by Rita Monaldi
Our exploration was interrupted by yet another surprise. This time we found no infiltration, however copious, but a veritable watercourse, which rushed rapidly through a gallery perpendicular to our own and appeared to be fairly deep. This was in all probability an underground river, whose waters were perhaps mixed with some of the waste materials normally borne by the sewers. There was, however, no bad smell like that which had so upset Ciacconio.
With no little disappointment, we had to admit defeat. We could go no further, and a long time had passed since we left the Donzello. It would not do to remain any longer outside the inn, given the risk that our absence might be discovered. Thus, tired and worn, we decided to turn back.
While we turned around, Ciacconio once more sniffed the air suspiciously.
Atto Melani sneezed.
Day the Sixth
16th September, 1683
The return to the Donzello was long, sad and tiring. We came back to our bedchambers with our hands, faces and clothing mud-stained and wet. I threw myself onto my bed exhausted and almost at once fell into a deep sleep.
When I stirred in the morning, I found that I was still lying in the same uncomfortable posture as when I lay down the night before. It was as though my legs were tormented by a thousand swords. I stretched out an arm to raise myself into a sitting position and my hand met the rough, crumpled surface of an object with which I had obviously shared my bed. It was Stilone Priaso's astrological almanack, which I had so precipitously put aside some twenty-four hours before, when Cristofano called me to work.
The night which had just passed had fortunately helped me to forget the tremendous occurrences which the almanack had, by occult means, precisely foretold: the death of Colbert, that of Mourai (rather, of Fouquet) and the presence of a poison; the "malignant fevers" from which my master and Bedfordi would suffer; the "hidden treasure" which would come to light at the beginning of the month, or in other words, the letters hidden in Colbert's study and stolen by Atto; the "subterranean earthquakes and fires" which had resounded through our cellars; and, lastly, the prediction of the siege of Vienna: or, in the words of the gazette, " battles and assaults against the City", as foreseen by "Ali and Leopoldus Austriacus".
Did I wish to know what would happen in the days to come? No, I thought, with a tightening of my stomach, at least for the time being, I did not desire that. I looked instead at the preceding pages and my eyes alighted on the last week of July, from the 22nd until the last day of the month.
This Weeke, News of the World will be received from Jupiter, who governs the ruling House. That being the Third House, he sends many Dispatches, perhaps concerning the lllnesse of a Ruler, who will in the End tearfully quit a Kingdom.
So, at the end of July, the death of a sovereign was expected. I had heard of no such thing and so it was with satisfaction that I saluted the arrival of Cristofano: I would ask him.
But Cristofano knew nothing of this. Once again, he wondered, and inquired of me, how it was that I should be concerned with matters so distant from our present predicament: first, astrology, then, the fortunes of sovereigns. Thanks be to heaven, I had enjoyed sufficient presence of mind to conceal the astrological gazette in my couch in good time. I felt pleased to have discovered an inaccuracy, and one of some importance, in the almanack's hitherto all too precise predictions; this meant that they were not infallible. Secretly, I breathed a sigh of relief.
Cristofano, meanwhile, looked pensively at my eyes. He said that youth was a most happy season in human life, one that tended to unleash all the forces of body and mind. However, he added emphatically, one must not abuse this sudden and sometimes disorderly flowering, thus dissipating its new and almost uncontrollable energies. And while, with concern, he prodded the bags under my eyes, he reminded me that dissipation was above all sinful, as was commerce with women of easy virtue (and here he nodded in the direction of Cloridia's little tower), which could, moreover, lead to the French pox. He knew this well, having had personally to cure many with his authoritative remedies, such as the Great Ointment and Holy Wood. Yet, for health, such commerce was perhaps less inauspicious than solitary dissipation.
"Excuse me," said I, in an endeavour to deflect the discussion from that thorny subject, "I have another question: do you perhaps know what illnesses rats suffer from?"
Crisofano laughed. "That is all we need. 1 can see it all now… One of our guests must have asked you whether there are rats in the hostelry, is that not so?"
My smile was uncertain, neither affirming nor denying.
"Well, I ask you, are there rats in the hostelry?"
"Good heavens, no, I have always cleaned everywhere with the greatest of care."
"I know, I know. If that were not the case, in other words, if you had found any dead rats, I myself would have put you on your guard."
"And why is that?".
"Why my poor boy, rats are always the first to catch the pestilence: Hippocrates recommended that one should never touch them, and in this he was followed by Aristotle, Pliny and Avicenna. The geographer Strabo tells that in ancient Rome the dreadful meaning of rats appearing sick in the streets was well known; for it portends a visitation, and he reminds us that in Italy and Spain, prizes were awarded to whoever killed the greatest number of them. In the Old Testament, the Philistines, being afflicted with a frightful pestilence which affected their posterior parts, causing the putrefied intestines to issue forth from the anus, noticed that the fields and villages had been invaded by rats. They then questioned the seers and the priests who replied that the rats had devastated the earth and that, to placate the wrath of the God of Israel, they must offer Him an ex voto with a representation of the anus and of the rats. Apollo himself, a deity who caused the plague when wrathful and turned it away when placated, was known in Greece as Smintheus, or destroyer of mice and rats: and indeed, in the Iliad, it was Apollo Smintheus who destroyed with the pestilence the Achaeans besieging Troy. And Aesculapius, too, was represented during visitations of the plague, with a dead rat at his feet."
"Then rats cause the plague!" I exclaimed, thinking with horror of the dead rodents which I had seen under the ground the night before.
"Calm down, my boy. I did not say that. What I have just told you are only ancient beliefs. Today we are fortunate enough to be living in 1683 and modern medical science has made immense progress. Vile rats do not cause the plague, which results, as I have already had occasion to explain, from the corruption of the natural humours and principally from the wrath of the Lord. It is, however, true that rats fall sick with the plague and die from it, just like men. But it suffices not to touch them, as Hippocrates said."
"How does one recognise a rat with the plague?" I asked, fearing the reply.
"Personally, I have never seen one, but my father did: they suffer from convulsions, their eyes are red and swollen, they tremble and squeal in agony."
"And how does one know that it is not another malady?"
"It is simple; they soon lose all their natural fluids and die, pirouetting and spitting blood. And, when dead, they become bloated and their whiskers remain rigid."
I blanched. All the rats found in the galleries had a rivulet of blood flowing from their pointed muzzles. And Ciacconio had even taken one by the tail.
I was not afraid for myself, being immune to the distemper; but the discovery of those little carcasses meant perhaps that the plague was spreading through the city. Perhaps other houses and other inns had already been shut up and within them wretched unfortunates shared our anguish. Being in quarantine, we had no means of knowing. I therefore asked Cristofano whether, in his view, the pestilence had spread.
"Fear not. In the past few days I have several times requested information from the watchmen who mount the guard in front of the inn. They have told me that there are no other suspected cases in the city. And there is no reason not to believe that to be the case."
As we descended the stairs, the doctor ordered me to res
t for a few hours in the afternoon, obviously after anointing my chest with the magnolicore.
Cristofano had come to my room to warn me that he himself would see to the preparation of something quite simple and nutritious for luncheon. Now, however, he needed my assistance: he was concerned about some of the guests who, the evening before, after the dinner based on cows' teats had been beset by fits of heavy eructations.
As soon as we reached the kitchen, I saw, placed upon a little stove, a heavy glass bell equipped with a spout shaped like an alembic, in which oil was beginning to distil. Underneath, something was burning in a little pot, giving off a great stink of sulphur. Next to it, there stood a flask in an earthenware container which the physician grasped and began to tap delicately with his fingertips, producing a delicate ringing sound.
"Do you hear how perfectly it sounds? I shall use it for reducing to ash the oil of vitriol which I shall apply to the tokens of poor Bedfordi. And let us hope that this time they will mature and at last burst. Vitriol is rather corrosive, most bitter, of black humour, and unctuous; it greatly chills all intrinsic heat. Roman vitriol-of which I was fortunate enough to purchase a stock before our quarantine-is the best, because it is congealed with iron, while the German product is congealed with copper."
I had understood very little, except that Bedfordi's condition had not improved. The physician continued: "In order to help our guests' digestion, you will help me to prepare my angelical electuary, which by its attractive and non-modifying virtues, resolves and evacuates all indispositions of the stomach, heals ulcerated wounds, is a salve for the body and calms all altered humours. It is also good for catarrh and for toothache."
He then handed me two brown felt bags. From one, he extracted a couple of flasks of wrought glass.
"They are very beautiful," said I.
"For electuaries to be maintained in good condition according to the art of the herbalist, they must be stored in the finest glass, and for this purpose other flasks are worthless," he explained proudly.
In one, Cristofano explained, was his quinte essence, mixed with electuary of fire of roses; in the other, red coral, saffron, cinnamon and the lapisphilosophorum Leonardi reduced to powder.
"Mix," he ordered me, "and administer two drachms to everyone. Go to it at once, for they must not partake of luncheon for at least another four hours."
After preparing the angelic electuary and pouring it into a bottle, I did the rounds of all the apartments. I left Devize's for last, since he was the only one to whom I had not yet administered the remedies which preserve from the plague.
As I approached his door, with the bag full of Cristofano's little jars, I heard a most graceful interweaving of sounds, in which I had no difficulty in recognising that piece which I had so many times heard him play, and whose ineffable sweetness had invariably enchanted me. I knocked timidly and he quite willingly invited me to come in. I explained the purpose of my visit to him and he assented with a nod, while still playing. Without proffering a word, I sat down on the floor. Devize then put down his guitar and fingered the strings of an instrument which was both far bigger and far longer, with a wide fingerboard and many bass notes to be played unfretted. He broke off and explained to me that this was a theorbo, for which instrument he himself had composed many suites of dances with the most vigorous succession of preludes, allemandes, gavottes, courantes, sarabandes, minuets, gigues, passacaglias and chaconnes.
"Did you also compose that piece which you play so often? If only you knew how that enchants everyone here at the inn."
"No, I did not compose that," he replied with a distracted air. "The Queen gave it to me to play for her."
"So you know the Queen of France in person?"
"I knew her: Her Majesty Queen Maria Teresa is dead."
"I am sorry, I…"
"I played for her often," he continued without pausing, "and even for the King, to whom I had occasion to teach some rudiments of the guitar. The King always loved…" His voice trailed off.
"Loved whom, the Queen?"
"No, the guitar," replied Devize with a grimace.
"Ah yes, the King wanted to marry the niece of Mazarin," I recited, regretting at once that I should thus have given away the fact that I had overheard his conversations with Stilone Priaso and Cristofano.
"I see that you know something," said he, somewhat surprised. "I imagine that you will have gleaned this from Abbot Melani."
Although taken by surprise, I succeeded in neutralising Devize's suspicions: "For heaven's sake, Sir… I have endeavoured to keep my distance from that strange individual, ever since…"-and here I pretended to be ashamed-"ever since, well…"
"I understand, I understand, you need say no more," Devize interrupted me with a half-smile. "I do not care for pederasts either…"
"Have you too had cause for indignation towards Melani?" I asked, mentally begging pardon for the ignominious calumny with which I was staining the honour of the abbot.
Devize laughed. "Fortunately, no! He has never… um… bothered me. Indeed we never addressed a word to one another in Paris. It is said that Melani was an exceptional soprano in the days of Luigi Rossi, and of Cavalli… He sang for the Queen Mother, who loved melancholy voices. Now he sings no more: he uses his tongue for lies, alas, and betrayal," said he acidly.
It could not have been clearer: Devize did not like Atto and knew of his fame as an intriguer. However, with the help of some necessary calumny about Abbot Melani, and by pretending to be even more of a rustic than was in fact the case, I was creating a certain complicity with the guitarist. With the help of a good massage, I would loosen his tongue even further, as with the other guests, and perhaps I would thus gain from him some intelligence concerning old Fouquet. The main thing, I thought, was that he should treat me as an ingenuous prentice, with no brain and no memory.
From my bag, 1 drew the most perfumed essences: white sandalwood, cloves, aloes and gum benzoin. I mixed them according to the recipe of Master Nicolo dalla Grottaria Calabrese, with thyme, calamite styrax, laudanum, nutmeg, mastics, spikenard, liquid amber and fine distilled vinegar. From these I made an odorous ball wherewith to rub the shoulders and flanks of the young musician, until it dissolved, while exerting light pressures on the muscles.
After baring his back, Devize sat astride his chair, facing the window: to look upon the light of day was, he said, his only comfort in these distressing days. At the start of the massage, I said nothing. I then began clumsily to hum the melody that so enchanted me: "Did you not say that Queen Maria Teresa gave this to you: perhaps she composed it?"
"No, no, what kind of idea is that? Her Majesty did not compose. Besides, that rondeau is no beginner's piece; it is by my master, Francesco Corbetta, who had learned it on one of his journeys and, before he died, donated it to Maria Teresa."
"Ah, your master was Italian," I remarked vaguely. "From what city did he come? I know that Signor di Mourai came from Naples, like another of our guests, Stilone…"
"Even a mere prentice like yourself," Devize interrupted me, "has heard of the love between the Most Christian King and Mazarin's niece. That is shameful. Of the Queen, however, no one knows a thing, save that Louis was unfaithful to her. Yet, the greatest wrong that one can do to a woman, especially Maria Teresa, is to let oneself be gulled by appearances."
Those words, which the young musician seemed to have pronounced with sincere bitterness, affected me profoundly: when judging the female sex, never be contented with first impressions. Despite the fact that I still felt the wound which I had sustained during our last encounter burning too cruelly, my thoughts moved instinctively to Cloridia, when she shamelessly reproached me for not paying the offering which she expected. Perhaps, however, Devize's observation might not apply to her. I felt a certain shame, then, at having compared the two women, the Queen and the courtesan. More than anything else, however, I felt myself suddenly overwhelmed by nostalgia, loneliness and awareness of the cruel distance that se
parated me from my Cloridia. Being unable at this time to cope with these feelings, I became most anxious to know more about the spouse of the Most Christian King, at whose sad and tormented fate Devize had hinted. I hoped that in some way, obscurely, her tale might reconcile me with the object of my languor.
I held out the bait to him with a venial lie: "I have indeed heard speak of Her Majesty Queen Maria Teresa. But only from passing guests at the inn. Perhaps I have…"
"Perhaps nothing: you surely need to be better governed," he brusquely interrupted me. "And you would do well to forget courtiers' chatter if you truly wish to know who Maria Teresa was and what she meant to France, and indeed, all of Europe."
He had bitten the hook.
The nuptial entry of the young Maria Teresa, Infanta of Spain, into Paris in 1660 was, so I learned from Devize while kneading the odorous ball into his shoulders, one of the most joyous events in all the history of France. The young Queen was seated in a triumphal coach finer even than that of Apollo; the silver of the ornaments in her hair was as luminous as the very rays of the sun and triumphed over her fine black gown embroidered with gold and silver and set with innumerable precious stones of inestimable worth. The French were enthusiastic and, transported by the joy and devoted love which only faithful subjects can know, prayed for a thousand blessings upon her. Louis XIV King of France and of Navarre, was in his turn the poets' perfect representation of a mortal deified; his apparel was woven of gold and silver and surpassed in dignity only by its wearer. He rode a superb mount, followed by a great number of princes. The peace between France and Spain, which the King had just given France through so auspicious a marriage, renewed the zeal and fidelity in the hearts of the people, and all those who had the good fortune to behold him on that day felt happy to have him for their sovereign lord. The Queen Mother, Anne of Austria, watched the King and Queen pass from a balcony on the rue Sainte-Antoine: one had but to see her face to know the joy which she felt. The two young sovereigns were united in exalting the greatness of both their kingdoms, at last at peace.
