Secretum

Evening the Seventh

13th J ULY, 1700

I found Atto in his lodgings. He had not taken part in the merry hunt: the hunt for Caesar Augustus had been quite enough for him, said he. In fact, he was too busy replying to the letter from the Connestabilessa. Now that he had accomplished that task, it was time for him to go down with Buvat for dinner in the gardens of the villa. I told him what I had learned from Don Tibaldutio: the cerretani even had a friend at Saint Peter's, whose name the chaplain had not, however, revealed.

"Ah yes? Very good, very good," he commented, "I shall ask Sfasciamonti to check up on this at once."

Half an hour later, after making sure that the Abbot and his secretary were at table, I again plunged my hands into his dirty linen and took out the little envelope of secret correspondence.

From my pocket, I drew the little book of The Faithful Shepherd which I had borrowed from the library at the Vessel: now I was ready to read Maria's letters in the light of those verses. As on the previous occasion, I could find in the folder neither the Connestabilessa's letter nor the reply which the Abbot must just have penned. I searched among Buvat's effects, hoping to find an interesting letter, as had happened during my previous inspection, but this time I found nothing.

I rummaged everywhere, to no avail. I grew worried. Perhaps Melani was beginning to harbour suspicions of my incursions. Alas, Atto must have taken the letter with him.

It only remained for me to read the third and last report from Maria Mancini on the court of Spain, the only one which I had not yet read. Who knows, said I to myself, perhaps now that I had discovered the truth about the correspondence between Atto and Maria, now that I had got to the very heart of it, which had to do not with politics or spying, but with love, I might be able to retrace in those reports allusions and quotations which had at first escaped me. Glancing out of the window to make sure that Atto was a long way off and otherwise occupied, I opened the packet.

Attached to the report was a covering letter from Maria. It had been sent from Madrid two months before. The Connestabilessa was replying to a letter from Atto and confirming that she would be coming to Rome to attend the Spada-Rocci wedding.

My friend, I understand the point of view shared by Lidio and yourself, but I repeat my own opinion: it is all pointless. Moreover, what today may seem good will tomorrow turn out to be a disaster.

Nevertheless, I shall come. I shall do as Lidio desires. So we shall meet at the Villa Spada. This I promise you.

Here again was an allusion to Herodotus. She wrote of Lidio, in other words of Croesus, King of Lydia, the name by which, I had the day before discovered, Atto and Maria referred to the Most Christian King.

I collected my thoughts. So it had been Lidio, the Most Christian King in person, who had asked Maria to accept Cardinal Spada's invitation! And why should he have done that?

I read and reflected, until I had an intuition: the Sovereign wanted to convince Maria to return to France. That was what Abbot Melani's mission must be about. And the backdrop to all this was provided by the nuptials at Villa Spada.

The King of France was filled with nostalgia for the Connestabilessa. Had not Atto himself given me to understand this the day before, during our last visit to the Vessel? He had even revealed to me that Madame de Maintenon wanted the King to see Maria again now that she was old, in the hope of blotting out once and for all the memory which the King retained from the years of their youth.

I imagined that the Sovereign might, through Atto, be pulling strings to persuade Maria to meet him again; perhaps by accepting the official invitation to court which Madame de Maintenon was so keen on, or perhaps a secret meeting, far from inquiring eyes.

But the Connestabilessa, judging by the letter I had before me, had no intention of accepting. She considered that by now it was "all pointless", even that "what today may seem good will tomorrow turn out to be a disaster". She was probably referring to a possible meeting with the King; the joy of embracing once more would be followed by a bitter confrontation with the truth: the withering of bodies, the faded lineaments, the wilting of every charm.

Ah yes, I reasoned, the Connestabilessa would never show herself aged to the love of her whole life.

Anchored to these certainties, I continued the letter. I frowned: the Connestabilessa seemed suddenly to have changed the subject. She was speaking of Spanish affairs:

Have you heard of the jingle that is doing the rounds in Madrid? Charles V was Emperor, Philip II was King, Philip IV was but a man, Charles II is not even that.

My friend, how have we descended into such decay? The worms that infest the old trunk of the Monarchy are myriad but do not believe all you hear: many, far too many of them come from beyond the Pyrenees. Who inoculated in Spain's weary members the toxin of spies, plotters, artificial terror, misinformation, corruption? Who wants to see Spain voided from within, poisoned, intoxicated and made to rot like the walking cadaver of her King?

I am Italian by birth, I grew up in France and I chose Spain as my new fatherland; I can see when the shadows of the Great Jackals stretch over Madrid.

I left off reading; who were the Great Jackals? Probably the other European kingdoms. The report continued with a list of all the defeats of the past half century, starting with the bloody battle of Rocroy, when the Spanish forces who were winning ended up massacred by the French. The leader of the Spanish forces, Francisco de Melo, had thrown his victory to the winds, yet for this he received no sanction but a purse of twelve thousand ducats. How better, the Connestabilessa wondered, could one have fostered the decay and subversion of all values?

Since then, everything had fallen apart: the humiliations in

Flanders had been followed by the defeats at Balaguer, Elvas and Estremoz, the rout of Spain's armies at Lens and the shameful retreat from Castel Rodrigo. Then came the loss of Portugal after twenty-four long years of war and the uprising in Naples, put down only with the greatest of difficulty. (They had even proclaimed a republic). How could one be surprised by the continual military reversals when one knew that, to compensate for their lack of equipment, the Spanish armies had (as at the expedition against Fuentarrabia) been reduced to using antique arms from the collection of the Duke of Albuquerque, which had been rejected by the King himself a century before. How could one be surprised, knowing that Charles's father, Philip IY had for his most trusted counsellor a nun from an enclosed order who knew nothing of the world?

Passing from battles to diplomacy, matters became even worse: the Peace of Westphalia had humiliated Spain, while that of the Pyrenees had made her an object of ridicule in the eyes of all Europe.

Meanwhile, the members of the dynasty had been dying like flies: the first wife of Philip IX Isabella, had died at the age of forty-one, followed two years later by her first-born, Balthazar Charles; the little Prince Philip Prosper had died before reaching the age of five and Charles II's first wife had died of suspected poisoning when she was not yet thirty.

Now, at the end of this long Calvary, here in the capital we are reduced to utter chaos. The secret agents of both parties, all hired or held to ransom, circulate rumours of defeat, foment revolts, make every government hated by the people.

My friend, do you think they have not realised? The order is peremptory: let the Minister be corrupt, let the magistrate be arbitrary and let the priest sin.

The Grandees of the Kingdom have all been set at one another's throats, so that no joint action is any longer possible. Let every government be short-lived, so as to increase uncertainty. Let robber Ministers be dealt with clemently, or not at all, so as to convince honest citizens that Evilpays. Let the rulers tarry at ceremonies and festivities, indifferent to the fact that their country is falling to pieces. All hope must be lost: for the morrow, for justice, for humanity.

Only then, impelled by the powerful force of evil examples, will the plan of the Great Jackals come to fruition: the police will rob, the merchant will cheat, the soldier will desert, the honest mother will prostitute herself. Children will grow up without love and without illusions to sow disorder and unhappiness among future generations. Let Herod's test be renewed, may every seed of love die out; let madness flourish.

Every Spaniard's claim to rights, respect, dignity, must be destroyed. He must be convinced that his destiny matters to no one and that he can therefore count on no help. He must feel betrayed by everything and everyone, and he must hate.

In the face of his dismay, his hunger, his fear, Palace protocol must remain sumptuous, the privileges of the rich, shameless. Every day must, for Spaniards, bear the colours of disillusionment, the odour of betrayal, the bitter taste of rage; until, one morning, they will rise cursing their rulers, but with resignation. When that day comes, the time will be ripe.

The ruin or fortune of Kingdoms depends not upon finances, not upon armies, but on the soul of the people. Even the most sanguinary tyrant can in the long run do nothing against the hostility and mistrust of his fellow-countrymen. This is more powerful than cannons, swifter than cavalry, more indispensable than money, for true power (and every Minister knows this) proceeds from the Spirit, not the Flesh.

The people's scorn is a hot wind that no wall can stop. It will in the end dissolve the hardest stone, the most solid bastion, the sharpest sword.

That is why tyrants have since time immemorial yearned to crush the people, but not without first obtaining their assent.

For that purpose, however, the lie is essential, the mother and sister of all despots. They invoke dangers which they themselves have secretly created, magnified by newspapers, and to which they claim to hold the solution. To achieve this, they will demand and be given full powers. And with those powers, they will reduce the people to desperation.

What will then happen? The Great Jackals will exult. Oh, how stupid they are! For this will also be their own end: all will fight one another, to divide the spoils of dead Spain. A great fratricidal struggle, a new Pelopponese war, after which there will no longer be any possibility of peace, only more wars, this war's daughters.

Not knowing Spain's political affairs, I could not understand to what the Connestabilessa was referring. I therefore passed on at once to reading the report itself and thus learned what had quite rightly given rise to so much discomfiture:

Observations which may be of use in relation to

Spanish affairs

When King Philip IV died, Charles II was still a child. The Regency thus went to his mother, Maria Anna. Incapable of governing the fate of the Kingdom on her own, Philip IV's widow appointed to the head of the government a Jesuit, her confessor Father Nidhard. Very soon, however, he was ejected by a conspiracy headed by Don John the Bastard. A few years later, the post was taken by Valenzuela, an unscrupulous adventurer whom Charles II, now an adolescent, had made a Grandee of Spain in order to make up for a banal hunting accident (when he had shot him in a buttock). But the Bastard instigated a second plot, exiled the Queen Mother and had Valenzuela arrested too. The latter's wife was arrested, incarcerated and raped. She ended her days begging and died mad. When, however, the Bastard died too, the Queen Mother returned and appointed a new Minister, the Duke of Medinaceli.

Medinaceli worked all day long, apparently exhausting himself in the process, but never achieved a thing. Despite this, he resigned because the task was too wearying. In the end, the Count of Oropesa took the reins. His health was delicate. He was tormented by constant attacks of Saint Anthony's fire and spent more time in bed than on his feet. After barely three years in office, he was thrown out by a palace coup and sent into exile. King Charles then appointed a new Junta without any chief minister. This, however, was soon nicknamed the "government of swindlers". Its failure gave rise in turn to a quadrumvirate consisting of three noblemen and a Cardinal. They achieved absolutely nothing, so there was yet another change of government: the Duke of Montalto came to power, but he too was soon dismissed. The King then recalled Oropesa whom he particularly liked, but the people rose in revolt and swept him away: disguised as a monk, he made a miraculous escape with his wife and son when the rebels came for him.

The public accounts are so disastrous and confused that no one can manage to reconstruct the State budget. Taxes are kept high by public officials so that they can make money out of them, milking surreptitiously the entries in the Exchequer or else exacting bribes. The Royal finances are in such a parlous state that even the staff of the Alcazar go unpaid. At the same time, they increase the taxes on meat and oil for three weeks in order to pay the actors who celebrate the King's birthday.

The French burst into Catalonia. The Spanish army was routed on the river Ter; Palamos and Gerona are under occupation.

El Rey, who looks upon government as the Devil looks on holy water, spends his days in the gardens of the Buen Retiro picking punnets of raspberries.

In the streets, the host of wretches, beggars, petty thieves and homeless people has grown out of all proportion. The people are on their knees. The humblest foodstuffs are paid for with their weight in gold. Thefts, homicides and rapine are the order of the day. Taxes on bakers' goods are raised and the bakers go on strike. Madrid, already famished, is breadless. Flour can be found nowhere. To obtain a little, the English Ambassador has had to send out a squad armed to the teeth, or else his servants would be attacked. To work as a baker means running a daily risk of being robbed and killed.

The only thing that the hungry people get for a reply is the latest in a long line of announcements that the Queen is with child and Spain will soon have an heir to the Throne, but no one believes the Palace's lies.

The darkest day was a year ago, on 29th April 1699, when the furious mob came to the Alcazar, under the windows of the Royal Family. The Sovereign had to come out onto the balcony in person and only by a miracle did he succeed in calming the insurgents. At Court, all is turning to catastrophe.

The King is paralysed by fear and ready to do anything he is told. But no one can or will offer him counsel. The factions into which the Court is divided are so many hornets' nests in which everyone, even good friends, can expect nothing but ruin from the others. France and Austria blow secretly on the fire of wrath, ambition and envy.

I broke off my reading: footsteps seemed to be approaching in the corridor. In a flash, I put everything back in its place and rushed to the door, ready to make my escape. Alas, I was too late: Atto Melani was returning. Fortunately, he was alone.

I took refuge in Buvat's little room, praying God that the secretary would not return too soon, and from there I watched through the half-closed door. The first thing that the Abbot did was to remove his heavy grey wig, which — seeing how little cool there was even at that late hour — he snatched off with a grunt of satisfaction. He placed it on the appropriate stand which he put on his bedside table. Then, moaning with fatigue, he rapidly undressed. The hectic day which had just come to an end had sapped the Abbot's strength: he had retired to his apartment without waiting until the end of dinner, and now he had not even called a valet de chambre to remove his shoes.

Hidden in the little room, I had perforce to witness Atto's undressing. When he had stripped, I was surprised to observe a body which was, it is true, extremely mature, yet in excellent condition. His skin sagged and in several places fell into folds; his shoulders, however, were straight, and his legs, which were tense and agile, seemed to belong to one twenty years younger. Nowhere on his lower limbs were there those bluish marks which old age inevitably brings. Well, I thought, were it not so, Abbot Melani could not have borne the strain of those intense days of action.

"The Abbot is afraid of dying forgotten. But if he goes on like this, he will live a great deal longer and will do much. Surely, he will have all the time he needs to go down in history," I concluded, laughing inwardly.

Atto extinguished the lamp and, bathed only in moonlight, went to bed without even scraping off the ceruse, the beauty spots and the carmine red on his cheeks. Very soon, he began to snore loudly.

I was about to go on my way when 1 remembered that I still had not managed to find the most important thing: Atto and Maria's two last letters. The Abbot must have kept them on his person. What better time to find them?

I searched his clothes from top to bottom, even the heels of his shoes, but found nothing. Melani's teachings, together with the many and singular experiences which I had lived through at his side, had, however, sharpened my senses and my wits. Thus it was that, looking attentively all around me, I noticed a curious detail. Atto had placed his foppish periwig, not on the dressing table, as he should normally have done, but on his bedside table; as though he meant to keep watch over it even in his sleep…

Straining to avoid making the slightest noise, an effort which caused me to break into a copious sweat, I succeeded in my undertaking: the letters were in an unlikely secret pocket inside the wig, in the starched web to which were attached the curled locks of artificial hair. The elaborate choice of hiding place left no room for doubt: the Abbot feared greatly that someone might get at these letters. Of course, said I to myself, how could one blame him after all the misadventures with the cerretani? So much care might, however, mean that the content of those letters was far more delicate than the previous messages, and perhaps even too hot to handle.

To my surprise, there were not two but five letters. At a snail's pace, cursing the creaking wooden floor, I at last moved away from the bed in which Abbot Melani was sleeping.

Three of the letters seemed rather old. Curious, I opened one of them. It was the ending of a letter written in Spanish, penned by a rather uncertain hand. Imagine my astonishment when I read the signature: yo el Rey*

It was a letter from the King of Spain, poor Charles II. It was dated 1685, some fifteen years before. Despite the extreme similarity between the Spanish language and Italian, the Sovereign's contorted and tortured handwriting did not allow me to understand anything of what he had written. I opened the two other papers, in search of the beginning of the letter, in order to be able to understand to whom it was addressed. Instead, to my astonishment, I saw that each consisted of the ending of a letter written many years ago. Both were signed by the King of Spain, and here too I was unable to understand the contents.

What was the meaning of those truncated pages? And why ever were they in Abbot Melani's hands? They must be very important if he kept them hidden in his periwig.

Alas, I had very little time in which to reflect. There was something far more urgent to be done: to skim through Atto and Maria's two epistles and put them back in their place before Buvat's return.

Hardly had my eyes settled on the first page than I gave a start.

My dearest Friend,

I have learned the most surprising news which I am sure will surprise and interest you as much as it has me. His Holiness Pope Innocent XII has set up a special congregation for consultation on the Spanish question. It *"I the King". (Translator's note.) seems that the Pontiff, after a long period of hesitation, has at last given in to the pressing requests of the Spanish Ambassador Uzeda to give his opinion on El Rey's request, and has charged the Secretary of State, our benign Fabrizio Spada, together with the Secretary for Breves, Cardinal Albani, and the Chamberlain, Cardinal Spinola di San Cesareo, to study the situation with a view to preparing the Papal reply.

My heart was beating hard. Spada, Albani and Spinola: the same three eminences who had for days and days been meeting secretly at the Vessel and whose trail I and Atto had been trying in vain to follow. So the Spanish succession was the real reason they were meeting, not the conclave!

I raised my eyes from the letter, frowning. Why had not Atto run to tell me as soon as he had learned the news from Maria?

Feverishly, I skimmed through the letter. I stopped a little further on:

Thus, His Holiness has yielded to spirits more tenacious than his own. Will he have the necessary clarity of mind to act effectively on the King's behalf? Here, my friend, I begin once more to have my doubts. What does the Holy Father mean when, as you wrote, he is heard to moan: "We are denied the dignity which is due to the Vicar of Christ and there is no care for us"?

I switched rapidly to Atto's reply, which gave me even more food for thought:

Most Clement Madame,

I have known for some time of the congregation of the three cardinals responsible for drawing up an opinion on the Spanish Question. The matter is common knowledge here in Rome, at least in well-informed circles. If you were among us here at the festivities, you would already have learned of it…

I doubted those words. Did Atto perhaps want to make Maria believe that he had prior knowledge of everything, so as not to lose face? Melani's letter continued:

In reality, His Holiness had originally chosen Cardinal Panciati instead of Spinola, which would have been better for France, since Spinola is openly in favour of the Empire; but then the former was obliged to decline on grounds of poor health, so much so that he has not even been able to attend the delightful wedding at Villa Spada.

You were however informed most promptly, since the assignment will only be made officially tomorrow, on the 14th July.

No, Atto was pretending nothing to the Connestabilessa. He was telling the truth: to me, however, he had lied. From all these details, which he was setting forth with such confidence, it was clear that Atto had for some time been fully informed of the three cardinals' diplomatic manoeuvres following Charles of Spain's request for the Pope's assistance. But all this he had deliberately kept from me, and that, for a long time.

Then suddenly I remembered: what was it that I had heard those three spectators saying the evening before, just before the play began? The Spanish Ambassador, Count Uzeda, with the help of others, had at long last succeeded in convincing Pope Innocent XII. To do what, however, that they had not said. Nor had they mentioned the names of those who were supposed to have helped Uzeda by influencing His Holiness: they had only referred to "four sly foxes".

Now the Connestabilessa's letter made everything clear: plainly, Innocent XII did not wish to involve himself in the question of the Spanish succession, but he had in the end given in to pressure from the Spanish Ambassador. And who were the other "sly foxes" like him if not Albani, Spada and Spinola? That was why one of the trio, whom I had overheard the evening before, had silenced the others with the words " lupus in fabula" as soon as he had realised that Cardinal Spada was approaching.

In other words, the three eminences had used every means at their disposal to put pressure on the dying Pontiff to assign them the task of dealing with the question of the Spanish succession. But worst of all was the fact that when, on the day before — the 12th — Pope Pignatelli had let himself be convinced to set up the congregation, the three cardinals had already been meeting secretly at the Vessel for a week! Perhaps they were deciding on the tactics to adopt with the Holy Father.

To keep their meetings well hidden, what better cover than the wedding at Villa Spada? No one would become suspicious seeing them together, since Spada was the master of the house and both Albani and Spinola were among the guests. All that without counting the fact that they were so skilful in their manner of slipping away to the Vessel that the Abbot and I had never managed to catch them in flagrante during their meetings there.

All in all, it seemed that the poor old Pope no longer counted for anything, as the three guests had commented the evening before.

I felt bitter about this: alas, it meant that Spada, in his capacity as Secretary of State, was in all probability one of those (together with the Secretary for Breves, Albani, and the Chamberlain, Spinola di San Cesareo) about whom the Pontiff complained that he was denied the dignity due to the Vicar of Christ and treated inconsiderately, as the Connestabilessa had mentioned on no fewer than two separate occasions in her letters to Atto.

What was the Abbot's role in all this? Now that was clear: Melani's purpose was to spy on the trio, not with a view to the conclave but in order to know whether or not what they decided for the Spanish succession was favourable to France; and perhaps to hold himself at the ready to act on his King's behalf. Had I not read his correspondence with Maria, I would have remained in the dark about all this.

Discouraged and humiliated, I continued reading:

… and yet you must not think that His Holiness is in bad hands. From such information as I have been able to gather, he is perfectly and disinterestedly assisted by the Secretary of State, by the Secretary for Breves and by the Chamberlain, who look after all affairs of State with the greatest of care and solicitude. As I have already had occasion to write to you, they have in no way taken the crosier from His Holiness's hand but are only carrying out the difficult task with which the Pontiff has been so good as to entrust them, a task which they accepted humbly and with joy. Fear not.

So tense did I become at this juncture that I came close to crushing the letter between my fingers, leaving the mark of my clandestine reading. Such impudence! Not only did Atto know perfectly well what those three cardinals were up to during their secret meetings at the Vessel (despite the fact that he had never succeeded in finding them there) but he was speaking of it in unctuous, mellifluous terms. And this despite the fact that among the three was Cardinal Albani, in other words one of the Abbot's bitterest enemies: the one who, only the evening before, thanks to Ugonio's information, we had discovered to be in cahoots with Lamberg. The whole thing was really rather strange; what was Abbot Melani hiding?

Continuing my reading, however, I found that the subject changed suddenly:

But enough of this futile chatter! You know all too well how easily I immerse myself in vanities social and political when she who speaks (or writes) to me of such matters is the sweetest, noblest and most enchanting of Princesses one could ever desire to serve. You ought to amuse me with the most superficial of stratagems, even then you would effortlessly ensnare me, for all that issues forth from your mouth, as from your pen, is sublime, enchanting and worthy of love.

But now it is time to pass on to serious matters. Most clement and dearly beloved Madame, how much longer will you deny yourself the delights of Villa Spada? Barely two days remain before the withering away of the festivities, and still I have not been vouchsafed the Grace of kneeling at your feet. Nor do you even tell me now whether you have been restored to health or when you will be arriving. Do you want my death?

But if, with your compassion

All the dear softness which was born with you

Be not extinguished quite, deny me not

This one request (although thy soul be cruel,

'Tis lovely too) to my last farewell sigh

Return but one, and then will death be pleasing.

What envious god causes you to turn your back on Lidio and disdain his requests? You know full well: if I am here, 'tis only because you promised Lidio that you would come.

Here was the truth. How could I have doubted it? He loved her and his love was mingled with that of his king, of whom Atto was but the old messenger. And when he returned to the subject of Eros, the Abbot betrayed the fact that all other things were merely a pretext for conversing, even if only on paper, with the object of his feelings.

No, there was no mystery here, save that of the lasting love that joined three old persons. The Abbot, it was true, had been reticent with me about the question of the Spanish succession, persuading me that the three cardinals were meeting to prepare the next conclave. Yet it was also true that the matter was extremely delicate, and Atto had therefore preferred to keep me in the dark. I well remembered from the days when we had met at the Locanda del Donzello, how the Abbot had been prodigal with the most stupefying revelations concerning events distant in time, while he carefully kept the truth about his manoeuvres and projects of the moment to himself. When all was said and done, what else could I expect of a veteran spy? I had to yield to the facts: Abbot Melani would always keep something from me, if only out of his inborn mistrustfulness and the complicated workings of his mind.

So it was with new eyes that I reconsidered Melani's letter which I had just read, and now I no longer found it so suspect. For example, might not the obsequious tone employed by Atto when speaking of Albani be due to the Abbot's fear that someone might read his letters and realise that he was spying on the three cardinals for the Most Christian King?

Now it was time for me to be on my way. I left the three letters where I had found them, in the Abbot's wig. The love verses, however, by their very nature resistant to all human will, accompanied me far on my way. They perpetuated the motionless dance of the rhymes along the way home to my bed, where I took out one last time the Cavaliere Guarini's Faithful Shepherd and sought those lines. When at length I found them playing on the lips of Silvio and Dorinda, I smiled at that final confirmation of the truth, for once kinder than my fears. Atto, Atto, although thy soul be cruel, 'tis lovely too,

I found myself repeating this in that confused whirlpool which precedes sleep, and later, in the mystery of the night hours when the soul feeds on shadows and vain images and loves to discover itself immortal.