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by Rita Monaldi;Francesco Sorti

  "But then Atto and Fouquet were not acquainted!" said Stilone Priaso.

  "'Tis not that simple," warned Devize with a knowing smile. "Twenty years have passed since then and I was a child at the time. Later, however, I perused the records of Fouquet's trial which in those days were more widely read than the Bible. Well, to his judges, Fouquet said: 'There existed no known frequentation between Atto and myself.'"

  "What a sly fox!" exclaimed Stilone. "A perfect answer: no one could witness to having ever seen the two together; which did not, however, mean that they may not have been secretly in contact... In my opinion, the two did know each other, and that right well. The note speaks for itself: Atto was one of Fouquet's private spies."

  "That is possible," said Devize, nodding his head in agreement. "What is, however, certain is that Fouquet's ambiguous reply saved Melani from prison. He slept in Fouquet's house and immediately afterwards left for Rome, escaping the beating. In Rome, however, other bad news reached him: the arrest of Fouquet, the scandal, his good name besmirched, the King's fury..."

  "And how did he extricate himself from that predicament?" asked Stilone Priaso.

  "He managed very well," interrupted Cristofano. "In Rome, he placed himself at the service of Cardinal Rospigliosi who, like him, hailed from Pistoia, and who then became Pope. So much so that to this day Melani boasts that he had him elected Pontiff. Believe me, those Pistoiesi are the world's greatest braggarts."

  "Perhaps," replied Devize prudently. "But to make a pope, one must needs manoeuvre well in conclave. Now, during that conclave, Rospigliosi was indeed assisted by Atto Melani. And it is well known that not only has Melani always been on familiar terms with those cardinals who are most in the public eye, but also with the most pow­erful French ministers."

  "He is an intriguer, to be feared and never trusted," cut in Stilone Priaso, conclusively.

  I was utterly stupefied. Was the individual of whom the three lodgers were speaking really the same man with whom I had con­versed only last night, a few paces from where they now sat? He had introduced himself to me as a musician, and now he was revealed to me as a secret agent, involved in turbid palace manoeuvres, and even in scandals. It seemed almost as though I had known two dif­ferent persons. Surely, if what the abbot himself had told me was true (namely that he still enjoyed the favours of many princes) he must have recovered his reputation. But after hearing the conversa­tion between Stilone Priaso, Cristofano and Devize, who would not be suspicious of his word?

  "Wherever there is a political question of any importance, Abbot Melani is always to be found," resumed the French musician, laying stress on the word "Abbot". "Perhaps it will be discovered only after the event that he too was involved. He always manages to worm his way in everywhere. Melani was among Mazarin's assistants during the negotiations with the Spaniards at the Isle of Pheasants, when the Peace of the Pyrenees was concluded. They also sent him to Germany, to convince the Elector of Bavaria to stand as a candidate for the Imperial Throne. Now that his age no longer permits him to travel as he used to, he endeavours to make himself useful by sending the King reports and aide-memoires concerning the court of Rome, which he knows well and where he still has many friends. In more than one affair of state, it is said that voices have been heard in Paris anxiously requesting the suggestions of Abbot Melani."

  "Does the Most Christian King grant him audiences?" inquired Stilone Priaso."That is another mystery. A personage of such dubious reputation should not even be admitted to court, yet he enjoys direct relations with several ministers of the Crown. And there are those who swear that they have seen him slipping out from the King's apartments at the most unseemly hours. His Majesty is said to have summoned him for interviews most urgently and in the utmost secrecy."

  So it was true that Abbot Melani could obtain audiences with His Majesty the King of France. At least on that point he had not lied to me.

  "And his brothers?" asked Cristofano, as I approached with a bowl of hot soup.

  "They always move in a pack, like wolves," commented Devize with a grimace of disapproval. "Hardly had Atto settled in Rome, af­ter the election of Rospigliosi, than he was joined by his two brothers, one of whom immediately became maestro di cappella at Santa Maria Maggiore. In their own city of Pistoia, they have laid their hands on benefices and the collection of excise duties and are justifiably held in execration by many citizens."

  There could be no further doubt. I had met not with an abbot, but a deceitful sodomite, skilled in gaining the confidence of trusting sov­ereigns, and this too thanks to the rascally connivance of his brothers. My promise to assist him had been an unpardonable error.

  "It is time for me to check on Master Pellegrino," announced Cristofano, after administering the oil of sulphur to his two boon companions.

  Only then did we realise that Pompeo Dulcibeni had returned downstairs, who knows how long since: he had remained in com­plete silence, seated in an alcove of the other room, pouring him­self liquor from a flask of aqua vitae which my master was wont to keep on one of his tables, surrounded by small drinking glasses. He must, I thought, surely have overheard the conversation about Atto Melani.

  So I followed the trio. Dulcibeni, however, did not move. On the first floor, we encountered Padre Robleda. The Jesuit had re­strained himself, controlling his mad fear of the infection, and had remained for a moment on the threshold of his chamber, wiping the perspiration which glued his grizzling curls to his low forehead and struggling to maintain his dignity. Now he had propelled himself just outside the chamber, and there he stood rigidly close to the wall, yet without touching it, erect and comical. He stayed there, looking at us, in the vague and anxious hope of gleaning some good news from the physician, with all his great body weighing down on his toes and his chest exaggeratedly thrust backwards, so that his black profile formed a great curve.

  Not that he was really fat, apart from the rather rotund forms of his brown face and his neck. He was tall, and the moderate promi­nence of his belly did not spoil his appearance but endowed him with an air of mature wisdom. However, his bizarre pose compelled the Jesuit to cast his eyes downwards, with his eyelids slightly lowered, if he wished to face whoever he would speak to; and this, together with his long and widely spaced eyebrows and the dark rings around his eyes, conferred upon him an air of extreme nonchalance. Much good did it do him, for scarcely had Cristofano caught sight of him than he invited him peremptorily to accompany us, as Pellegrino might be urgently in need of a priest. Robleda would have liked to make some objection, but as none came to mind, he resigned himself to follow­ing behind us.

  Having climbed to the upper floor to look at what we feared might already be my master's corpse, we realised that he was still alive. And he was still breathing, hoarsely but regularly. The two spots had nei­ther diminished nor grown: the diagnosis remained in the balance between the plague and the petechial fever. Cristofano proceeded to clean him all over and to refresh him with damp towels, after wiping away his sweat.

  I then reminded the Jesuit, who had remained prudently out­side the doorway that, as matters stood, the sacrament of Extreme Unction should be administered to Pellegrino. The edict which laid down that holy images were to be present in hostelries also—I made it clear—required that if anyone were to fall ill in hostelries or tav­erns, they were to be administered the Oil for the Sick.

  Father Robleda gave a start, but could not refuse his services.

  He then ordered me to bring him olive oil, as indicated specifi­cally by Saint James, so that he could bless it for the ceremony; and also a little rod. A few minutes later, the Jesuit was by Master Pellegrino's bedhead to administer Extreme Unction.

  The thing was over unbelievably soon: he dipped the rod into the oil and, making sure that he remained as distant as possible from the sick man, he anointed one of his ears, rapidly gabbling only the brief formula Indulgeat tibi Deus quidquidpeccasti per sensus, which was very different from the familiar long
form.

  "The University of Louvain," said he, turning to his perplexed au­dience in self-justification, "ruled in 1588 that, in the event of the plague, it should be licit for the priest to impart the Holy Chrism with a rod rather than with his thumb. And instead of anointing the mouth, nostrils, eyes, ears, hands and feet, each time pronouncing the canonical formula Per istassanctas unctiones, etsuampiissimam misericordiam indulgeat tibi Deus quidquidper visum, auditum, odoratum, gustum, tactum deliquisti, many theologians there held that the Sacrament was valid with a single unction effected rapidly on one of the sensory organs, pronounc­ing the brief universal formula which you have just heard."

  Whereupon, the Jesuit withdrew in great haste.

  So as not to attract attention to myself, I waited until the group had dispersed, then at once followed Padre Robleda. I caught up with him just as he was crossing the threshold of his own apartment.

  Still half out of breath, I said to him that I was most apprehensive for my master's soul: had the oil cleansed Pellegrino's conscience of sins, so that he would run no risk of perishing in the Inferno? Or must he confess himself before dying? And what would happen if he did not regain consciousness before he died?

  "Oh, if that is what is troubling you," replied Robleda hurriedly, "you need not worry: 'twill not be your master's fault if, before dying, he is unable to return to his senses for long enough to render a full confession of his little sins to the Lord."

  "I know," I promptly retorted, "but if there should also be mortal sins, as well as venial ones..."

  "Do you perhaps know of some grave sin committed by your mas­ter?" asked the Jesuit, growing alarmed.

  "As far as I know, he has never gone beyond some intemperance and a few glasses too many."

  "Still, even if he had killed," said Robleda, signing himself, "that would not mean much."

  And he explained to me that the Jesuit fathers, having a special vocation for the sacrament of Confession, had always made a care­ful study of the doctrine of sin and pardon: "There are greater sins that lead to the death of the soul, and these are in the majority. But there are also sins which are partially permissible," said he, lowering his voice bashfully, "or even sins which are permitted. That depends upon the circumstances, and for the confessor, I can assure you, the decision is always difficult."

  The study of case histories was limitless, and was to be consid­ered with the greatest prudence. Should absolution be accorded to a son who, in legitimate self-defence, kills his father? Does he commit a sin who, in order to avoid an unjust condemnation, kills a witness? And what of a wife who kills her husband, knowing that he is about to render her the same service? May a nobleman, in order to defend his honour before his peers (which for him is of the uttermost impor­tance) assassinate someone who has offended him? Does a soldier sin who, obeying a superior's order, kills an innocent? Or again: may a woman prostitute herself in order to save her own children from hunger?

  "And is stealing always a sin, Padre?" I insisted, remembering that my master's over-indulgence in the contents of the cellar did not always draw upon what belonged to him.

  "Anything but. Here, too, one must consider the inner and outer circumstances in which the act was accomplished. It is certainly not the same when a rich man robs a poor one as when a poor man robs a rich one, or a rich man another rich man, or a poor man another poor man, and so on, and so forth."

  "But cannot one gain pardon in all cases when one returns what has been stolen?"

  "You are too hasty! The obligation to return stolen goods is, of course, important, and the confessor is in duty bound to bring this to the attention of whoever confides the matter to him. But the obliga­tion may also be subject to limitations, or even be cancelled out. It is not necessary to return what has been stolen if that means impov­erishing oneself: a nobleman may not deprive himself of servants, and a distinguished citizen may certainly not demean himself by working."

  "But if I am not under any obligation to restore what was wrong­fully taken, as you put it, then what must I do to obtain pardon?"

  "That depends. It may sometimes be best to visit the offended party at home and to beg his forgiveness."

  "And taxes? What happens if one does not pay what is owed?"

  "Well, well, that is a delicate matter. Taxes fall within the cat­egory of res odiosae, in the sense that no one pays them willingly. Let us say that it is surely a sin not to pay those which are just, while in the case of unjust taxes, the matter should be examined case by case."

  Robleda then enlightened me on many other instances in which, not knowing Jesuit doctrine, I would doubtless have reached very different conclusions: a man who has been unjustly condemned may escape from prison and may get the guards drunk and help his fel­low prisoners to escape; it is licit to rejoice at the death of a relative who leaves one a great inheritance, so long as that is done without personal enmity; one may read books which have been banned by the Church, but for no more than three days and six pages at a time; one may steal from one's parents without sinning, but no more than fifty gold pieces; and whoever swears on oath but only pretends to do so is not obliged to keep his word.

  "In other words, one may perjure oneself!" I concluded in utter astonishment.

  "Do not be so crude. It all depends on the intention. Sin is delib­erate detachment from the Word of God," intoned Robleda solemnly. "If, however, one commits it only in appearance, but without real intent, then one will be saved."

  I left Robleda's chamber, vacillating between disquiet and pros­tration. Thanks to the learning of the Jesuits, I thought, Pellegrino had good chances of saving his soul. But from this discourse it seemed almost as though white were black, truth the same as lies, and good and evil one and the same thing.

  Perhaps Abbot Melani was not as upright as he would wish one to believe. But, I thought, Robleda was even less to be trusted.

  Luncheon was already late, and our guests, who had fasted since the evening before, descended rapidly to the kitchen. After hastily regaling themselves with my broth containing little dumplings and hop shoots, which no one cared for, it was Cristofano who called our attention to what was to be done next. The men-at-arms would soon be calling us to appear at the windows. The presence of another sick person would surely cause the Congregation for Public Health to decree there was a danger of pestilence and the quarantine would then be maintained and strengthened. Perhaps a pest-house might be improvised to which we would all sooner or later be transferred. Such a possibility was enough to make even brave men tremble.

  "Then, our only hope is to try to escape," gasped the glass-blower Brenozzi.

  "It would not be possible," observed Cristofano. "They will already have erected gates and closed off the road, and even if we were to succeed in getting past them, we would be hunted down throughout the Papal States. We could try to cross the territory in the direction of Loreto, fleeing through the woods, and to embark on the Adriatic and flee by sea. But I have no sure friends along that way, nor do I think that any of us is better off in that respect. We would be reduced to begging strangers to take us in, always running the risk of betrayal by whoever offers us hospitality. Otherwise, we could try to take refuge in the Kingdom of Naples, travelling by night and sleeping by day. I am certainly no longer of an age to support such heavy exertions; and there are others among you who have perhaps not been favoured by nature. Besides, we would, of course, need a guide, a shepherd or a villager, who would not be so easy to persuade, to lead us through the hills and vales, and who must above all not guess that we are hunted fugitives, or he would hand us over to his master without thinking twice. Lastly, we are too numerous to escape, and none of us bear certificates of health: so we would all be stopped at the first border post. Our chances of success would, in other words, be negligible. And all that without counting the fact that, even were we to succeed, we would be doomed never to return to Rome."

  "And so what?" rejoined Bedfordi, snorting disdainfully and let­ti
ng his hands dangle ridiculously from his wrists in a gesture of im­patience.

  "And so, Pellegrino will reply to the roll-call," replied Cristofano without the slightest loss of composure.

  "But if he cannot even stand on his feet," I objected.

  "He will," replied the physician. "He must."

  When he had finished, he retained us yet longer and proposed, in order to strengthen us against any possible infection, that we should take physick to modify the humours. Some remedies were, he said, already prepared, others he would make ready with the herbs and essences which he carried with him, and drawing upon Pellegrino's well-stocked pantry.

  "You will like neither the taste nor the smell. But they are prepared with great authority," and here he stared significantly in Bedfordi's direction. "They include the elixir vitae, the quinte essence, second water and prepared mother of balsam, oleumphilosophorum, the great liquor, caustic, diaromatic, the angelic electuary, oil of vitriol, oil of sulphur, imperial musk tablets and a whole series of fumigants, pills and odoriferous balls to be worn on the chest. These purify the air and will not allow any infection to enter. But do not abuse them: together with distilled vinegar, they contain crystalline arsenic and Greek pitch. In addition, I shall every morning administer to you my original quinte essence, obtained from an excellent matured white wine grown in mountainous regions, which I have distilled in a bain-marie, then enclosed in a glass decanter with a stopper of bit­ter herbs and buried upside-down in good, warm horse manure for twenty days and twenty nights. Once the decanter has been extracted from the manure—an operation which, I insist, must always be car­ried out with the greatest dexterity so as not to contaminate the preparation—I separate the sky-blue distillate from the lees: that is the quinte essence. I store this in small, hermetically sealed vessels. It will preserve you from all manner of corruption and putrefaction and from every other kind of disease, and such indeed are its virtues that it can resuscitate the dead."