Imprimatur

by Rita Monaldi;Francesco Sorti

  Nor was it by chance that the antidote should have been in the hands of Devize; the rondeau, although probably composed by Kircher in its original, crude form, had been perfected and consigned to pa­per by the guitarist Francesco Corbetta, a past master of the art of enciphering secret messages in musical notes.

  Even thus simplified, the picture was as hard on the intellect as on the memory. Yet, if the method which Atto Melani had taught me held water (to act on suppositions, where one has not the benefit of knowledge), then everything fell into place. One must use one's powers of reasoning persistently in order to uncover what was needed to explain patent absurdities.

  I therefore asked myself: if Louis XIV had wished to deliver the coup de grace to the dreaded Habsburgs, who flanked him on either side in Austria and in Spain, and above all to the hated Emperor Leopold, where would he have unleashed the plague? Why, in Vi­enna; the answer astounded me with its simplicity.

  Was that not the decisive battle for the fate of Christianity? And was I not aware, ever since I had overheard the conversation between Brenozzi and Stilone Priaso, that the Most Christian King was se­cretly playing on the side of the Turks in order to catch the Empire in the teeth of an infernal trap set between East and West?

  Nor was that all. Was it not true that there had for months been an outbreak of the plague in Vienna, which had spread apprehen­sion amongst all the heroic, beleaguered warriors? And was it not also true that the infection had died out, or had been mysteriously tamed by some arcane invisible agent, thus saving the city and all Western Europe?

  Although deeply immersed in such meditations, I myself found it difficult to accept the logical conclusions to which they gave rise: the plague in Vienna had been unleashed by agents of Louis XIV or by anonymous cut-throats in their employ, thus putting into effect the occult science of the secretum morbi. That was why the Turks had not moved for days and days, despite the fact that Vienna was in their grasp: they were awaiting the dreaded effects of the infection sent by their secret ally, the French sovereign.

  The infamous sabotage had, however, encountered no less power­ful adverse forces: the emissaries of Maria Teresa had arrived in Vi­enna in time to dispel the threat, activating the secretum vitae and thus overcoming the infection. How this was done, I would never know. What is, however, certain is that the vain hesitations of the Turkish army were to cost Kara Mustapha his head.

  This summary, so overcrowded with events, risked seeming too fanciful, indeed almost fantastical. Did not all the interweaving of the affairs of Kircher and Fouquet, Maria Teresa and Louis XIV Lau­zun and Mademoiselle, Corbetta and Devize also smack of folly? Yet, I had spent entire nights in Atto Melani's company reconstructing, piece by piece, in a sort of divine madness, all that senseless intrigue, which had become more real for me than the life which continued outside the walls of the Donzello.

  My imagination was peopled by the shadowy agents of the Sun King, intent upon spreading the pestilence throughout poor Vienna when the city was already in extremis, on the other side, the defend­ers, the shadow-players of Maria Teresa. All of them were investi­gating secret formulae concealed in the pentagrams of Kircher and Corbetta, agitating retorts and alembics and other obscure instru­ments (like those seen on Dulcibeni's island) and reciting incompre­hensible hermetic phrases in some abandoned cloister. Thereafter, some would have poisoned—and others cleansed—waters, orchards, streets. In the invisible struggle between the secretum morbi and the secretum vitae the vital principle had in the end triumphed: the same one which had enthralled my heart and my mind as I listened to the rondeau played on Devize's guitar.

  From the latter, of course, I would not be able to draw so much as a syllable. Yet his role was almost completely clear, and so were the images which it conjured up in my mind: Devize receives from the Queen the original copy of the "Barricades Mysterieuses"; he is then ordered to go to Italy—to Naples—there to seek out an aged travel­ler with a double identity... In Naples, he finds Fouquet, already in Dulcibeni's company. Perhaps he shows the old Superintendent the rondeau which, years before, he had placed in the trusted hands of Lauzun for delivery to the Queen. But Fouquet is blind; he will have taken those sheets of paper in his bony hands, caressed and recognised them. Devize will then have played the rondeau, and the old man's last uncertainties will have vanished amidst tears of emo­tion: the Queen has succeeded; the secretum vitae is in good hands, Europe will not succumb to the madness of a single sovereign. And she, before taking her leave of this earth, has, by the hand of Devize, obtained this last reassurance.

  Devize and Dulcibeni, by common accord, decide to bring their protege to Rome where, in the shadow of the Pope, the threatening emissaries of the Sun King are hampered in their movements. Of course, Dulcibeni has other designs... And, still in Rome, while play­ing his "Barricades Mysterieuses" for us, Devize knows that Maria Teresa has sent to Vienna the enigmatic quintessence of those notes, to bar the way to the plague which threatens to result in a Turkish triumph.

  Now, of all this, Devize would never breathe a word. His devotion to Maria Teresa, if genuine, would surely not have been exhausted with the Sovereign's death. Moreover, the consequences of being identified as a plotter against the Sun King would certainly be lethal. Here again, I applied the rule which Atto Melani had taught me, thus relieving Devize of so perilous a task. I, a humble apprentice to whom no one accorded the least importance, would speak in his place, only a few, well-turned phrases. Not by his speech would I judge him, but by his silence.

  A favourable opportunity was soon to arise. He had called me late in the afternoon, requesting a further light meal. I brought him a modest basket with a little salami and a few slices of bread, which he devoured voraciously. No sooner had he set to than I took my leave and made for the door.

  "By the way," said I carelessly, "I hear, Sir, that Vienna is indebted to Queen Maria Teresa for having been spared by the plague."

  Devize grew pale.

  "Mmm," he mumbled in alarm, with his mouth full, rising to look for a sip of water.

  "Oh, has it gone down the wrong way? Do have something to drink," said I, handing him a little jug which I had brought with me but had not placed near to him.

  As he drank, he screwed up his eyes in puzzlement.

  "Do you want to know who told me that? Well, you will be aware that, since his unfortunate accident, Signor Pompeo Dulcibeni has suffered greatly from fevers, and during one such crisis he spoke at great length when I happened to be present."

  This was a great lie, but Devize swallowed it as eagerly as the water which he had just gulped down.

  "And what... what else did he say?" he stammered, wiping his mouth and chin with his sleeve and endeavouring to remain calm.

  "Oh, so many things which I have not perhaps even understood. The fever, you know... If I am not mistaken, he did mention a certain Fooky, or something of the sort and, I think, a certain Lozen," said I, deliberately distorting the names. "He spoke of a fortress, of the plague, of a secret of the pestilence or something like that, then, of an antidote, of Queen Maria Teresa, of the Turks, and even of a plot. In other words, he was delirious, you know how that happens. At the time, Doctor Cristofano was worried, but now poor Signor Dulcibeni is no longer in danger and has only to worry about his back and his legs, which..."

  "Cristofano? Did he hear too?"

  "Yes, but you know how it is when a physician is at work: he hears yet he does not hear. I also spoke of this to Abbot Melani, and he..."

  "You did what?" roared Devize.

  "I told him that Dulcibeni was sick and feverish and that he was raving."

  "And did you tell him... everything?" he asked, overcome by ter­ror.

  "How am I to remember, Signor Devize?" I replied, politely piqued. "I only know that Signor Pompeo Dulcibeni was so far gone as no longer to be much with us, and Abbot Melani shared my con­cern on that account. And now, Sir, if you will excuse me," said I, slipping through the door and
taking my leave.

  Besides checking upon Devize's knowledge, I had allowed myself to take a little revenge on him. The panic which had seized the guitarist could not have been more eloquent; not only did he know what I and Atto knew but—as expected—he had been one of those most deeply involved. That was why I chuckled at the dreadful suspicion which I had sown in his mind: that Dulcibeni's delirious outburst (which had, of course, never happened) might, through me, have reached the ears, not only of Cristofano but of Abbot Melani. And, that if Atto so desired, he could denounce Devize as a traitor to the King of France.

  My spirit was still oppressed by all the scornful treatment which the guitarist had always heaped upon me. Thanks to a few well-chosen lies, tonight I would at last enjoy the rich sleep of a gentleman, while his lot would be the troubled sleep of the outcast.

  I must confess there was still one person with whom I would and should have liked to share that extreme intellectual solace, but those times had passed. I could no longer ignore the fact that, since his confrontation with Dulcibeni on the wall of the Colosseum, all was changed between Atto Melani and myself.

  Certainly, he had unmasked Dulcibeni's criminal and blasphe­mous plot. Yet, at the moment of truth, I had seen him vacillate—and not on his legs, like his adversary. He had climbed the Colosseum as an accuser, he came down accused.

  I had been stunned by his indecision in responding to Dulcibe­ni's allusions to the death of Fouquet. I had known him to hesitate before, but always only for fear of obscure, impending dangers. When he faced Dulcibeni, however, it was as though his stammerings arose, not from fear of the unknown, but from what he knew perfectly well and must keep hidden. Thus, Dulcibeni's accusations (the poison poured into the foot-bath, the order to kill received from the King of France), although unsupported by any evidence, sounded more final than any sentence.

  Then, there was that strange, suspicious coincidence: as Dulci­beni had recalled, Fouquet's last words were "Ahi, dunque è pur vero"— "Alas, so it is really true"—a verse from an aria by Maestro Luigi Rossi which I had one day heard Atto sing in the most heartbroken tones. "Alas, so it is really true... that you have changed your mind." Thus the verse ended, like an unambiguous act of accusation.

  Again, I had heard those same words murmured when, almost drowning in the Cloaca Maxima, we in our turn came close to leaving this world. Why, even then, in the face of death, had that verse come to his lips?

  With the eyes of fantasy, I imagined that I had traitorously taken the life of a dear friend, and tried to immerse myself in the guilt that would surely consume me after such an act. If I had heard my friend's last words, would they not perhaps resound forever in my ears, until they found an open echo in my mouth?

  And when Dulcibeni had accused him, reproaching him with that heartbreaking, lamenting verse, I had heard Melani's voice break un­der the weight of guilt, whatever the cause of that guilt might be.

  No longer was he the Atto Melani I had known; neither the same fascinating mentor, nor the same trusted leader. He was again Atto Melani, the castrato, whom I had come to know when I overheard the talk of Devize, Cristofano and Stilone Priaso: Abbot of Beaubec by the prerogative of the King of France, intriguer, liar, traitor, spy of exceptional skill; and perhaps an assassin, too.

  I remembered then that the abbot had never given me a satisfac­tory explanation as to why, in his sleep, he had murmured the words "barricades mysterieuses": and I at last understood that he must have heard them repeated, without understanding their meaning, when he was shaking the dying Fouquet by the shoulders and—as Cristo­fano had reported—crying out questions which were destined to re­main forever unanswered.

  In the end, I felt great pity for the abbot, deceived, as Dulcibeni had said, by his own King. By now I knew that Atto had omitted something from his account of his search through Colbert's study: he had shown to Louis XIV the letters which revealed Fouquet's pres­ence in Rome.

  I was utterly at a loss to comprehend: how, how could he have had the nerve thus to betray his former benefactor? Perhaps Atto had wished once more to demonstrate his unfailing devotion to his Most Christian Majesty. It would be an important gesture: offering the King on a silver platter the man whose friendship had, some twenty years previously, condemned him to exile far from France. Yet, this had been a fatal error, and the King had repaid the faithful castrato with yet another betrayal. He had dispatched him to Rome precisely to assassinate Fouquet, without revealing to him the true reasons for that terrible command, or the abyss of death and hatred within his own heart. Who knows what absurd tale the King concocted, or what shameful lies he employed to besmirch once more the trampled hon­our of the old Superintendent.

  During those last days which I spent in the Donzello, I was beset by the shameful image of Abbot Melani selling the life of his poor old friend to the Sovereign, and then knowing not how to avoid carrying out that cruel despot's atrocious commands.

  How had he had the gall to act out for me the part of the broken­hearted friend? He must have needed to draw upon all his art as a theatrical castrato, so spoke my raging thoughts. Or perhaps those tears were real; but they were tears only of remorse.

  I do not know whether Atto wept when, constrained by his Sovereign's commands, he was preparing his hasty departure for Rome in order to put an end to Fouquet's life, or whether he executed his orders like an obedient servant.

  He must have been unnerved by the last weary words of the blind old Superintendent when he was dying by his hand; by those laboured phrases which babbled of mysterious barricades and obscure secrets, but perhaps even more by those opaque and honest eyes. He must then have understood that he was the victim of his King's lies.

  Once the irremediable had taken place, he could but try to under­stand. That was why he had undertaken all those investigations, with my unwitting collaboration.

  Soon, my thinking could take me no further. Nor could I escape from the throes of my disgust for Abbot Melani. I ceased to speak to him. With my reflections, the old trust between us had dissolved, and along with it, the familiarity which had so swiftly grown between us during those few days of life together at the Donzello.

  Yet, no one more than he had been a master and an inspiration to me. I therefore strove to maintain, at least outwardly, the obliging solicitude to which I had accustomed him. From my eyes and voice, however, the light and warmth which only friendship can confer, had departed.

  I observed the same transformation in him; now we were strangers to one another, and he knew it. Now that Dulcibeni was bedridden and all his plans had been foiled, Abbot Melani had no longer any foe to overcome, any ambush to set, any enigma to solve; and now that the imperatives of action had all fallen away, he no longer sought to justify himself in my eyes or to offer me explanations of his behaviour, as he had hitherto done in response to my repeated remonstrances. In the last few days, he had withdrawn into an embarrassed silence, one which only guilt could have erected around him.

  Only once, one morning, while I was in the kitchen, preparing luncheon, did he take my arm and squeeze my hands in his. "Come to Paris with me. My house is spacious, I shall arrange for you to re­ceive the best instruction. You shall be my son," said he in grave and heartfelt tones.

  I felt something in my hand; I opened it, and there were my three marguerites, the little Venetian pearls given to me by Brenozzi. I should have realised: he had stolen them from under my nose, that first time we visited the little closet, in order to induce me to take part in his investigations.

  And now he was returning them to me, thus putting an end to his last deception. Was this perhaps an attempt at reconciliation?

  I thought one moment, then decided: "You wish me to become your son?!" I exclaimed, with a cruel laugh for the castrato who could never have any.

  And, opening my fist, I let the pearls fall to the floor.

  That vain little act of revenge placed a tombstone on our rela­tions; with those three little pearls, the
re rolled away our pacts, our trust, our affection and all that had brought us so close in the past few days. It was all over.

  All was not, however, resolved. Something was still missing from the picture which we had built up: what could be the real reason behind the atrocious hatred which Dulcibeni bore the Odescalchi and, in particular, Pope Innocent XI? A motive did indeed exist: the abduc­tion and disappearance of Dulcibeni's daughter. Yet, as Atto had cor­rectly noted, this did not seem to be the only motive.

  It was when I was racking my brains over this question, a couple of days after the night of the Colosseum, that I received, blinding and unexpected, one of those rare insights which, like lightning bolts, illuminate one's life. (At the time of writing, I speak from experi­ence.)

  Once again, I turned over in my memory what I had learned from the reconstruction which Abbot Melani had presented to Dulcibeni. The latter's twelve-year-old daughter, a slave of the Odescalchi, had been abducted and carried off to Holland by Huygens and Francesco Feroni, a slave merchant.