Secretum

Evening the First

7th J ULY, 1700

The sun was setting when sounds awoke us. The park of the Villa Spada was now becoming animated by the strolling and conversations of the guests who wandered about admiring the scenic constructions which would, two days hence, provide a worthy setting for the Rocci-Spada wedding, and the echo of voices reached even into our little thicket.

"Eminence, permit me to kiss your hands."

"My dearest Monsignor, what a pleasure to encounter you!" came the reply.

"And what pleasure is mine, Eminence!" said a third voice.

"You too, here?" resumed the second speaker. "My dearest, most esteemed Marchese, I am almost speechless for joy. But wait, you have not given me time to salute the Marchesa!"

"Eminence, I too would kiss your hands," echoed a feminine voice.

As I would later be able to tell without a moment's hesitation (having seen them time and time again during those festive days), those who were thus exchanging compliments were the Cardinal Durazzo, Bishop of Faenza, whence he had just arrived, Monsignor Grimaldi, President of the Victualling Board, and the Marchese and Marchesa Serlupi.

"How went your journey, Eminence?"

"Eh, eh, 'twas somewhat fatiguing, what with the heat. I leave you to imagine. But as God willed it, we did arrive. I came only out of the love I bear the Secretary of State, let that be clear. I am no longer of an age for such entertainments. Too hot for an old man like me."

"Indeed yes, it is so hot," assented the Monsignor condescendingly

"One seems almost to be in Spain, where they tell me 'tis so very torrid that it feels almost like fire," said the Marchese Serlupi.

"Oh no, in Spain one is very well indeed, I retain the most excellent memory of that land. A splendid memory, of that I can assure you. Oh! Excuse me, I have just seen an old friend. Marchesa, my compliments!"

I saw Cardinal Durazzo, followed by a servant, break off somewhat brusquely the conversation which he had only just begun and move immediately away from the trio to approach another eminence whom I was later to recognise as Cardinal Barberini.

"Now really, that allusion…" I heard Marchesa Serlupi upbraiding her husband.

"What allusion? I didn't mean to say anything…"

"You see, Marchese," said Monsignor Grimaldi, "if Your Benevolence will permit me to explain, Cardinal Durazzo, before receiving his cardinal's hat, was Nuncio to Spain."

"And so?"

"Well, it seems — but this is of course only gossip — that His Eminence was not at all appreciated by the King of Spain and, what is more, and this however is certain truth, the kinsfolk whom he brought in his train were assaulted by persons unknown, and one of them died of his wounds. So, you can imagine, with the times in which we are living…"

"What do you mean?"

Monsignor Grimaldi glanced indulgently at the Marchesa.

"It means, dearest husband of mine," she broke in impatiently, "that since His Eminence is among the papabili, the likely candidates at the forthcoming conclave, he takes umbrage at even the slightest reference to the Spaniards, for that could put an end to his election. We spoke of these things at our home only two days ago, if I am not mistaken."

"I really cannot be expected to remember everything," grumbled the Marchese Serlupi, feeling bewildered as he realised the faux pas he had just made before a possible future pontiff, while his wife took her leave of Monsignor Grimaldi with a smile of benevolent forbearance and the latter greeted another guest.

That was the first occasion on which I became fully aware of the true character of the festivities which were about to begin. Abbot Melani was right. Though all in the villa seemed designed for revelry and to divert the mind away from serious matters, yet the hearts and minds of the participants were focused on the affairs of the day: above all, on the imminent conclave. Every discourse, every phrase, every single syllable was capable of causing the eminences and princes present to jump in their seats as though prodded with a spike. They had come pretending to seek distractions, while in reality they were present at the villa of the Secretary of State only in order to seek their own advancement, or that of the powers which they served.

At that very moment, I realised that the personage whom Monsignor Grimaldi had gone to greet was none other than Car dinal Spada himself, who, after duly saluting Grimaldi, continued on a tour of inspection accompanied by his Major-Domo, Don Paschatio Melchiorri. Despite his purple cardinal's cape, I had almost failed to recognise Fabrizio Spada, so furious was his countenance; he seemed nervous and distracted.

"And the theatre? Why is the theatre not yet ready?" fumed the Secretary of State, panting at the heat as he walked from the little grove towards the great house.

"We have almost attained the optimum, Your Eminence, that is to say, we have made great progress and we have practically resolved, almost resolved the problem of the…"

"Signor Major-Domo, I do not want progress, I want results. Do you or do you not realise that the guests are already arriving?"

"Your Eminence, yes, of course, nevertheless…"

"I cannot see to everything, Don Paschatio! I have other matters on my mind!" snapped the Cardinal, at once exasperated and disconsolate.

The Major-Domo nodded and bowed agitatedly without suc ceeding in getting in a single word.

"And the cushions? Have the cushions been sewn?"

"Almost, almost completely, Your Eminence, only a very few…"

"I see, they are not ready. Am I to seat the aged members of the Holy College on the bare ground?"

With these words, Cardinal Spada, followed by a throng of servants and retainers, turned his heel on poor Don Paschatio, who remained immobile in the middle of the avenue, unaware that he was being observed by me as he dusted down his shoes which were bedaubed with mire.

"Heavens, my shoes!" muttered Buvat, rising with a start at the sight of Don Paschatio's gesture. "I was meant to go and fetch them."

It was, however, by then too late to fetch his shoes at Palazzo Rospigliosi and so, jumping lightly to my feet, I suggested that we should, taking unfrequented byways, make our way discreetly to the attic of the great house, where we could be sure of finding a servant willing to lend him a pair in better condition than his own.

"A lackey's footwear!" mumbled Buvat with a hint of shame, while we hurriedly piled the remains of our picnic into the basket, "but they will surely be better than my own."

With the rolled-up piece of jute under my arm, we turned furtively away from where we could hear voices. We took care to keep to the edge of the park, far from the festive lights, moving along the rim of the dark slope that led down to the vineyard of the villa. Aided and abetted by twilight, we had no difficulty in reaching the service entrance of the house.

Once Buvat was, for a modest consideration, shod with a fine pair of livery shoes in black patent leather with bows, we hurried to our appointment with Abbot Melani. We had no need even to knock at his door: the Abbot, bewigged, powdered and resplendent with ribbons and ruffles, wearing embroidered satin ceremonial dress, his cheeks shining with carmine red and dotted with black beauty spots after the French fashion (and not at all small, but large, ridiculous ones) awaited us on the threshold, nervously ill-treating his walking-cane. I noticed that he was wearing white stockings instead of his usual red abbot's hose.

"Where the deuce have you been hiding, Buvat? I have been waiting for you for over an hour. You would not wish me to come down unaccompanied like a plebeian, would you? All the other guests are already in the garden: explain to me why I came here. Was it to look down from the window at the Marchese Serlupi chattering blissfully away with Cardinal Durazzo, while I rot here in my chamber?"

The Abbot's gaze was drawn suddenly to the shine which the lackey's shoes worn by his secretary gave off in the candle-light.

"Say nothing. I do not wish to know," he warned, raising his eyes heavenward, when Buvat most unwillingly resigned himself to explaining what had happened.

Thus they set off, without Melani paying the slightest attention to my presence. As Buvat nodded to me in sorrowful commiseration, Atto turned to me without stopping and gestured that I was to follow him.

"Keep your eyes open, my boy. Cardinal Spada is Secretary of State, and if anything important is unfolding, I am sure that you will know how to catch the scent of it. We are certainly not interested in his arguments with his Major-Domo."

"In truth, I never promised to spy on your behalf."

"You will have to spy on nothing whatever. In any case, you would not be capable of it. You have only to make good use of your eyes, ears and brain. That's all you need to know the world. Now, get on with it. That is all. Tomorrow at dawn, here in my chambers."

How eager the Abbot was, I noted, to join in the conversations with the other illustrious guests of the Spada family, and certainly not from any desire for distraction. Yet it was clear that he had, from his window, overheard Cardinal Fabrizio rebuking Don Paschatio and he would thus have noted the singular apprehensiveness of the Secretary of State. Perhaps that was why he had made me that last recommendation: to keep my eyes well trained on the master of the house.

That night, I thought, it would be better to stay at the great house, seeing that I had an appointment with Atto at a very early hour on the morrow, but above all, because my Cloridia was not at home. To sleep in our empty bed was for me the worst of torments. Better then that I should sleep on the improvised couch that awaited me in the servants' hall under the eaves.

I was on my way down to offer my last services to the Major-Domo when I remembered that I had left my gardener's apron and tools behind in Atto's lodgings. The Abbot would not, I thought, mind if I entered briefly to retrieve it. I obtained permission from one of the valets de chambre to take the keys to Melani's apartment. I had worked long enough among the villa's servants for them to trust me blindly.

Having entered and taken my apron, I was about to leave again when my attention was caught by what lay on Atto's bureau: a neat pile of absorbent powder and, nearby, two broken goose plumes. The Abbot must have written much, and in a great state of excitation, during our absence that afternoon. Only a fevered hand could have twice broken a pen. Might this have something to do with the letter which he had received and which had so perturbed him?

I glanced out of the window. Abbot Melani and Buvat were moving down one of the walks in the garden. They were on the point of disappearing from view when I remembered that a short while before I had, without being certain of recognising it, glimpsed a device in Atto's lodgings. I looked around me. Where could he have hidden it? On the dining chair, that was it. I was not mistaken. It was a telescope. Although I had never held one in my hands, I knew what these things looked like and how they functioned, for in Rome the celebrated Vanvitelli used similar devices to paint his famous and wonderful views of the city.

So I took the telescope and brought it to my eye, pointing it at the figures of Atto and his secretary now receding in the distance. I was surprised and delighted by the miraculous power of that machine, capable of rendering distant things near and minute things large. Thus, like wit, to cite Father Tesauro, it is able to render interesting that which is tedious, and gay, that which is sad. Flushing with emotion, with my eyelids still recoiling from the hard metal of the device, I aimed in error at the indigo of the sky and then at the green of the vegetation, at last succeeding in pointing its powerful regard in the right direction.

I saw Atto stop and bow deeply to a pair of cardinals, then to a noblewoman accompanied by two young ladies. Buvat, with a glass of his beloved wine already in one hand, tripped over a piece of wood and came close to falling against the noble lady. Melani went to great lengths to present his excuses to the three ladies, then upbraided Buvat discreetly but bitterly, while the latter, after setting down his glass, brushed the soil clumsily from his black stockings. It was not, however, easy to move along the drives; all around were the usual comings and goings of lackeys, servants and labourers, while the walks still had not been cleared of materials and refuse from the works for the construction of the theatre, the ephemeral architectural effects, the open-air tables, not to mention the gardening and irrigation works.

No sooner had I seen Atto and Buvat meet and talk to another pair of gentlemen than I decided. This was the opportune moment. If the French wolf had found his way into the sheepfold of the little Spanish lambkins, that gave me the chance now to spy out the wolf's lair.

To tell the truth, I was rather ashamed of my idea. The Abbot had taken me into his service, paying me handsomely. I was therefore beset by some hesitation. Yet, said I to myself at length, I may perhaps be more useful if I know better the requirements of my temporary master: including those which, for whatever reason, he had not yet revealed to me.

I therefore began to explore the apartment with some circumspection in search of the letters, or more probably one single letter which the Abbot had penned with such passion during our absence. I was certain that he had not yet had it sent; Buvat who, as the Abbot had already told me also copied his letters, had returned too late to produce a copy for Atto's archives, in accordance with the common practice among gentlemen. This was evident from the fact that I found no traces of sealing wax on the bureau, and the table candle (on which Atto would have had to heat the wax to seal his letter) was still uncut.

I searched fruitlessly. In Atto's trunk and among the things in the two wardrobes with which his apartment was furnished there was, on the face of it, no trace of the missives. Next to a geographical map and the manuscript of a number of cantatas, I came upon a little folder of commentaries on items of news. It was a set of notices and flyers from gazettes, heavily marked and annotated by the Abbot. They dealt for the most part with matters pertaining to the Holy College of Cardinals, and a number of Atto's notes referred to events far back in time. It was, in substance, a collection of gossip on the relations between the various eminences, on their rivalries, the tricks played on each other during conclaves, and so on and so forth. I found no little amusement in perusing them, however rapidly.

Spurred on by the scant time at my disposal, I soon took my search further. I opened a little medicine chest which, however, revealed only creams and ointments, a perfume for wigs and a bottle of the Queen of Hungary's Water; then, a second chest with a little mirror, a brooch, metal-tipped cords, a belt and two watch dials. I found nothing, nothing. My heart leapt suddenly when, lifting a woollen cloth, I discovered a pistol. Seventeen years earlier, he had got the better of our adversaries by disguising a pipe as a pistol, succeeding perfectly in deceiving the enemy. Now, however, he must truly fear for his own safety, said I to myself, if he has decided to travel armed.

After looking through shoes and purses, I began unwillingly to rummage through clothing; as usual, the Abbot had brought with him enough to last ten years. I diligently perused the long series of greatcoats, collars, short coats, hussar-style cloaks and cloaks in the Brandenburg style, capes and capouches, sashes and jabots in pleated Venetian lace, breeches, cuffs, mantles of pleated silk and long stockings. My rough hands smoothed the precious silks, the shining satins, the twills, the chamois leathers, the suedes, the damasks, the silk taffeta, the grograms, the striped and flowered linens, the ermines, with silks patterned or damasked, or in the Florentine style, the ferrandine silk and wool blends, the doublets, the brocaded cloth of gold and silver, the satins, shiny or quilted, the Milanese salia and the Genoese sateen. My eyes scanned the most recherche hues, from mouse-grey, pearl, fire, musk rose, dried roses, to speckled colours, scarlets, black cherry, dove-grey, jujube-red, berrettino grey, nacre, tawny, milky white, moire and gris castor, and the silver and gold foil and thread of fringes and braiding.

Among all that rich attire, the mauve-grey soutane in which Abbot Melani had appeared to me on that day, after so many years' silence, seemed distinctly out of place. With surprise, I saw that there were in fact no other outmoded items of apparel in that sumptuous wardrobe; on the contrary. I quickly realised that Atto had worn it deliberately for my sake, so that the sudden change in his manner of dress should not add to the gradual erosion which time effects upon faces and to ensure that his appearance today should correspond as far as possible to my memory. In other words, he knew how much I had missed him and wished to make a strong impression.

Still uncertain whether I should be grateful to him or resentful (it depended from which viewpoint one chose to consider the matter), I examined the soutane, which, I confess, was for me not without precious and distant memories of my youth. On its breast I felt something which I took initially for a jewel of some sort, but it turned out to be sewn onto the inside. Examining the lining of the soutane, I discovered not without extreme surprise a small scapular of the Madonna of the Carmel, the miraculous little scapular which the Most Holy Virgin had promised would, if worn on one's person, free the wearer from the torments of purgatory on the first Saturday after their death. What had, however, captured my attention were three little protuberances: in a tiny bag sewn onto the scapular, exactly at the level of the heart, were three little pearls.

I recognised them at once: they were the three margaritae, the Venetian pearls which had played so important a part in the last stormy discussion between Atto and myself seventeen years earlier at the Inn of the Donzello, before we lost sight of one another. Only now did I learn that Atto had lovingly gathered them up from the floor where I had thrown them down in a rage, and kept them; and, for all these years, he had worn them close to his heart, perhaps in a mute prayer to the Holy Virgin…

The thought crossed my mind that Atto must not have worn the scapular with my little pearls every single day, since he had now left them hanging inside the soutane in the wardrobe. It was, however, also true that he had found me again, so perhaps he now considered his vow to have come to an end. Ah, rascal of an abbot, I protested inwardly, while yielding to emotion at discovering myself to be so dear to him; for all my old bitterness, I too still loved him from the depths of my soul, there was no use in denying that now. And if my feelings — with which I had lived uneasily for almost two decades — had not been extinguished by his most recent misdeeds, very well, I must then perhaps resign myself to that love.

I reproved myself severely for having wanted to spy on him, yet, when I was on the point of leaving shamefully, I stopped on the threshold, hesitating; I was no longer a child, the movements of my heart no longer obscured the light of the intellect. And the intellect was now whispering in my ear that, in any case, one could place but little trust in Atto.

It was thus that my state of mind altered yet again. Were it only for myself, I began to reason, never would I have dared violate the Abbot's privacy. Yet Atto's deep affection for me, as mine for him, must not make me forget the task I had assumed, namely to keep a diary of his words and deeds during those days, which might in all probability (of this I was certain) involve all manner of risks and pitfalls. What if someone were to accuse him of being in Rome in order to spy and to disrupt the proceedings of the forthcoming conclave? Such a danger was not that remote, given that he himself had made no mystery of his desire to protect the interests of the Most Christian King of France at the election of the next pontiff. This might also affect Cardinal Spada, my master and his unsuspecting host. It was therefore not only my right, I concluded, but my bounden duty, also toward my beloved family, to know both the nature and extent of the risks to which I was likely to be exposed.

With my scruples thus silenced, I therefore resumed my search. One last inspection under and behind the bed, on top of the wardrobes, under the cushions of the armchairs and the little brocatelle sofa ornamented with golden plumes proved fruitless. Behind the pictures, nothing; nor was there any sign of anyone having opened them to conceal anything between the canvas and the frame. Further investigations into the remaining anfractuosities of the apartment likewise yielded nothing. Buvat's few personal effects in the modest adjoining chamber concealed even less.

Yet I knew for a fact that Atto travelled, as I well recalled from our first encounter, with a fair quantity of paper. The times had changed, and I with them. Atto, however, had not; at least, not in the habits arising from his natural bent for intrigue and adventure. In order to act, he must know. In order to know, he must remember, and for that purpose he needed the letters, memoirs and notes which he carried with him, the living archive of a lifetime of spying.

It was then that, breaking off the pointless exercise of eyes and muscles, intent upon the search for the hidden papers, I had a flash of inspiration: specifically, a reminiscence from seventeen years before, a distant yet still vivid memory of how Atto and I had, by night, retraced the key to the mystery which had wound us in its coils. This had consisted of papers, and these we had found in a place to which instinct and logic (as well as good taste) had hitherto failed to lead us: within a pair of soiled drawers.

"You have underestimated me, Abbot Melani," I murmured to myself as, for the second time, I opened the basket of dirty clothes and groped, no longer among but inside them. "How very imprudent of you, Signor Atto, said I with a self-satisfied grin when, feeling inside a pair of Holland drawers, I felt crumpling beneath my fingers a bundle of papers. I grasped the drawers; the lining was not sewn but attached to the main body of the item of apparel by a series of minuscule hooklets. Once I had unfastened the latter, I could reach into the space between the two layers of stuff. This I did, and found my fingertips touching a wide, flat object. I extracted it. It was a parchment envelope, tied with a ribbon. It was well designed, in such a way as to contain a number of papers, and only those; in other words, it was as flat as a pancake. In silent triumph, I turned it over in my hands.

Not much time remained to me. Atto was certainly keen to explore the villa and to meet the other guests who, like him, had arrived early for the wedding. It would, however, take only some necessity on his part to return to his apartment for the Abbot to surprise me. I was spying upon a spy: I must move swiftly.

I undid the bow. Before opening it I noted on the cover, written near the bottom in a minuscule hand, an inscription so tiny that it seemed destined only to be to be found by an eye already aware of its existence:

Spanish succession — Maria

I opened the envelope. A set of letters, all addressed to Melani, but all unsigned. The agitated, irregular calligraphy which appeared before my eyes seemed incapable of repressing any emotion. The lines were not, so to speak, confined by the margins of the page; the additions which the writer's hand had inserted into a number of sentences curled their way into the following lines. Moreover, this writing belonged without any possible doubt to a feminine hand. It seemed clearly to be that of the mysterious Maria: the name which I had overheard Atto sighing.

What the Spanish succession might be, I was soon to learn in great detail from those letters. The first letter, which seemed to be deliberately imprecise, so as to betray neither the identity of the writer nor morsels of news that might be too pleasing to unfriendly eyes, began, as I recall, as follows:

My dearest Friend,

Here I am, already in the environs of Rome. Things are moving fast. I learned during a halt something of which you will already be apprised: a few days ago the Spanish Ambassador, the Duke of Uzeda, obtained a double audience with the Pope. On the day after he had attended the Holy Father in order to thank him for conferring a Cardinal's hat on his compatriot Monsignor Borgia, Uzeda received by special courier an urgent dispatch from Madrid, which induced the Duke to request yet another audience with His Holiness. He delivered a letterfrom the King of Spain, containing an entreaty: El Rey requests a mediation by Innocent XII on the question of the Succession!

On the same day, our mutual friend the Secretary of State Cardinal Fabrizio Spada was seen to visit the Duke of Uzeda at the Spanish Embassy in Piazza di Spagna. The affair must have reached a turning point.

Since I was not in the habit of reading gazettes, the question of the Spanish succession was not at all familiar to me. The mysterious correspondent, however, seemed very well informed.

I imagine that all Rome must be chattering about it. Our young Catholic King of Spain, Carlos II, is dying without heirs. El Rey is departing, my friend, ever more evanescent are the traces of his brief and dolorous sojourn on this earth; but no one knows to whom his immense kingdom will pass.

I remembered that Spain included Castile, Aragon, the overseas possessions and colonies, as well as Naples and Sicily: a multitude of territories.

Shall we, ev 'ry one of us, be equal to the onerous task that awaits us? O, Silvio, Silvio! who in thine early years hast found the fates propitious, I tell thee, too early wit has ignorance for fruit.

I was utterly astonished. Why in the letter was Atto called by the name of Silvio? And whatever could those expressions signify which seemed to accuse Abbot Melani of ignorance and immaturity of mind?

The letter then came to an end on a no less cryptic note:

Tell Lidio that with respect to that whereon he questions me, I have no answer to give. He knows why.

I continued reading. Attached to the letter was a precise summary in the form of an appendix:

A Conspectus Of The Present State Of Affairs

It contained a mixture of information and, in sum, detailed the troubled progress of the Spanish succession in recent times.

Spain is in decline and no one thinks of the Catholic King with the same just terror as when the mind turns to the Most Christian King of France, Louis the Fourteenth, First-born Son of the Church. Yet the Sovereign of Spain by the Grace of God is King of Castile, of Aragon, of Toledo, Galicia, Seville, Granada, Cordoba, Nursia, Jaen, of the Algharbs of Algeciras, Gibraltar, the Canary Isles, the Indies, and of the Islands and Terra Firma of the Mare Oceanum, of the North, of the South, of the Philippines and of whatsoever other islands or Lands have been or may yet be discovered. And, through the Crown of Aragon, the Heir will succeed to the Throne of Valencia, Catalonia, Naples, Sicily, Majorca, Minorca and Sardinia; without counting the State of Milan, the Duchies of Brabant, of Limburg, Luxembourg, Guilderland, Flanders and all the other Territories which in the Nether Lands belong or may belong to El Rey. He who sits on the Throne of Spain will truly be the Master of the World.

The King of Spain, or El Rey, as he was called by the mysterious epistler, was dying without direct heirs and this was what rendered so difficult the problem of determining who was to inherit all those enormous possessions scattered across the whole world, which made of the Spanish crown the globe's greatest kingdom. Until not long ago, as I learned from the remainder of the letter, there had in fact been an heir designated for the succession to the Spanish throne: this was the young Prince Elector of Bavaria, Joseph Ferdinand, who was in terms of blood relationships without a doubt best entitled to succeed to the throne of Spain. Yet, little over a year before, Joseph Ferdinand had suddenly died: a death so unexpected and so weighed down with consequences that a suspicion of poisoning at once spread through the courts of Europe.

There now remained two possibilities: the dying Sovereign of Spain, Charles II, could name as his heir a nephew of the French Sovereign, Louis XIV or a subject of the Emperor of Austria, Leopold I. Both solutions, however, were beset with risks and uncertainties. In the first case, France, which was the most feared military power in Europe, would also become the greatest monarchy in Europe and in the world, uniting de facto with its own overseas possessions those of the crown of Spain. In the second case, if Charles were to nominate a subject of Vienna, this would signify the rebirth of that empire which only the glorious Charles V had been able to unite under his sway: from Vienna to Madrid, from Milan to Sicily, from Naples to the distant Americas.

This second hypothesis was the more probable of the two, for Charles II was a Habsburg like Leopold of Austria.

Hitherto, the letter went on to explain, France had succeeded in maintaining equilibrium with its enemies (meaning, all the other states of Europe). The peace with Spain was indeed long-standing; and with England and Holland a pact had been agreed for the future partition of the enormous Spanish possessions, seeing that it had long been realised that Charles II was in no condition to have children. When, however, the partition pact had been made public, about a month previously, the Spaniards became furious: the King of Spain could not accept that the other states should be preparing to divide his kingdom among themselves as the centurions divided the raiment of Our Lord on the cross.

The report therefore concluded:

If El Rey dies now, there is a risk that the situation may become explosive. The pact of partition has become too difficult to implement. On the other hand, France cannot accept encirclement by the Empire. Nor can the others, from the Emperor Leopold I to the King of England and the Dutch heretic William of Orange, allow her to swallow Spain in a mouthful.

The next letter was written in another hand; it was Atto's reply, for which I had searched so hard. As I expected, it was not yet sealed, pending Buvat's preparation of a copy for the Abbot's archives:

Most Clement Madame,

As you well know, in these months, the Ambassadors of all the Powers and their Sovereign Lords are losing their heads utterly because of the Spanish Succession. All ears and all eyes are constantly on the lookout, hungry for news and for secrets to seize from the other Powers. All gravitates around the Ambassadors of Spain, France and the Empire; or Penelope and her two Suitors. All three Kingdoms await the opinion of the Pope concerning the Succession: France or the Empire? What will be the advice of His Holiness to the Catholic King? Will he choose the Duke of Anjou or the Archduke Charles?

All was now clear to me: in Rome would be decided the fate of the Spanish Empire. Evidently, all three powers were prepared to accept the judgement of the Holy Father. The noblewoman's letter had, in fact, spoken of mediation by the Pontiff, not of an opinion.

Here in Rome, the air is pregnant with a thousand turmoils. All this is further complicated by the fact that, as you know, all three Ambassadors of the great Powers, namely Spain, France and the Empire, are new to these parts. Count Leopold Joseph von Lamberg, Ambassador of His Caesarean Majesty Leopold I of Habsburg, Holy Roman Emperor, arrived here some six months ago.

The Duke of Uzeda, a sharp-witted Spaniard, has been in post for about a year.

The same is true of the French diplomatic representative, Louis Grimaldi, Duke of Valentinois and Prince of Monaco, a great polemicist, who does more harm than good and has already argued with half Rome over stupid questions of etiquette. So much so that His Majesty has been obliged to pull his ears and remind him above all to cultivate fruitful relations with the nation whose guest he is.

That one can do little for France. Fortunately, the Most Christian King need not count only on him.

But let us change the subject to ourselves. I hope that you are now in perfect health and will ever continue so to be. Alas, I cannot say the same of myself. Today, upon my arrival at the Villa Spada, a bizarre incident befell me: I was stabbed in the right arm by a stranger.

And here the Abbot, in truth exaggerating a little, dwelt at some length upon the blood which had stained his white shirt and the operations of the chirurgeon which he had borne heroically, and so on and so forth, rising to a paroxystic crescendo…

Ah, cruel stilet which pierced my tender side… Alas I'm tired! This painful wound makes me so weak I can't support me longer. The wound still stabs at me, and that most grievously.

Did Atto wish to impress this Maria? The tone of the letter seemed to conceal a seductive intent.

Abbot Melani went on to write that, despite the fact that the sergeant of the villa was certain that it had been only a beggar, he, Atto, feared that he had not been a mere accidental victim but rather the target of an attempt on his life organised by the opposing faction; for which reason he intended to request a private audience with Ambassador Lamberg as soon as he — who was also among the guests at the wedding of Cardinal Fabrizio's nephew — arrived at Villa Spada.

However, dear Friend, let us cure the wound and not the offence, for vengeance ne'er did heal a wound.

These revelations surprised me. I had noticed Atto's scepticism when I spoke to him of my conversation with Sfasciamonti; now, however, I discovered that Atto had very specific suspicions. Why had he not mentioned this to me? He could not fail to trust Buvat; he entrusted him with copying all his letters. Perhaps he did not trust me? This last supposition was however no less improbable: had he not paid me to be his chronicler? Nevertheless, I bethought myself, with Abbot Melani one could never be sure of anything…

The letter ended in honeyed tones, which I could scarce have imagined on the lips or pen of Atto Melani:

You cannot know how bitter was the Dolour inflicted on me by the Knowledge that you will tarry e'en longer at the Gates of Rome.

Ah, cruel one! If thou hast shot at me, 'twas thine own Mark, and proper for thine Arrow. The Letter, which gave the deadly Wound, obeyed the sure direction of your lovely Eye.

My Arm has once more begun to bleed and 'twill bleed on until it has the Joy and Honour to support Yours. Haste you then to the Villa Spada and to me, my most beloved Friend, or you will have me on your Conscience.

After the intolerably cloying sirop of those lines, I read a postil:

Even now, then, is Lidio's Felicity Nothing to you?

Here, once again, was that Lidio. I did not even ask myself who this stranger with the curious name might be. I was most unlikely to learn that unless I could first discover the identity of Abbot Melani's mysterious correspondent.

So, I summed up, this Maria was also expected at the Villa Spada. And she was late; that explained the frown on the face of Abbot Melani when he read her letter. I reflected that she must be a noblewoman of a certain age, given that Atto spoke to her as to an old friend. In the two letters, moreover, he made no mention of her family; it seemed indeed that she was travelling alone. She must truly be a personage of great importance, as well as of high rank, thought I, if they had dared invite her to the wedding unaccompanied: ancient and single noblewomen, whether or not they be widowed, generally enclose themselves in the isolation of prayer, when not indeed in cloister. They withdraw from society and no one dares disturb them save for pious works. This lady seemed, what is more, to be of a truly singular temperament to have accepted the invitation!

1 felt deeply curious to know her or at least to know who she might be. I glanced rapidly at the other letters in the bundle; they were hers, and they spoke of events in Spain. She must be Spanish; or perhaps an Italian (for she wrote my language so beautifully) who dwelt there or at any rate possessed great interests in that country. In all the epistles, the secret of the writer's identity was, alas, well preserved. I must therefore resign myself to awaiting her arrival at the villa, who knows when; either that, or discreetly interrogate Buvat.

I put off reading these letters to another day; I had profited unduly from the Abbot and his secretary's absence. I durst not risk discovery one moment longer.

As I had intended to do before my incursion into the Abbot's apartment, I returned downstairs in order to obtain something for supper and then to present myself to the Major-Domo.

I returned the keys to the Abbot's chambers to their proper place and was about to enter the kitchens when I saw the coachman who served Cardinal Fabrizio at the Apostolic Palace emerging all breathless and red in the face. I asked a Venetian milkmaid who frequented the villa and was on the point of leaving whether by any chance something had happened.

"No, 'tis nothing. 'Tis only Cardinal Spada who is always in a furious rush these days, for it seems there's much afoot at the Apostolic Palace. And it must be something really important to give him such a headache, that it must. His Eminency is always in such ill humour and the coachman is almost going out of his mind, what with carting the master back an' forth from a cardinal to an ambassador and then back again for some business about a papal bull or I know not what, and having to put up with his state of nerves."

I was dumbstruck. The power of women! This modest milkmaid had needed only the few minutes of her regular visit to the villa's kitchens to understand what it would have taken me a whole day, and much good fortune, to get wind of. I had come to realise this when my Cloridia became one of the most respected and sought-after midwives for Rome's noble matrons (and their maids): with all the news that she brought back home every day I could easily have filled a gazette.

"Ah, and please give my regards to the Signora your wife and a kiss to the little ones," added the milkmaid, as though she had been reading my thoughts. "You know, my sister's confinement has been going perfectly since la Cloridia brought that old goat of a brother-in-law of mine to reason. She's a really fine woman, your wife, you know."

Of course I knew that Cloridia was now not just a midwife but a veritable godmother: an authoritative and willing counsellor to whom women, both those of the people and society ladies, went for advice and assistance in the most intimate and delicate matters. From the education of the husband during his wife's pregnancy to the weaning of the infant: for every circumstance, my wife had a smile and the right words. Such was her ability that she was sometimes called upon by the famous medicus and chirurgeon Baiocco to assist him with confinements that took place within the ancient walls of the Fatebenefratelli Hospital on the island of San Bartolomeo on the Tiber.

Affable, gay, gracious, bantering, courageous, Cloridia always enheartened women with child, assuring them that they would give birth without much pain. She could tell that from many signs which, she swore, she had observed in others; the which, although untruths, were recommended even by Plato in The Republic for consoling the sick.

All in all, after fifteen years exercising the office of midwife, Cloridia was accorded by her women, and not only them, the respect due to a judge presiding over a family court.

Once I had quit the milkmaid, I found myself a place at a corner of the table where the servants were devouring their supper. While eating my meal in silence, I meditated upon Atto's words: to know the world, all you need is to make good use of your eyes, ears and brain. Was that not exactly what my Cloridia did too? I, however, was unable to do that, and I was perfectly aware of the fact; in this respect I had not progressed one iota since the days when I was a young and innocent apprentice at the Locanda del Donzello. In those days, inexperience played its part, but now I was, on the contrary, held back by an excess of accumulated experience which had prompted me to withdraw in disgust from the mean quotidian round of worldly affairs.

Perhaps my wife was right to reprove me for being a new Cincinnatus. It was true. Leaning upon my hoe and on Sundays over my books, I neither saw, heard nor ever asked myself questions. Even with the neighbours, I had been at pains never to form bonds of friendship, scarcely even of acquaintance. So much so that, whenever I happened to learn some news and to mention it to Cloridia in the evening, I would invariably receive the same reply: "Well, are you surprised? That's old hat. By now, everybody knows."

Mine was disdain for the world but also — yes, I must confess — fear of it, fear of the evil I had seen there.

Now, however, something had changed. The sudden reappearance of Abbot Melani had brought about an earthquake in my life. Cloridia would — I knew — mock me to scorn for allowing myself once more to be caught in Melani's gins. But what did that matter? I loved her so, even when she lashed me derisively with knowing words, as though I were a mere schoolboy. Besides, she'd not laugh so much at the twelve hundred scudi which my memoir had earned for us…

Yes, something had changed; although I remained a dwarf in body as in spirit, yet it was time now to disinter and put to good use those few talents which Divine Providence had given me. Of course, with Atto one knew where one was starting from but not where one would end up. On the other hand, as I had been able to discover from his scapular, old age had markedly increased the Abbot's fear of God.

How much did I really owe Abbot Melani? I owed him not only the disillusionment which had engendered so much mistrust in me, but also such good things as had happened in my poor life: Cloridia, above all. If the Abbot had not come seventeen years earlier to upset the rhythm of my days and those of the other lodgers at the Locanda del Donzello, never would I have approached my beloved wife, and she herself would have remained caught up forever in the turbid profession in which I had found her. Neither would I ever have been able to acquire the science of men's thought nor indeed knowledge of the affairs of the world, wherewith I was now measuring that world. It was, without a doubt, a most bitter science, but one which had from a tremulous lad forged a man.

After supper, I set such thoughts aside and, as I rose from the table, I began once again to reflect upon the latest news. Going by the information I had received from the milkmaid, I must acknowledge that Abbot Melani was right. On the upper storeys of the Apostolic Palace of Monte Cavallo, important manoeuvres were taking place.

Barely had I had time to take my cordial leave of the chief cook and set foot outside the kitchen than a voice recalled me to my duties: "Signor Master of the Fowls!"

He who was now calling me by a title which in reality I did not deserve was just the man I sought: Don Paschatio Melchiorri, the Major-Domo.

Don Paschatio was above all things respectful of the prerogatives of those whose labour he, with the most pompous and dignified ceremoniousness, lovingly directed; and since in Don Paschatio's eyes the first attribute to be respected was the title, he had liberally endowed each of his subordinates with a title in keeping with the magnificence of the Spada household, which we all humbly and faithfully served. So it was that I, who more and more frequently supplied the aviary with feed and water, had become the Master of the Fowls. A peasant from the neighbourhood who, from time to time performed the duties of hoeing, weeding and manuring the flower beds was no longer to be called Giuseppe (his real name) in Don Paschatio's presence, but Master of the Hoe. The husbandman of the vineyard, Lorenzo, who provided the Villa Spada with golden clusters of grapes and white wine, was graced with the title of Master Viticulturist. With the passing of time, similar names had been granted by Don Paschatio to all the servants of the villa, down to the last and humblest day-labourers like myself. When Don Paschatio was doing his rounds, 'twas midst a veritable flowering of sonorous titles, like "Master of the Horse, good day to you, Sir!", "Master Deputy Bursar, good evening!", "Master Assistant Steward, good day to you, show me the luncheon table!", while those whom he addressed were merely a groom, a clerk assisting with kitchen supplies and one of the cook's assistants. And this he did, not out of love for rhetoric, but from the highest regard for the service of his lord. One could have asked Don Paschatio quite unceremoniously whether one could cut off a finger, yet he'd reflect before refusing. No one, however, could ever have asked him to deprive himself of the pleasure and the honour of devotedly and faithfully serving the distinguished and noble Spada family.

It so happened that Don Paschatio had overheard me that evening taking my leave of the Steward with the words "Farewell till tomorrow, chief!", which he found undignified and over-familiar: "You see, Signor Master of the Fowls," quoth he, upbraiding me with courteous gravity, as though to put me on guard against some danger, "the Steward commands the cook, the carver, the scullions and the kitchen barons as well, of course, as the bursars."

"Don Paschatio, I know, I…"

"Let me tell you, let me tell you, Signor Master of the Fowls. The good Steward must prepare the list of purchases for the bursar, and make sure that what is bought corresponds thereto, and that from the pantry it passes directly into the hands of the cook. The disposition of the provisions, which must…"

"Believe me, truly, I meant only to…" I interrupted in vain.

"… of the provisions, as I was saying, which must appear magnificent, both on the ordinary table and on the banqueting table, all of which depends upon the worthiness and good judgement of the Steward who, being excellent at his profession, makes little appear much and with sparse purchases can produce as fine a display of victuals as another less expert might manage, spending twice as much. For a steward who cannot perfectly order and administer will be cheated, which will be prejudicial to his own honour and to that of his master. Do you follow me, Signor Master of the Fowls?"

"Yes, Don Paschatio," I nodded resignedly.

"The Steward must so arrange matters that the viands are well kept, in order of time, so that they are served up at table in small quantities and promptly, so that they do not grow cold, and meet the master's desires; he must ensure that no strangers enter the pantry or the secret kitchen, where he commands, and sometimes not even members of the household. He must take great care in controlling that the comestibles which reach his lord's mouth are of the best quality and pass through as few hands as possible, so as to avoid any possibility of the dishes being spoiled or indeed even poisoned. The Steward, in sum, hold's his master's life in his hands."

"I understand your meaning, but I only permitted myself to salute.."

"Signor Master of the Fowls, having due regard to what I have just brought to your attention, I beg you to make your salutations in the manner prescribed by the rules of the Spada household and to address the Signor Steward with all due deference," said he in heartfelt tones, as though I had gravely offended the interested party who, at that moment, had very different matters on his mind.

"Very well, that I promise you, Signor Major-Domo," I replied, carried away by the abuse of appellations, even forgetting that I myself was wont always to address Don Paschatio by his name.

Don Paschatio's natural tendency was obviously accentuated in those days by the great preparations for the nuptials.

"Signor Master of the Fowls," said he at length, "a foreign gentleman, or so I am informed, one whom we have the honour of numbering among the guests of His Eminence Cardinal Spada, has of late requested your services. I know that he is a person of note and do not intend to interfere in the matter; nevertheless, I trust that you will be so good as to fulfil your duties, where these do not conflict with the requirements of the gentleman in question, with unaltered alacrity."

"Pardon me, but how did you know?" I asked in surprise.

"I have been notified, simply and… well, yes, I hope that I meet with your complaisant and responsible understanding," replied Don Paschatio.

It was clear that Atto, in order to be able to enjoy my services undisturbed during those days at the Villa Spada must have paid some sizeable gratuity, perhaps to the Major-Domo himself, thus acquiring for himself the reputation of a gentleman who can, if he so desires, be quite generous. I therefore informed Don Paschatio that I was at that moment at his service, if he so desired.

"But of course, Master of the Fowls," he replied with ill-concealed satisfaction, "there are indeed a number of tasks which you could fulfil, seeing that certain persons have, how shall I put it, betrayed their trust."

He explained to me that a number of servants had that afternoon inexplicably absented themselves, failing to nail the steps of the theatre's stairways, so that the work could not be completed on time, as Cardinal Spada had peremptorily ordered a few weeks previously. I knew the reason (perfectly trivial, in truth) for that desertion: they had met a group of country girls and had carried them off to gallivant amongst the vines outside the San Pancrazio Gate behind the Corsini's House of the Four Winds; a circumstance which I kept to myself, not so much in order to avoid being a tell-tale as not to aggravate the mood of Don Paschatio. The Master of the Household was already furious; yet again, he had been abandoned by his subordinates and the dressing-down which he had received from Cardinal Spada had left its mark on him.

"I have proposed to Cardinal Spada a list of subjects to be punished," said he, lying, not knowing that I had overheard his conversation with our master. "We are, however, in difficulties and we urgently need more hands. It would be most helpful if you, Master of the Fowls, could, drawing upon your versatility in serving this august Spada household, put on appropriate apparel — livery, to be exact — and take part in serving viands and beverages at table, as the guests of His Excellency may require. They are all now on the meadow near the fountain, and are just beginning to dine. I shall be near at hand. Go, then, I beg you."

I gave a start when the time came to don the livery: I was handed a white turban, a scimitar, a pair of oriental slippers, baggy pantaloons, a tunic and a great arabesque cummerbund to wear around my chest. The costume was, of course, three sizes too large for me.

Ah, but I had forgotten: it had been decided that the mise en scene for these dinners was to be in exotically oriental style, as, accordingly must be the liveries. The long gay plume that stood on my headdress showed beyond a doubt that this was the costume of a janissary, a member of the most powerful and terrible guards of the Grand Turk. And this was as nothing when compared to what I was to see later.

After donning this Turkish uniform, I was handed two great silver chargers for serving the first cold course: fresh figs, served on leaves and adorned with their flowers, all set in snow; and, on another dish, tunny-fish served in well garnished roundels. Others bore pies of fish roe, Genoa cakes, pistachios on sticks with slices of citron, fat capons served up in roundels, sole in tricolour garnish, royal salads and iced white cakes.

Passing under the great pergola, I took the drive which led from the great house to the fountain, and thence to the place where the tables were set. As I made my way there, I was enthralled by the perfume drifting over from the flower beds lining the parallel entrance driveway, the smell of the Indian narcissi, the belladonna lilies, the autumn crocuses which had just opened, and by the fresh exhalations from the soft, damp earth of the vineyard. The heat of the day was at last giving way to the gentle embrace of evening's shadows.

Upon reaching my destination, I was astounded by the quality and the generous opulence of the decor. Under the dome of the starlit night, on the soft grassy carpet, the illusion had been created of a veritable oriental palace with Turkish pavilions, made in truth of delicate and brilliantly coloured Armenian gauze, mounted upon light wooden frames and crowned, at the top of each pavilion, by a golden half-moon. All around, the nocturnal braziers had been lit, from which rose, in great spirals, perfumes to mellow one's thoughts and please the senses. A little way off, but concealed by an artificial hedge, stood the far more modest table for the secretaries (among whom Buvat was intently helping himself to glass upon glass of wine) attendants and other members of the retinue of the eminences and princes. Many of these personages were indeed aged or suffering from gout and thus always in need of a helper at hand.

While we waiters served at the high table, which stood upon camelhair-coloured carpets, other janissaries, perspiring yet impassive, upheld great torches which generously illuminated the table.

Thus it was in the midst of such splendour that the dinner began, opening with the very dishes which I myself, amongst others, was serving. Well-nigh stunned by such luxury and pomp, I drew near to that great theatre of pleasure and prepared to serve the guests in accordance with the orders of the Chief Steward, who had appropriately placed himself behind a torch to be able, like one conducting an orchestra, to direct the peaceful militia of the waiters. The wine had just been served to the last guest, and so I moved towards the table. I realised that I was about to serve someone important, for Don Paschatio's eyes and those of the Steward followed me, blazing with anxiety.

"… And so I asked him once again: Holiness, how do you think you can resolve the problem? The Holy Father had just finished eating and was at that very moment washing his hands. And he answered me: 'Really, Monsignor, can you not see? Like Pontius Pilate!'"

All those at table burst out laughing. I was so nervous about my delicate and unexpected task that this sudden outburst of hi larity, which I would never have expected from that assembly of high prelates and persons of noble lineage, that I was left well-nigh paralysed. He who had aroused the good humour of the company was none other than Cardinal Durazzo, recounting with malicious wit the words of one of the many pontiffs he had known during the course of his long career. Glancing at the far end of the table I no ticed that, curiously, only one face remained impassive and almost glacial; later, I was to learn the explanation for this.

"And yet he was a holy pontiff, one of the most virtuous of all time," added Durazzo when some of the guests had quietened down and were wiping away the few tears brought on by excessive laughter.

"Holy, truly holy," echoed another eminence, rapidly dabbing with a napkin at a few drops of wine that had run down his chin.

"Throughout all Europe, they want to beatify him," one added from the far end of the table.

I raised my eyes and saw that the Steward and Don Paschatio were striving desperately to attract my attention, gesticulating wildly and pointing at something under my nose. I looked: Cardinal Durazzo was looking at me fixedly and waiting. Half stunned by the general outburst of laughter a few moments before, I had forgotten to serve him.

"Well, well, my boy, rather than Pontius Pilate, do you want me to be like Our Lord in the wilderness?" said he, causing yet another storm of laughter.

Hurriedly, I served the figs to the Cardinal and his neighbours, overcome by a deplorable state of mental confusion. I knew that I had committed an unpardonable gaffe and caused Cardinal Spada to lose face and, if only for a few moments, I had become the laughing stock of the company. My cheeks were on fire and I cursed the moment when I had offered my services to Don Paschatio. I dared not even raise my eyes; I knew that I would find those of the Major-Domo fixed on me, full of anxiety, and those of the Steward, full of fiery wrath. Fortunately that evening was not yet the official feast. Cardinal Spada himself was absent and would be coming only two days later, at the start of the formal festivities.

"… But yes, he's right to think that he will soon be better. Or so we hope, at least," said someone speaking in sad tones as I continued serving.

"So we hope, ah yes," echoed Cardinal Aldrovandi, whose name in truth I did not yet know. "In Bologna, whence I arrived today, they keep asking me insistently for news of his health, every day and at all hours. They are all very worried."

I understood that they were speaking of the Pope's health and every one of them had his word to put in.

"We hope, we hope, and we pray; prayer can resolve everything," said another prelate in a sorrowful and in truth rather insincere voice, ending up by crossing himself.

"How much good he has done for Rome!"

"The Hospice of San Michele a Ripa Grande along with a hundred and forty thousand scudi every year for the poor…"

"A pity that he did not succeed in draining the Pontine Marshes.. " said the Princess Farnese.

"Your Highness will permit me to remind her that the miserable state of the Pontine Fields and the unhealthy effluvia that issue therefrom to oppress Rome are not the fruit of nature, but of the imprudent deforestation practised by past popes, above all Julius II and Leo X," retorted Monsignor Aldrovandi, striving to stifle at once the least allusion to any lack of success on the part of the reigning Pope, "and, if I am not mistaken, Pope Paul III too."

This last barb was a polite reminder of the fact that the Princess was herself a descendant of Paul III, Alessandro Farnese.

"The Baccano Woods," she retorted, "were cut down because they were a refuge for assassins and thieves."

"As is happening today with the forests of Sermoneta and Cisternal" came the heated rejoinder of one whom I was later to recognise as the Prince Caetani. "We should cut them all down and leave it at that. For the sake of public order, I mean," he added, embarrassed by the coolness of his audience.

The Princes Caetani, and this I had myself learned some time previously, asked every new pope for permission to cut down those woodlands, which belonged to them, so that they could make money from the operation.

"His Holiness Innocent XII has for years issued decrees for the defence of heaths and woodland," replied Monsignor Aldrovandi imperturbably.

A murmur of approval flowed down the table, at least among those who were not engaged in close, gossipy conversation with the person seated next to them.

"A pity that he had the Tor di Nona Theatre demolished," said the same gentleman who had not laughed at Cardinal Durazzo's joke.

Monsignor Aldrovandi, who had not realised that all his praise of the Pope resembled an obituary, had succeeded in silencing the first, veiled criticism of the Pontiff, but this second one (referring to the unpopular decision to destroy one of Rome's most splendid theatres) he pretended not to hear, turning to his neighbour and showing his back to the person who had addressed him.

While serving him, I was fortunate enough to hear two ladies whisper: "But have you seen Cardinal Spinola di Santa Cecilia?"

"Oh, have I seen him!" giggled the other. "With the approach of the conclave he's been trying to put it about that he no longer suffers from gout. In order not to be left out of the charmed circle, he goes around behaving like a young lad. And then this evening, here, eating, drinking and laughing, at his age…"

"He's Spada's bosom friend, even if both of them try to hide it."

"I know, I know…"

"Has Cardinal Albani not arrived?"

"He will be coming in two days, for the wedding. They say that he is working on a very urgent papal breve."

The dining table was shaped like a horseshoe. Having almost reached the end of the second branch of the table, I was serving a guest with familiar features, and whom I was shortly to recognise, when I felt a sharp but powerful blow to the arm which was holding the charger. It was a disaster. The figs, catapulted to the left together with the leaves, flowers and snow, landed on the face and clothing of the aged nobleman whom I had just served. The dish crashed to the ground with a clangour like that of a breaking bell. A murmur halfway between amusement and disapproval spread among the nearby guests. While the unfortunate nobleman removed the figs with dignity, I looked all around in panic. How could I make Don Paschatio and the Steward understand that what had just occurred was not my fault and that it had been the guest whom I was just serving who had sent my dish flying? I looked at him, full of mute resentment, knowing well that I could do nothing against him, for the servant is always in the wrong. And then I recognised him. It was Atto.

Punishment was swift and discreet. Within five minutes, I was no longer holding a charger in my hand, but one of those enormous, immensely heavy, incandescent torches which illuminated the dinner as though it were almost daylight. I was bursting with rage at Abbot Melani and tormented myself with wondering why he should so cruelly have tricked me, getting me punished and imperilling my present and future employment at the Villa Spada. While the dinner continued, I sought his eyes in vain, for he was seated with his back to me and I could see only the nape of his neck.

Transformed into some new Pier delle Vigne, I must needs bear up: dinner was only beginning and I had better arm myself with patience. The first half of the first hot course had only just been served: fresh eggs drowned in milk with soup under that, butter, slices of lemon, sugar and cinnamon; and boiled head of sturgeon, with its bland savour, served with flowers, herbs, lemon juice, pepper and almonds (one slice for each guest).

The heat from the torch was unbearable, and under the Turkish turban I sweated buckets. The servants who had gone off a-courting with the peasant girls had done well, said I to myself. Yet I knew all too well that I would never have had the heart to betray Don Paschatio and abandon him at so critical a time. The only relief from the heat and the torment of immobility was to know that I was in the company of seven others like myself, each bearing his torch and, what is more, to be able to be a spectator at this meeting of all those eminences and as many noblemen. The place to which I was assigned near the table was, moreover, singular, as I shall soon have occasion to explain.

Hardly had I resigned myself to my punishment when, all of a sudden, Atto turned to me.

"Come, my boy, where I am sitting, 'tis so dark that I feel as though I were in a cave, will you or will you not be so kind as to come closer with that torch of yours?" he called out to me in a loud voice, making an ugly grimace as though I were an anonymous servant quite unknown to him.

I could but obey. I stood right behind him, lighting up his part of the table, which was in any case already perfectly well lit, as well as I could. What the deuce could Atto have in his head? Why had he ill-treated me and why was he now tormenting me?

In the meanwhile, the conversation between the guests, which was conducted quite freely, had turned to frivolous subjects. Unfortunately, I was not always able to understand who was speaking, since from my viewpoint I could see a good many of the guests, but not all of them. Moreover, on that evening, most of the faces and voices were still unknown to me (while in the following days I was to learn to recognise almost all of them).

"… Pardon me, Monsignor, but only a kennel-man is permitted to bear an arquebus."

"Yes, Your Excellency, but let me tell you, if you will permit me, that he may have it carried by a groom."

"Very well. And so?"

"As I was saying, if the boar is cowardly and dares not fight in the open, it is killed with the arquebus, as was the custom on the Caetani estates, which are the best hunting grounds."

"No, no, how then are we to speak of those of Prince Perretti?"

"Pardon me, all of you, and please do not take offence, but all these are nothing compared to the lands of the Duke of Bracciano," corrected the Princess Orsini, widow of the said Duke.

"Your Highness must mean those of the Prince Odescalchi," said a thin, icy voice. I looked at the speaker. It was the nobleman who had not joined into the laughter at Cardinal Durazzo's witticism about the pope who compared himself with Pontius Pilate.

For a moment, the table talk froze. The Princess Orsini, in her passion to defend the memory of the family possessions, had all too easily forgotten that, in order to avoid bankruptcy, the Orsini had sold land and more land to Prince Livio Odescalchi and that those estates and the feudal rights that went with them had changed their names as well as changing hands.

"You are quite right, cousin," said she condescendingly, addressing the gentleman as do nobles when speaking to persons with whom they have bonds of kinship or amity. 'And 'tis indeed most fortunate that they should now bear the name of your household."

The person who had contradicted the Princess was, then, Don Livio Odescalchi, nephew of the late Pope Innocent XI. It followed that this must have been the pontiff concerning whom Cardinal Durazzo had told an amusing anecdote only moments earlier, which had however not amused Prince Odescalchi, to whom his late uncle had left his immense fortune. At last I was seeing in person the nephew of that pope about whom I had, seventeen years previously at the Locanda del Donzello, learned things to make one's hair stand on end. I hurriedly dismissed those memories of episodes which had caused such suffering for my wife and my late father-in-law.

I learned that evening that Don Livio had also owned a box at the Tor di Nona theatre, which he would no longer be able to enjoy, since the present Pope had had the theatre demolished. This explained why Monsignor Aldovrandi had insisted on that topic.

"By the smithy of Hephaestus, boy, you are roasting my neck. Would you kindly move that way?"

Atto had yet again turned around rudely to upbraid me, almost shoving me to a new post, further away from him. By means of these two moves he had shifted me almost five yards from my original position, almost to the far end of that branch of the table.

Dinner was proceeding with singular freedom of manners and speech, a point which even I who was utterly unfamiliar with that most elevated milieu remarked at once. Only from time to time, irrepressibly, did the quarrelsome haughtiness of the great families and the subtle but venomous pride of those at the summit of the ecclesiastical hierarchy show its face. Yet the rigid protocol which those eminences and princes would have had to observe when meeting one another individually had been magically dissolved, perhaps by the amenity and delightful qualities of the place chosen for banqueting.

"Pray, pardon me, all of you, a moment's silence! I should like to raise my glass to the health of Cardinal Spada, who is, as Your Excellencies well know, absent on account of pressing affairs of state," said Monsignor Pallavicini, Governor of Rome, at a certain point. "He has recommended me to be, if not a father, at least an uncle to his guests tonight."

A gentle ripple of approving laughter ran through the assembly.

"As soon as I see him," continued Monsignor Pallavicini, "I shall express to him my gratitude for his political gifts, and in particular for not providing us with a table laid in the Spanish or in the French style, but surrounded instead by Ottomans."

Another amused murmur arose.

"And this last reminds us of our shared destiny as Christians," added Pallavicini amiably, while throwing a swift glance at Cardinal d'Estrees, Ambassador Extraordinary a latere of the Most Christian King, always too much in cahoots with the Ottoman Sublime Porte.

"And as the enemies of heresy," came the prompt reply of d'Estrees, whose call to order alluded to the fact that, although a Catholic, the Austrian Emperor was allied with Dutch and English heretics.

"Let us not speak too much to him of the Sublime Porte or D'Estrees will take umbrage and be off," I heard someone whisper rather too loudly.

"Gently, gently with all this talk," quoth Cardinal Durazzo, who had missed nothing. "First a janissary would not deign to serve me figs and now that he hears all this murmuring about heretics, he'll get it into his head to set his torch to me and burn me."

The company burst once more into hearty roars of laughter as soon as they caught the allusion to my initial misadventure with Cardinal Durazzo, while I must needs stay sadly impassive and keep holding my torch quite straight.

It was precisely in view of such political skirmishing that Cardinal Spada, that most prudent of men, had, as I had learned from Don Paschatio, taken a series of counter-measures. So as to avoid, for example, the possibility that someone might peel fruit after the French fashion or, on the contrary, according to that of Spain, fruit was served already peeled.

Of course, for some years now there had no longer been any risk of seeing some gentlemen apparelled in the Spanish fashion and others, a la francaise, for thanks to the splendours ofVersailles, it was now the great mode for all to dress after the manner of the Most Christian King. Yet, for that very reason, it was all the rage to show to which party one belonged by means of a whole series of little details: from the handkerchief in one's cloak (those of the Spanish party wearing it on the right, while the Francophiles wore it on the left), or the stockings (white for the French party, red for the Hispanophiles), so that it was no accident if Abbot Melani had that evening chosen to wear white in the place of his usual red Abbot's hose.

Nor could the ladies be prevented from getting themselves up with a bunch of flowers on their right bosom if they were Guelphs (that is, of the Hispanic persuasion) or on the left if they were Ghibellines (on the French side). However, in order to avoid the table at which all were to eat being set too much in accordance with the traditions of the one side or the other, in particular as to the placing of the crockery which is, as is well known, the decisive factor for determining the political affiliation of the guests, it had been decided to abandon established etiquette and to do something new: knives, forks and spoons had been placed vertically in the glasses, which had caused no little astonishment among the guests, while avoiding pointless polemics.

"But with hounds, it is quite a different matter," insisted another cardinal, who was wearing a striking French wig.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I am only saying that once Prince Perretti had sixty hounds. When the season was over, he'd send them elsewhere for the summer, as hounds suffer from the heat, and thus he economised too."

It was Cardinal Santa Croce who, overshadowed by his own bulky periwig, sang the praises of hunting to hounds.

"There was no need to remind everyone that he has money problems," I heard a young canon, not far from me, whisper to his neighbour, taking advantage of the fact that the conversation had broken up in disorder into many little groups.

"Ah, Santa Croce is all at cross purposes with himself," the other responded with a snigger. "He's so hungry that his tongue hangs out and the very words that he ought to keep in his mouth come tumbling down onto the floor."

The speaker was another cardinal, whose name I did not yet know; I noticed that he seemed unwell, and yet he ate and drank enthusiastically, as though his humour were sanguine.

Fate (or rather, another factor, of which I shall speak later) came to my rescue, for at that moment, a servant approached this cardinal with a note.

"Eminence, I have a note for His Eminence Cardinal Spinola

"For Spinola di Santa Cecilia or for my nephew Spinola di San Cesareo, who is sitting on the other side of the table? Or for Spinola, the Chairman of Ripetta? This evening, all three of us are here."

The servant was speechless for a moment.

"The Major-Domo told me only that it was for His Excellency Cardinal Spinola," he ventured timidly, his voice almost inaudible amidst the gay clamour of the banquet.

"Then it could be me. Hand it over."

He opened the note and closed it at once.

"Go and give it at once to Cardinal Spinola di San Cesareo who is seated on the far side. Do you see him? Right over there."

His neighbour at table had, meanwhile, tactfully turned his attention to his plate and begun again to eat. Spinola di Santa Cecilia (for now it was clear that it was he) turned back to him at once.

"Now, can you believe it? That fool of a Major-Domo made me receive a note from Spada for my nephew, Spinola di San Cesareo."

"Ah yes?" replied the other, his physiognomy lit up by lively curiosity.

"It said: All three on board tomorrow at dawn. I shall tell A.'"

"A? And who would that be?"

"How would I know? Seeing that he wants to go out in a boat, let us only hope that he doesn't drown," concluded Spinola with a snigger.

The guests took their leave at a rather late hour. I was exhausted. The flame of the torch which I had held aloft for hours had roasted half my face and bathed my whole body in perspiration.

We torchbearers had to wait humbly until the last guest had left the table. Thus, despite my burning desire to ask him for explanations, I was quite unable to approach Atto. I saw him move away, accompanied by Buvat, while the servants were already snuffing out the table candlesticks. He had not deigned to accord me so much as a glance.

Up in the attic, in the big servants' hall, I was so weary that I could barely think. In the dark, amidst the rumble of my companions' snoring, I was a prey to anguish; the Abbot had treated me horribly, as had never before happened between us. Nothing made sense. I was confused, nay, desperate.

I began to fear that I had committed an unpardonable error by agreeing to get involved again with Melani. I had allowed myself to be swept along by events when I ought only to have given myself time to reflect. And perhaps even — why not? — to put the Abbot to the test. Instead, within the space of a single day, Atto had been able to plummet down into my life again as though his coming were the most natural thing in the world. Ah, but the temptation of lucre had been irresistible…

I undressed, and, curling up on one of the pallets that had remained free, I soon slipped into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

"… They dressed him for the undertakers."

"Where did it happen?"

"In Via dei Coronari. Four or five of them held him up and robbed him of all that he had."

Conspiratorial whispering, not far from me, had torn me from my slumbers. Two servants were clearly commenting on some dreadful assault.

"But what was his trade?"

"Bookbinder."

The breathless rush that followed these tidings did not prove as useful as I had expected.

When, after a breakneck descent of the back stairs, I came and knocked at Abbot Melani's door, I found him already up and on a war footing. Far from being still in bed as I had expected, there he was with ink-stained hands, bending over a pile of papers. He must just have finished writing a letter. He greeted me with a countenance heavy and fraught with dark thoughts.

"I have come to inform you of a matter of extreme gravity."

"I know. Haver, the bookbinder, is dead."

"How did you learn of it?" I asked, dumbfounded.

"And you, how do you know?"

"I just heard tell of it now, upstairs, from two valets."

"Then I have sources better than yours. That catchpoll Sfasciamonti has just been here. 'Twas he who told me."

"At this hour?" I cried out in astonishment.

"I was on the point of sending Buvat to fetch you," retorted the Abbot, ignoring my question. "We have an appointment with the catchpoll down below in the coach-house."

"Are you afraid that this may be connected with the attack upon yourself today?"

"'Tis the same thing as you're thinking of; or else you'd not have come rushing here in the middle of the night."

Without exchanging a word, all three of us went down to the coach-house, where Sfasciamonti was waiting in an old service calash, with a coachman and a team of two horses ready to go.

"A thousand bombs blast 'em!" cried the visibly overexcited catchpoll, while the coachman led the horses out and closed the door behind us. "It seems that things went like this. Poor Haver slept in the mezzanine above the shop. Three or four men entered the shop during the night, some say there were even more of them. We have no idea how they got in. The door was not forced. They tied up the poor wretch and gagged him by stuffing a piece of wool in his mouth, then they searched the place from top to bottom. They took all the money he had and left. After who knows how long, the bookbinder managed to remove the gag and to cry out. He was found in a state of deep shock. He was utterly terrified. While he was telling the tale to all the neighbours, he felt unwell. When the doctor arrived, he found him dead."

"Was he wounded?" I asked.

"I have not seen the body, other sergeants arrived before I could. Now my men are seeking information on the case."

"Are we going to this place?" I asked.

"Almost," replied the Abbot. "We shall be going very near there."

We stopped at Piazza Fiammetta, a short distance from the beginning of the Via dei Coronari. The night was barely lit by a sliver of moon. The air was fresh and pleasant. Sfasciamonti got down and told us to wait there. We looked all around us but saw not a soul. Then a market gardener hove in sight on his cart. Not long after that, a piercing whistle made us jump. It was Sfasciamonti, half concealed in a doorway, from which his rounded belly could, however, just be seen peeping out. He was gesturing to us to join him. We drew near.

"Hey, go easy," we both protested when he dragged us both by brute force into the dank, dark porch.

"Hush!" hissed the catchpoll, flattening himself against the front door behind one of the pilasters framing it.

"Two cerretani, they were stalking you. When they saw me, they hid. Perhaps they've gone now. I must go and see."

"Were they shadowing us?" Atto asked worriedly.

We held our breath. Prudently craning our necks, we caught sight of two ragged and emaciated old tramps, crossing the road.

"You are a dunderhead, Sfasciamonti," whispered Atto, uttering a sigh of relief. "Do you really think those two half-dead wretches could spy on anyone?"

"The cerretani watch over you without giving themselves away. They are secretive," answered the catchpoll without so much as batting an eyelid.

"Very well," cut in Abbot Melani, "have you spoken with the person I told you to find?"

"All in order, by the recoil of a thousand howitzers!" came the catchpoll's immediate reassurance, accompanied by his curious imprecations.

The place was in a side-road giving onto the Via dei Coronari, scarcely a block away from the bookbinder's shop. We arrived there by the most tortuous route, as Atto and Sfasciamonti wanted at all costs to avoid passing in front of the scene of the crime, where there was a risk of encountering the sergeants assigned to the case. Fortunately, darkness was our ally.

"Why are we hiding, Signor Atto? We have nothing to do with the death of the bookbinder," said I.

Melani did not answer me.

"The criminal judge has assigned new officers to the case. I do not know them," announced Sfasciamonti as we left Piazza Fiammetta behind us, setting off towards Piazza San Salvatore in Lauro.

We defiled through the alleyways of the quarter, where Buvat stumbled upon a sleeping congregation of ragged friars, barely managing to avoid falling against a pile of boxes and baskets belonging to street vendors who lay dozing as they awaited dawn and their first customers. Under the cloths and blankets delicious odours betrayed the presence of French lettuces, sweet lupin seeds, fresh waffles and cheese.

The rendezvous was far removed from prying eyes, in the shop of a coronaro, that is, a maker of rosaries. We were welcomed by the artisan, an old man with a face covered in wrinkles who greeted Melani with great deference, as though he were long acquainted with him, and led us towards the back of the shop. We made our way through that cool little den replete with great rosaries made of wood and of bone, of every form and colour, finely interwoven and hanging on the walls or laid on little tables. The coronaro opened a drawer.

"Here you are, Sir," said he respectfully as he handed the Abbot a packet enveloped in blue velvet, which seemed to me to be in the form of a little picture.

After saying this, the coronaro disappeared with Sfasciamonti into the back room. Atto gestured to Buvat that we were to follow them.

I could not understand. Why ever should the death of the bookbinder have led us into that shop of devotional objects to take delivery of what I imagined to be the picture of some saint, presumably to be hung on the wall? I was unable to make a connection between the two things.

Atto guessed my thoughts and, taking me by the arm, deemed the time right for providing me with some initial explanations.

"I had arranged this morning with the bookbinder that he should leave the little book here, with this good man."

So it was not some small picture that the coronaro had brought Melani, but the mysterious little book of which the Abbot was so unwilling to speak.

"I know this coronaro well, he helps me out whenever I need it and I know that I can trust him," he added, without, however, adding what services he might need of a coronaro or giving me the slightest clue as to the nature of the book.

"Since the bookbinder was often absent from his shop, I thought that it would be more convenient to collect it here," continued the Abbot. "After all, I had already paid for the new binding. And I did well so to arrange matters, for otherwise, if I wanted to collect my little opuscule, I'd have found myself in a quarrel with some sergeant asking too many questions: whether I knew the bookbinder, how long I'd been acquainted with him, what relations I had with him… Try explaining to him how, at the very moment when I was talking with poor Haver, I was stabbed in the arm by a stranger. They'd never have believed me. I can just imagine the questions: how is it that it happened just then, there must surely be a connec tion, what were you doing here in Rome, and so on and so forth. In other words, my boy, it does not bear thinking about."

Then Atto beckoned me to follow him. He did not move towards the door but took me into the back room, into which Sfasciamonti had disappeared a few minutes before with the coronaro and Buvat. In the back of the shop, we were awaited by a little woman of about fifty, seated at a worn old table, modest and somewhat poorly dressed. She was talking with Sfasciamonti and the coronaro while Buvat listened as though stunned. When Atto entered, the woman stood up at once out of respect, having realised that here was a gentleman.

"Have you finished?" asked Melani.

The catchpoll and Buvat nodded.

"That woman is a neighbour of poor Haver," Sfasciamonti be gan to explain to us as we walked away from the shop, leaving

Piazza San Salvatore in Lauro behind us. "She saw everything from a window. She heard someone lamenting and knocking at the binder's door. The latter, who seems to have been a very pious man, opened up straight away but had no time to close the door before two other figures slipped in. They went away half an hour later, carrying off a great pile of paper with them as well as a number of books that had already been bound."

"Poor Haver. And poor fool, too," commented Atto.

"But why they took away papers, we know not," said I, looking at Atto.

"Where the cerretani are involved, one can never understand a thing," interrupted Sfasciamonti, his visage growing dark.

"But how can you be so sure that this was the work of your mendicants?" asked Atto, growing somewhat impatient.

"Experience. When one springs up — and here I speak of the one who was running away and who wounded you — he is invariably followed by others," said the catchpoll gravely.

Atto stopped suddenly, thus bringing all three of us to a stop.

"Come on now, what are you talking about? Sfasciamonti, we cannot go on like this with your half-baked explanations. Kindly tell me once and for all what it is that these mendicants do, these… Cerrisani, as you call them."

"Cerretani," Sfasciamonti humbly corrected.

I was sure of it. He would never have admitted it, but even then Atto Melani felt the serpent of fear slide up from his ankles into his guts.

He knew all too well that he had had a physical encounter with one of the strange individuals of whom Sfasciamonti was speaking, and from that encounter he had received a stab wound which was still hurting and hindering him, following which the bookbinder in whose presence all that had taken place had been assaulted that very night in his own shop, and had died. And he had had his own little book bound by that same unfortunate man; coincidences which could have brought pleasure to no one.

"Above all, I want to know," the Abbot added brusquely, his impatient mind struggling with the fatigue of his old limbs, "are they acting on their own behalf or for hire?"

"Do you really think it is so easy to find that out? With the cerretani strange things are always happening. Indeed, only strange things happen."

The catchpoll then began to describe what, as far as he had learned, was the origin of the cerretani, and the real nature of that mysterious confraternity.

"The cerretani. A rabble. They come from Cerreto in Umbria, where they took refuge after fleeing Rome. They were priests, and the higher priests chased them away."

In Cerreto, the account continued, the cerretani chose from among their number a new Upright Man or head priest who di vided them up according to their talents, into groups, cells and sects: Rufflers, Clapperdogeons or Fermerdy Beggars, Pailliards, Strollers, Buskers, Bourdons or False Pilgrims, Fraters or Jarkmen, Money Droppers, Rooks, Cunning-men and Cunny-shavers, Counterfeit Cranks, Dommerers, Sky Farmers and Gaggers, Duffers, Sharks or Sharpers, Faulkners, Fators, Saint Peter's Sons, Files, Bulkers, Nippers and Foysters, Hedge Priests or Patricoes, Swigmen, Abram Men, Amusers, Anglers (or Hookers), Chopchurches, Collectors, Pinchers, Swaddlers, Ark Ruffians, Wiper Drawers, Badgers, Bawdy Baskets, Sneaks, Snudges, Cleymers, Cloak Twitchers, Crackers, Flying Porters, Rum Dubbers, Lully Triggers, Leggers, Lumpers, Heavers, Hostelers, Jinglers, Whipjacks, Kid Lays, Queer Plungers, Reliquaries, and so on and so forth.

"How do you manage to remember all those names?"

"With the job I do…"

He went on to explain that the Fraters, who are also known as Jarkmen, counterfeit the seals of pontiffs or prelates — which they call jarks in their gibberish — and show them off, pretending that they have permits to issue indulgences, saving sinners from purgatory and hell and to absolve all sins, in exchange for which they exact payment in gold from the credulous.

"The Cunning-men are so-called because they are false, they pretend to be soothsayers and hoodwink simple villagers, claim ing in exchange for money to foresee the future and to be full of the Holy Spirit. The Hedge Priests are false friars or false priests who have never taken either minor or major orders. They go from village to village and say mass, after which they make off with the takings from the collection; as penitence, they impose yet more charity, all of which ends up in their pockets. The Bourdons are false pilgrims who beg for alms on the pretext that they must travel to the Holy Land or to Santiago de Compostela or to Our Lady of Loreto. The Dommerers claim to have relatives or brothers in the hands of the Turks and beg for alms to ransom them, but it is not true. The Swigmen, on the other hand…"

"One moment: if the cerretani do all these things, then how come no one stops them?" Atto objected.

"Because they are secretive. They are divided into sects, no one knows how many there are nor where they are."

"But are they sects, as you claim, or just groups of rogues?"

"Both. They are above all rogues, but they have secret rituals which they use to swear fidelity to the group and to tighten the bonds of brotherhood. Thus, if one of them is taken, the others can be sure that he will never talk. Otherwise he could fall victim to a curse. That, at least, is what they believe."

"What rites do they practise?"

"Ah, if only one could know. Black masses, sacrifices, blood pacts and other such things, probably. But no one has ever seen them. They go into the countryside to do such things in isolated places: deconsecrated chapels, abandoned villas…"

"Are they numerous, here in Rome?"

"They are especially to be found in Rome."

"And why is that?"

"Because the Pope is here. And where there are popes, there's money. What's more, there are the pilgrims to be gulled. And now, there's the Jubilee: more money and more pilgrims."

"Has no pontiff ever issued an ecclesiastical ban against these sects?" interrupted Atto.

"If a sect — or a group of criminals — is to be prohibited, it must be clearly known," replied Sfasciamonti. "Specific actions must be attributed to it and its members must have names and identities. How can one ban a vague grouping consisting of wretched homeless and nameless vagabonds?"

Atto nodded in silence, thoughtfully scratching the dimple on his chin.

When we returned to the calash, dawn was about to break. Sfasciamonti took leave of us.

"I shall be coming later to the Villa Spada. First I must go home. My mother is expecting me. It is today that I must deliver her provisions, and if I do not come on time, she worries."

"Together?" I exclaimed in astonishment, as I and Buvat looked at one another in unison.

We had barely taken our leave of Sfasciamonti. Abbot Melani had already taken his place in the calash to return to the Villa Spada when, instead of making room for us, he closed the door behind him.

"You, stay here for the time being," said he laconically.

He then held out a letter to me, already closed and sealed. I recognised it at once: it was that letter, the reply to his mysterious Maria.

"But Signor Atto," came Buvat's and my own weak protests, for in truth we both longed for a little rest before facing the new working day.

"Later. Now, be on your way. Buvat will deliver the message. Alone, however, for you," and here, he turned to me, "are not appropriately dressed. I shall have to make you a present of a new suit sooner or later. I shall explain to you where you must go: with Buvat, I'd be wasting my breath."

"Permit me to insist," I retorted.

I quickly read the addressee's name:

Madama la Connestabilessa Colonna

My thoughts criss-crossed in my head and I knew not to which I should give precedence. I could not wait to return home and rest (also, to meditate upon the latest disquieting occurrences), but at the same time, I found myself suddenly faced with the revelation of the identity of the mysterious Maria who corresponded with Atto in secret and whose arrival was awaited at the Villa Spada.

The Connestabilessa Colonna: I knew that name. Indeed, who in Rome had not heard of the Grand Constable and Roman Prince Lorenzo Onofrio Colonna, scion of one of the most ancient and noble families in Europe? He had died some ten years previously and she must be the widow…

"Come, then, let us hear," Atto burst in, interrupting the flow of my thoughts. "What do you want?"

At that instant, I saw the Abbot's face shift from an attitude of impatience to an expression of stupefaction, as though he had been struck by a lightning-like idea or a sudden memory.

"How silly of me! Come, sit down with me, my boy," he exclaimed, opening the door for me and offering me a seat. "Of course, we must talk. Come now, tell me all. I suppose that during the night you have had the good taste to set aside a few moments from your well-deserved rest in which to compile for me a detailed account of all that you overheard," said he with the most natural air in the world, without so much as sparing a thought for the fact that we had just spent the night gallivanting across Rome.

"Heard? Where?"

"But is it not obvious? At last night's dinner, when I used the pretext of the torch to make you dance that minuet all around the table just in order to place you behind Cardinal Spinola. Come, tell me, what did they say?"

I was dumbfounded. Atto was admitting to having pretended to mistreat me when he ordered me to draw close to him because, so he said, there was not enough light; and then he had sent me brusquely to the other end of the table on the pretext that the torch was burning his neck. Not only that; the Abbot had arranged the whole thing in order to induce me to listen to the diners' conversations!

"Really, Signor Atto, I cannot see how any of those conversations could be of interest to anyone. I mean, they spoke of frivolous and unimportant matters…"

"Unimportant? In every utterance of a cardinal of the Holy Roman Church, there is not a single syllable, my boy, that is not imbued with some significance. You may even say that they are all old goats, and I in my turn might even decline to contradict you, but whatever issues from their mouths is always interesting."

"It may well be as you say, but I… Well, there was just one thing that seemed somewhat curious to me."

I told him of the misunderstanding that had taken place between the two Cardinals Spinola and how Cardinal Spada's mes sage addressed to the one had been delivered to the other, as well as its content.

"It said: 'All three on board tomorrow at dawn. I shall tell A.'"

Atto remained silent and pensive. Then he declared: "That would be interesting; truly interesting, if…" said he to himself, staring meditatively at Buvat sitting hunched up by the side of the road.

"What do you mean?"

He stayed silent a moment longer, looking me straight in the eyes, but in reality mentally following the rushing chariot of future events.

"What a genius I am!" he exclaimed at length, giving me a great slap on the shoulder. "That Abbot Melani is really a genius to have sent you off on the pretext of that torch to stand close to those persons who laugh out of turn and talk too freely."

I looked at him in astonishment. He had collated past deeds unknown to me and future events which he already saw vividly unfolding before him, while for me they were all thick fog.

"Well, soon we too shall have to go on board," said he, rubbing and massaging his hands, almost as though to prepare them for the decisive moment.

"Aboard a boat?" I asked.

"Meanwhile, go and deliver the letter," Melani commanded impatiently, again opening the carriage door and making me descend with scant ceremony. "All in good time."