the hostelry every morning in order to check on the situation with Cristofano himself. This would free us of the need to appear together for a roll-call, as we had indeed done (and miraculously) hitherto.

"At other times, such frivolity would not have been possible," opined the doctor.

"What do you mean?"

"I know what measures were taken in Rome during the Pestilence of 1656. Scarcely had news been received of suspected cases of infection in Naples, than all roads were closed between the two cities, and all movements of persons and goods with other bordering territories were prohibited. Commissioners were sent to the four parts of the Pontifical State to see to the implementation of public health measures. The coast guards were reinforced, so as to limit or prevent landings by ships, while in Rome a number of the city's gates were immediately barred, and those which remained open were subject to rigorous filtering in order to limit the passage of persons to what was strictly necessary."

"And all this was not sufficient to prevent the infection?"

It was already too late, explained the doctor sadly. A Neapolitan fishmonger, one Antonio Ciothi, had already come to Rome from Naples in the preceding month of March, to escape from an accusation of homicide. He had taken up lodgings in a hostelry at Trastevere, in the Montefiore quarter, when he was suddenly taken ill. The wife of the host (Cristofano had learned these details from conversations with a number of persons who had witnessed these events) had immediately arranged for the fishmonger to be transported to Saint John's Hospital, where the young man died a few hours later. The post-mortem found no cause for alarm. A few days later, however, the wife of the host died, then her mother and her sister. In these cases, too, no tokens were found of infection with the plague, but it was nevertheless decided, in view of the all too clear coincidence, to send the host and all his servants and apprentices to the pest-house. Trastevere was cordoned off from the remainder of the city and the special Congregation for Public Health was convened to deal with the emergency. Commissions were set up for every ward, consisting of prelates, gentlemen, chirurgeons and notaries, who carried out a census of the city's inhabitants, noting their trade, their material conditions and the state of their health, precisely so as to enable the Congregation for Public Health to have a clear view of the situation and to visit and succour such houses as might need assistance, on alternate days.

"But now all the city can think only of the battle for Vienna," observed Cristofano, "and our three inspectors told me that the Pope was seen recently prostrated before the crucifix, weeping in dismay and apprehension for the fate of all Christendom; and when the Pope weeps, so the Romans reason, we must all tremble."

The physician added that the responsibility which he had taken upon himself was extraordinarily grave, and that it fell also upon my shoulders. Henceforth, we must scrutinise with the closest attention every slight variation in our lodgers' health. Moreover, any shortcomings on the part of either of us (and he would certainly report any breaches I might commit) would entail grave penalties for us. In particular, we must at all costs ensure that no one should leave the inn before the end of the quarantine. However, to ensure the necessary control, the two rounds of the watch would continue to make sure that no one would attempt to undo the boards or lower themselves from the windows.

"I shall serve you in all things," I said to Cristofano in order to appease him; yet, I awaited nightfall impatiently.

The otherwise welcome suspension of the roll-call had the unfortunate effect of compromising the plan, hatched out with Atto Melani, of looking into Padre Robleda's Bible. I informed the abbot discreetly of this, slipping a note under his door and returning at once to the kitchen, for I feared that Cristofano (who was moving from one chamber to the next in order to visit his patients) might surprise me in conversation with him.

It was Cristofano himself, however, who called me to the chamber of Pompeo Dulcibeni on the first floor. The gentleman from Fermo had suffered an attack of sciatica. I found him in bed, lying on one side, while he begged the doctor to set him back on his feet as soon as possible.

Cristofano manipulated Dulcibeni's legs pensively. He would raise the one and order me at the same time to bend the other one: with each such movement, the physician would stop and await the patient's reaction. Every now and then, he would cry out, and Cristofano would nod solemnly.

"I see. Here we need a magisterial cataplasm with cantharides. My boy, while I prepare this, anoint all his left side with this balm," said he, handing me a small jar.

He then informed Dulcibeni that he would have to wear a magisterial cataplasm for eight days.

"Eight days! Do you mean that I must remain immobilised for that long?"

"Of course not: the pain will be attenuated a long time before that," retorted the doctor. "Obviously, you will not be able to run. But what does that matter to you? As long as the quarantine lasts, you will not be able to do more than while away the time."

Dulcibeni grumbled somewhat ill-temperedly.

"Take comfort," added Cristofano. "There is one here younger than yourself, yet full of infirmities: Padre Robleda does not show it, but for several days now he has been suffering from rheumatism. His must be a delicate constitution, for the inn does not seem damp to me and the weather these days is fine and dry."

I gave a start on hearing these words. My suspicions in regard to Robleda became yet more acute. I saw, meanwhile, that the doctor had taken from his bag a jar full of dead coleoptera. He drew out two of a golden-greenish colour.

"Cantharides, or the Spanish fly," said he, putting the beetles under my nose, "dead and desiccated. They are miraculous as vesicants-and as aphrodisiacs, too."

Saying this, he began to pulverise them carefully over a piece of saturated gauze.

"Ah, the Jesuit has rheumatism," exclaimed Dulcibeni after a while. "So much the better; that way he will leave off sticking his nose into everyone else's business."

"What do you mean?" asked Cristofano, busying himself on his beetles with a little knife.

"Did you not know that the Society of Jesus is a nest of spies?"

My heart leapt into my mouth. I must know more. But Cristofano did not seem to be drawn to the subject and Dulcibeni's assertion was thus on the point of dying unanswered.

"Surely you do not mean that seriously?" I asked forcefully.

"Very much so!" replied Dulcibeni with conviction.

In his opinion, not only were the Jesuits masters of the art of espionage, but they claimed it as a privilege of their order, and whosoever practised that art without their express permission was to be severely punished. Before the Jesuits came into the world, other religious orders had also played a part in the intrigues surrounding the Apostolic See. But since the followers of Saint Ignatius had applied themselves to the exercise of espionage, they had outrun them all. This was because the pontiffs had always had an absolute need to penetrate the most recondite affairs of princes. Knowing that no one had ever succeeded in the business of spying as well as the Jesuits, they made heroes of them. They sent them to all major cities and favoured them with privileges and papal bulls, elevating them above all other orders.

"Excuse me," objected Cristofano, "but how could the Jesuits spy so well? They cannot frequent women, who always gossip too much; they cannot be seen in the company of criminals or persons of low station, and moreover…"

The explanation was simple, replied Dulcibeni: the pontiffs had assigned the sacrament of Confession to the Jesuits, not only in Rome but in all the cities of Europe. Through Confession, the Jesuits could insinuate their way into the minds of all, rich and poor, princes and peasants. But above all, they thereby scrutinised the inclinations and disposition of every counsellor and minister of state: with practised rhetoric, they mined the depths of men's hearts for all the resolutions and reflections which their victims were secretly nurturing.

In order to dedicate themselves entirely to Confession, and to gain ever greater profit from that source, they had obtained from the Holy See the right to exemption from other holy offices. Meanwhile, the victims took the bait. The kings of Spain, for instance, had always used Jesuit confessors and wished their ministers to do likewise in all the lands under Spain's rule. Other princes, who had hitherto lived in good faith and were unaware of the malice of the Jesuits, began to believe that these fathers possessed some special virtue as confessors.

Gradually, they came to follow the example of the kings of Spain and also chose Jesuits as their confessors.

"But someone must surely have exposed them," argued the physician, while he continued to make the carcasses of the cantharides crackle under his little scalpel.

"Of course. But once their game was discovered, they placed themselves at the service of this or that prince, as the opportunity presented itself, always ready to betray them."

That was why everyone loved them and everyone hated them, said Dulcibeni: they were hated because they served everyone as spies, they were loved because no better spies could be found to fulfil the sovereigns' purposes. They were loved, because they offered their services voluntarily as spies; they were hated because they thereby gained the greatest profit for their order and inflicted the greatest damage upon the whole world.

Cristofano applied the magisterial cataplasm to Dulcibeni, sprinkled with little fragments of beetle, and we both took our leave of him. I was absorbed in a jumble of thoughts: first, the physician's reference to Robleda's curious rheumatisms, then the revelation that the Spanish Jesuit had, at the seminary, been trained more to spy than to pray: all confirmed me more in my suspicions about Robleda.

I was about to retire at last (I really needed rest after the exertions of the previous night) when I noticed that the Jesuit had left his chamber, accompanied by Cristofano, in order to go to the pit near the kitchen where it was possible to deposit organic dejections. Faced with so propitious an opportunity, thought and action were one: I moved silently to the second floor and carefully pushed the door of the Jesuit's chamber, slipping inside. But it was too late: I thought I heard Padre Robleda's footsteps climbing back up the stairs.

I rushed out and turned hurriedly towards my own chamber, disappointed by this failure.

On my way, I stopped to call on my master, whom I found sitting up in bed. I had to help him loosen his bowels. He put some confused and listless questions to me concerning his own state of health because, he stammered, the Sienese physician had treated him like a child, hiding the truth from him. I endeavoured in my turn to calm him down, after which I helped him to drink, arranged his bedding as best I could and stroked his head for a long time, until he fell asleep.

Thus I could shut myself into my own room. I took out my little notebook and, in a state of extreme fatigue, I wrote down-in truth, somewhat hurriedly-the latest events.

Once I had retreated to the bed, my need for rest struggled with all the thoughts which came crowding in, striving in vain to arrange themselves into a reasonable and orderly whole. Perhaps the page of the Bible found by Ugonio and Ciacconio had belonged to Robleda, and he had lost it in the underground galleries near the Piazza Navona: it was probably he who had stolen the keys, and in any case, he had access to the tunnels. The assistance which I had given to Abbot Melani had exposed me to unspeakable terrors, as well as the struggle with the loathsome corpisantari. Yet the abbot himself had resolved the situation with the aid of a mere pipe disguised as a pistol: a success which he had then repeated, planning and carrying out the deception of the three emissaries of the Bargello, and thus circumventing the danger of a state of pestilence being declared, with all the frenzied controls to which that would have given rise. My lingering mistrust for Abbot Melani was subtly tempered by thankfulness and admiration, so much so that I awaited with a certain impatience the moment when the search for the thief would resume, almost certainly that very night. I wondered whether the fact that the abbot was suspected of espionage and involvement in political intrigues might not be something of a disadvantage for us all; but then, I thought, it was if anything the contrary: thanks to his cunning, the whole group of guests of the hostelry had been saved from the dreadful prospect of internment in a pest-house. He had, moreover, informed me of his mission, and thus given a token of his trust in me. He had purloined letters from Colbert's house; but such doings were, he affirmed, the direct and ineluctable consequence of his devotion to the French sovereign; nor did proofs exist to the contrary. I rejected with a shiver the sudden appearance, among my lucubrations, of the disgusting mass of human remains which Ciacconio's heap had disgorged onto me, and suddenly felt an overwhelming flood of gratitude for Abbot Melani. Sooner or later, I reflected, finally giving way to the promptings of Morpheus, I would be unable to prevent myself from revealing to the other guests the presence of mind he had shown in dealing with the two corpisantari and holding them at bay with promises and threats in equal measure.

Such, I imagined, must be the actions of a special agent of the King of France, and I only regretted that I had neither the knowledge nor the experience necessary adequately to convey such admirable undertakings: a network of secret passages under the city; an agent of the King of France selflessly and and at great peril hunting down rogues and ruffians; an entire group of gentlemen sequestered as a result of a mysterious death and suspected of infection with the plague; and finally, Superintendent Fouquet, believed dead, yet sighted in Rome by informers of Colbert. Now almost overcome by tiredness, I prayed heaven that I might one day, as a gazetteer, be able to write of similar marvellous events.

The door (which I ought in truth to have closed more carefully) opened on squeaking hinges. I turned towards it just in time to see a shadow hide swiftly behind the wall.

I arose and, leaping from my bed to surprise the intruder, rushed out into the corridor. I saw a figure a few paces from the door. It was Devize, who held his guitar in his hand.

"I was sleeping," I protested, "and Cristofano has forbidden us to leave our chambers."

"Look," said he, pointing towards the object of his visit on the ground.

Suddenly, 1 realised that I was walking on a carpet of small stones, whose crunching had accompanied me from the moment I had left my bed. I felt the ground with the palm of my hand.

"It looks like salt," I said to Devize.

I brought one of the little stones to my tongue.

"It is indeed salt," I confirmed in alarm, "but who can have spread it on the ground?"

"In my opinion, it was…" said Devize, but as he pronounced the name, he handed me his guitar and his last words were lost in the silence of the night.

"What did you say?"

"This is for you," said he with an ironic little laugh, as he handed me the instrument, "seeing that you like the sound of it so much."

I felt myself vaguely touched. I was not certain that I could not produce from those gut strings some agreeable sound, or perhaps even a pleasing melody. Indeed, why not attempt that ineffable melody which I had heard performed by the French musician? I decided to try at once, in his presence, despite knowing that I was exposing myself to his scorn. I was already exploring the fingerboard with my left hand, while the other felt the gentle resistance of the strings near to the sound hole in the instrument beloved by the Most Christian King, when I was surprised by a touch as familiar as it was unexpected.

"It has come to see you," remarked Devize.

A fine tabby cat with green eyes, imploring a little food, was laying siege to me, rubbing its tail with polite insistence against my calf. I was more alarmed than ever by this surprise visit. If a cat had found its way into the inn, I thought, perhaps there existed another way of communicating with the outside world which Abbot Melani had not yet discovered. I raised my eyes to share my thoughts with Devize. He had disappeared. A hand gently shook my shoulder.

"Should you not have closed yourself in?"

I opened my eyes. I was in my bed, and Cristofano had roused me from my dream, asking me to prepare and serve dinner. Reluctantly and confusedly, 1 abandoned my visions.

After quickly restoring some order to the kitchen, I prepared a soup of artichoke stalks with dried fish stock and good oil, onions, peas and involtini, little rolls made up of tunny-fish slices with a lettuce filling. This I served up with a generous piece of cheese and a quarter of a pint of watered-down red wine. Over everything, I sprinkled cinnamon, as I had again promised myself that I would. Cristofano himself assisted me with serving, personally feeding Bedfordi while I was thus freed to bring food to all the others and, above all, to feed my master.

Once I had fed Pellegrino, I felt a compelling need for a little pure air in my lungs. The long days of seclusion, most of them spent in the kitchen with the door and window sealed and barred, amidst the smells of cooking continuously wafting from the fireplace, had weighed down on my chest. I therefore resolved to tarry a while in my little chamber. I opened the window, which gave onto the alleyway, and looked down: not a soul was to be seen on that sunny late summer afternoon. Only the watchman dozed placidly, huddled in the corner of the building on the Via dell'Orso. I leaned on the sill with my elbows and breathed in deeply.

"But sooner or later, the Turks will clash with the most powerful princes in Europe."

"Ah yes? And with whom exactly?"

"Well, for example, with the Most Christian King."

"Well then that will be the ideal occasion for them to shake hands without hiding."

The voices, excited yet prudently muted, were unmistakeably those of Brenozzi and Stilone Priaso. They came from the second floor, where the windows of their adjoining chambers were set quite close together. I leaned out discreetly to take a look: like some new Pyramus and Thisbe, the two had devised a rather simple mode of communication beyond Cristofano's strict surveillance. Both being restless and curious by temperament, they could thus give free rein to their irrepressible anxiety.

I wondered whether I ought to profit by that unhoped-for opportunity: unseen, I could perhaps glean some additional information from these two singular personages, one of whom had proven to be a fugitive. And perhaps I might learn something useful for the complicated investigations in which I was assisting Abbot Melani.

"And Louis XIV is the real enemy of Christendom: he, not the Turks," proclaimed Brenozzi in bitter, impatient tones. "You will be well aware that in Vienna the Christian princes are fighting to save Europe from the Infidel. Yet the King of France was unwilling to lend his assistance to the enterprise. That was no accident, truly no accident!"

As I have already told, and as I had crudely learned in those months from the chattering of the populace and from the new visitors to the hostelry, Our Lord Pope Innocent XI had worked strenuously to form a Holy League against the Turks.

"It is shameful," assented Stilone Priaso. "And yet he is the most powerful sovereign in all Europe."

"1 tell you, better Mahomet than those arrogant Frenchmen! They bombarded Genoa with a thousand cannon-shots for no better reason than that their fleet had received no salute when passing before the port."

Brenozzi stopped, perhaps gloating over the disconsolate expression which I could imagine painted on the Neapolitan's countenance.

Stilone, for his part, soon resumed with other pressing observations, so that the conversation became more animated.

I leaned out cautiously from my unsuspected position, looking down on their heads from above: in the heat of their conversation, the pair recovered the vitality lost in the darkness of solitude, and political passion almost dispelled fear of the pestilence. Did not the same thing occur with the other guests, whenever my visits or those of the physician-sometimes accompanied by inhalations of pungent vapours, spicy oils and gentle pressures-loosened their tongues and caused them to release a flood of their most intimate reflections?

"In all Europe," resumed Stilone Priaso, "only Prince William of Orange, despite the fact that he is always hunting for loans, has succeeded in stopping the French, who have gold to spare, and in imposing the Peace of Nijmegen."

Once again, the Dutchman William of Orange made an appearance in our lodgers' talk, he whose name had first arisen in Bedfordi's delirium and then been sketched by Abbot Melani. I was curious about this noble and impoverished David whose military prowess was equalled by the fame of his debts.

"For as long as the Most Christian King's mania for conquest remains unassuaged," insisted Brenozzi, "there will be no peace in Europe. And do you know when that will come to pass? When the Imperial Crown shines on the head of the King of France."

"You are, I imagine, referring to the Holy Roman Empire."

"But of course! To become Emperor, that is what he wants! That is why France is so much at ease with the Turkish invasion: if they press on Vienna, the eastern flank of the Empire is broken while France expands into its western flank."

"True! A pincer manoeuvre."

"Precisely that."

That was why, Brenozzi continued, when Innocent XI called upon the European powers to rally their forces against the Turks, the Most Christian King and first-born son of the Church refused to send troops, although he was begged to do so by all Christian leaders. Louis XIV had even tried to impose upon the Emperor in Vienna an odious agreement: making his neutrality conditional upon recognition of the conquests such as Alsace and Lorraine gained by his banditry on the western borders of the Habsburg Empire.

"He even had the gall to describe his claims as 'moderate'. Yet, the Emperor, although up to his neck in trouble, did not acquiesce. Now the Most Christian King is abstaining from hostilities: and do you think that is out of scruple? No! It is a tactical decision. He is waiting until Vienna is exhausted. Then he will be able to resume his invasions with all ease. Already, at the end of August, it was being said that the French troops were on a war footing."

If only Brenozzi could have read on my face the grave thoughts which these words inspired! Perched above the pair and eavesdropping on their conversation, I was biting on a bitter pill: to what manner of monstrous sovereign had Atto Melani sworn his services? I could not deny that I had grown inexorably attached to the abbot; and despite all the ups and downs between us, I had not yet ceased to regard him as my master and guide.

Thus, yet again the victim of my own mania for investigation and the discovery of knowledge, I found myself condemned to learn nolens volens things of which I would have preferred never to hear a word breathed.

"Ah, but that is nothing," added Brenozzi with a viperous hiss. "Have you heard the latest news? Now the Turks are protecting the French merchant fleet from pirates. So now trade with the Orient is in the hands of the French."

"And what will the Turks gain in exchange?" asked Stilone.

"Oh, nothing," sneered Brenozzi ironically, "perhaps only… victory in Vienna."

Hardly had the inhabitants barricaded themselves within the city, explained Brenozzi, than the Turks excavated a network of trenches and tunnels which went under the walls and placed very powerful mines, several times breaching the fortifications. Now, this was the very technique of which the French engineers and sappers were past masters.

"You are saying, in other words, that the French are in league with the Turks," concluded Priaso.

"It is not I who am affirming that; this was the opinion of the military experts in the Christian camp in Vienna. The armies of the Most Christian King had learned the art of using trenches and tunnels from two soldiers in the service of Venice, during the defence of Candia. The secret then reached Vauban, a military engineer in the service of the Most Christian King. Vauban perfected it: vertical trenches, with which to bring mines forward, and horizontal trenches to move troops from one point to another in the camp. This is a deadly stratagem: hardly has the right breach been made than the troops enter the besieged city. Now, suddenly, the Turks have become masters of this technique, in Vienna. Do you think that is a coincidence?"

"Speak more softly," warned Stilone Priaso. "Do not forget that Abbot Melani is just next door to us."

"Ah yes, that French spy who's no more an abbot than Count Donhoff. You are right. Let us leave off here," said Brenozzi, and after exchanging salutations, the two withdrew.

Now other long shadows were being cast over Atto. What was the meaning of that observation which aimed a shot at some unknown personage? While closing the window, I turned over in my mind the matter of Melani's ignorance of the Bible. Curious, I thought, for an abbot.

"Guitar, salt and cat," laughed Cloridia, much amused. "Now we have something better."

I had tidied up the kitchen with only one thought in my mind: to return to her. Brenozzi's grave statements surely called for a later confrontation with Abbot Melani: but the night was there for such matters, when he himself would come to my door to lead me back into the underground galleries. I had hurriedly brought their victuals to the other prisoners, using various pretexts to leave those who, like Robleda and Devize, tried to retain me. It was, however, far more urgent that I should once again be able to enter into colloquy with the fair Cloridia, and this I did with the excuse that I wanted to interpret the second curious dream I had had since the doors of the inn had been sealed by the hand of the Bargello's men.

"Let us begin with the scattered salt," said Cloridia, "and I warn you that it is not a good sign. It means assassination, or opposition to our designs."

She read the disappointment on my face.

"But each case must be carefully weighed up on its own merits," she added, "because it is not said that this meaning refers to the dreamer. In your dream, for instance, it could refer to Devize."

"And the guitar?"

"It means: great melancholy, or work without recognition: like that of a peasant who labours all the year round without ever gaining any satisfaction. Or an excellent painter, or architect, or musician, whose work no one knows and who is always neglected. You see that it is almost synonymous with melancholy."

I was deeply upset. Two rather bad symbols in the same dream, to which, Cloridia announced, a third was to be added.

"The cat is a very clear sign: adultery and lust," she declared.

"But I have no wife."

"For the exercise of lust, matrimony is not necessary," retorted Cloridia, maliciously twisting a tress of her hair on her cheek, "and as for adultery, remember: every sign must be carefully valued and weighed up."

"But how? If I am not married, I am a bachelor and that is that."

"But then you really know absolutely nothing," Cloridia gently reproved me. "Dreams can also be interpreted in a manner completely opposed to their appearance. Thus, they are infallible, because one can just as easily conjecture the pro and the contra."

"But if that is so, a dream can mean everything and its contrary…" I objected.

"You think so?" she replied, arranging the tress behind her neck and, with a wide circular movement of her arms, raising the round and firm cupolas of her breasts.

She sat upon a stool, leaving me standing.

"Please," said she, untying a velvet ribbon ornamented with a cameo, which she kept tied around her neck, "be so kind as to adjust this properly, for I cannot manage with the mirror. Place it a little lower, but not too much. Do it gently, my skin is so delicate."

As though it was necessary to facilitate my task, she spread her arms wide behind her head, thus exposing immoderately the bosom which spilled from her decolletage, a hundred times more flowery than the meadows of the Quirinale and a thousand times more perfect than the dome of Saint Peter's.

Seeing me colour at the sudden spectacle, Cloridia took the opportunity to evade my objection. She continued imperturbably, while I busied myself around her neck.

"Some hold that dreams which precede sunrise relate to the future; those which come while the sun is rising refer to the present, and those which follow the sun's appearance concern the past. Dreams are surer in summer and in winter than in autumn and spring, and at sunrise, rather than at any other hour of day. Others claim that dreams made at Advent or the feast of the Annunciation augur solid and lasting things; while those which occur on moveable feasts (such as Easter) designate variable things, on which one may not count. Yet others… Ouch! no, that will not do, it is too tight. How come your hands are trembling?" she asked with a cunning little smile.

"Really, I have almost done it, I did not mean…"

"Calm down, calm down, we have all the time that we want," she winked, seeing that I had failed to tie the knot for the fifth time. "Yet others," resumed Cloridia, uncovering her neck unduly and raising her breasts even closer to my hands, "say that in Bactriana there is a stone called Eumetris which, if placed under the head during sleep, will convert dreams into solid and certain predictions. Some utilise only chemical preparations: perfume of mandrake and myrtle, water of verbena and powdered laurel leaves applied behind the head. But there are also those who recommend cats' brains with bats' dejections, seasoned in red leather, or who stuff a fig with pigeon's droppings and coral dust. Believe me, for nocturnal visions, all these remedies are very, very stimulating…"

Suddenly, she took my hands between hers and looked at me in amusement: I still had not succeeded in tying the knot. My fingers, clumsily entangled with the ribbon, were icy; hers were boiling. The little ribbon fell into her corsage and disappeared. Someone would have to retrieve it.

"In sum," she resumed, squeezing my hands and fixing me in her gaze, "it is important to have clear, certain, lasting, true dreams, and where there's a will there's a way. If you dream that you are not married, that may perhaps mean the exact opposite, in other words, that you soon will be. Or perhaps it means you are not, and that is that. Have you understood?"

"But in my case, is it not possible to understand whether the appearance of the dream is true, or the contrary?" I asked in a very small voice and with my cheeks burning.

"Of course it is possible."

"And why will you not tell me, then?" I implored, involuntarily lowering my gaze to the perfumed cleft which had swallowed up the ribbon.

"Simple, my dear: because you have not paid."

She ceased smiling, pushed my hands brusquely away from her bosom, retrieved the little ribbon and tied it around her neck in a flash, as though she had never needed help.

I went down the stairs with as sad a soul as a human soul can be, cursing the whole world, which was so incapable of bending to meet my desires, and wishing myself in hell for having been so inept an interpreter of that world. I being miserably impoverished, the dreams which I had confided to Cloridia had fallen naked and defenceless into the lap of a courtesan: how could I have so lost touch with reality? How could I have imagined, dolt that I was, that I could win her favours without paying royally for them? And how could I hope, simpleton that I was, that she might, liberaliter, open her mind, and what is more, to me rather than to others a thousand times more talented and more deserving and admirable? And should I not also have been suspicious of her request, on the occasion of both her consultations concerning dreams, that I should lie down on her bed, while she sat on a chair by the bedhead, close to my shoulders? Such an incomprehensible and dubious request should have reminded me of the sadly mercenary nature of our brief encounters.

Because of my sad thoughts, it was a pleasant accident to encounter Abbot Atto Melani before my door at the foot of the stairs, already impatient at having been kept briefly waiting. The latter risked betraying our appointment to Cristofano when, on my arrival, he was unable to hold back a resounding sneeze.