by Rita Monaldi
This was also a triumph for Cardinal Mazarin: the Peace of the Pyrenees, which restored calm and prosperity to France, was the crowning glory of his subtle policies. There followed months of festivities, ballets, operas and music, and the court was never richer in gaiety, gallantry and opulence.
"And after that, what happened?" I asked, fascinated by the history.
"After that, after that…" chanted Devize.
It was a matter of only a few months, he continued, before Maria Teresa was fully apprised of what was to be her destiny, and of what fidelity her consort was capable.
The first appetites of the young King were satisfied by Maria Teresa's maids of honour. And even if his wife had not completely understood the stuff of which Louis was made, she was helped in that by the King's other, not even very secret, erotic trysts with Madame de la Valliere, maid of honour to her sister-in-law Mary Stuart. Next, came the turn of Madame de Montespan, who gave Louis no fewer than seven children. All this intense adulterous activity took place in broad daylight, so much so that the people soon called Maria Teresa, Madame de la Valliere and la Montespan "the three Queens".
The King knew no limits: he had banished the poor husband of la Montespan from court and several times threatened to imprison him. Louis de Gondrin had dared to protest by wearing mourning and adorning his carriage with horns. Yet, Louis had built two splendid palaces for his mistress, with a profusion of gardens and fountains. In 1674, la Montespan remained almost without rivals, since Louise de la Valliere had retired to a convent. The new favourite travelled with a coach and six, always followed by a cart loaded with provisions, and with a retinue of dozens of servants in attendance. Racine, Boileau and La Fontaine sang her praises in their verses and all the court regarded it as a great honour to be received in her apartments, while no one paid tribute to the Queen, save for the minimum required by etiquette.
The fortune of la Montespan was, however, lost the moment that the King laid eyes upon Marie-Angelique de Fontanges, as lovely as an angel and as silly as a goose. Marie-Angelique, not content with supplanting her rivals, found it difficult to understand the limits which her position imposed upon her: she wanted to appear in public at the King's side and to salute no one, not even the Queen, notwithstanding the fact that she was part of her retinue.
In the end, the Sovereign allowed himself to be caught in the nets of Madame de Maintenon, to whom he confided without any distinction his legitimate children and his many bastards by other mistresses. For Maria Teresa, the affronts did not, however, end here. The Most Christian King despised the Dauphin, his first-born son by the Queen, and preferred his illegitimate children. To the Dauphin, he gave in marriage Maria Anna Victoria, the rather plain and ugly daughter of the Elector of Bavaria. All beautiful women were, of course, only for His Majesty's pleasure.
Here Devize stopped.
"And Her Majesty?" I asked, incredulous after all that dizzying traffic in women, and anxious to know the reaction of Maria Teresa.
"She suffered all in silence," the musician replied sadly. "What really took place in her heart of hearts, no one will ever know."
The adulteries, the humiliations, the pitiless mockery of the court and the people: in time, Maria Teresa had learned to swallow it all with a smile on her lips. So the King deceived her? She became all the more charitable and frugal. The King displayed his conquests before the whole world? She multiplied her prayers and devotions. The King courted Mademoiselle de Theobon or Mademoiselle de la Mothe, his wife's maids of honour? Maria Teresa dispensed smiles, words of advice and the kindest of attentions to all around her.
In the days when the Queen Mother, Anne of Austria, was still living, Maria Teresa had once dared to sulk at Louis for a couple of days. How little that was compared to all the outrages which she had put up with. Despite that, weeks and weeks passed before Louis deigned so much as to look at her again, and that thanks only to the Queen Mother who had laboured night and day to restore the situation. Maria Teresa had then understood that she must accept all that the marriage brought her: all, especially the pain and trouble; and that, without expecting anything in return, only the little which her spouse granted her.
In love, too, Louis had conquered. And since he knew and venerated the art of conquest, he had in the end decided upon what was-for him-the best and most appropriate conduct. He treated his wife, the Queen of France, with all the honours due to her condition; he ate with her, he slept with her, he fulfilled all his family obligations, he conversed with her as though his mistresses had never existed.
Apart from her spiritual devotions, the distractions which Maria Teresa permitted herself were few and harmless. In her retinue, she kept a half-dozen jesters whom she called Little Boy, Little Heart and Little Son, and a mass of small dogs whom she treated with a besotted, excessive affection. On her promenades, she had a separate carriage assigned to all that absurd company. Often the dwarves and little dogs ate at Maria Teresa's table, and to have them always near her, she was prepared to spend huge sums of money.
"But did you not say that she was a frugal and charitable lady?" I asked, taken aback.
"Yes, but this was the price of loneliness."
From eight to ten o'clock in the evening, Maria Teresa would play at cards, waiting for the King to take her to dinner. When the Queen played, princesses and duchesses would sit around her in a semicircle, while behind her stood the lesser nobility, panting and perspiring. The Queen's favourite game was hombre, but she was too ingenuous and always lost. Sometimes the Princess d'Elbeuf would make a sacrifice and allow herself to lose against the Sovereign: a sad and embarrassing spectacle. Until the end, the Queen felt more alone every day, as she herself confided to her few intimate friends. And before she died, she engraved all her suffering in a single phrase: "The King feels for me only now that I am about to leave him."
This narration, which had made me feel such great pity, was now making me impatient: I had hoped to obtain very different information from mouth of the musician. While continuing to massage Devize's back, I glanced at the table a few paces away from us. Distractedly, I had placed a few of my medicinal jars on some pages of music. I begged Devize's pardon for this but he gave a violent start and jumped up to check on the pages, in case they had been stained. He found a little oil-stain on one of them and became rather angry.
"You are no prentice, you are a beast! You have ruined my master's rondeau."
I was horrified. I had soiled the marvellous rondeau which I so loved. I offered to spread a fine dry powder on the leaf wherewith to absorb the oil; meanwhile, Devize cursed and heaped insults upon me. With trembling hand, I strove to restore to its pristine state that page of music on which were traced the sounds which had so delighted me. It was then that I noticed an inscription at the top: "a Mademoiselle".
"Is that a dedication of love?" I asked, stammering, showing how embarrassed I still was by what had occurred.
"But who would love Mademoiselle?… The only woman in the world more lonely and sad than the Queen herself."
"Who is Mademoiselle?"
"Oh, a poor woman, a cousin of His Majesty. She had sided with the rebels during the Fronde, and she paid dearly for that: just think of it, Mademoiselle had fired the cannons of the Bastille against the King's troops."
"And was she sent to the scaffold?"
"Worse: she was condemned to remain forever a spinster," laughed Devize. "The King prevented her from marrying. Mazarin said: 'Those cannon killed her husband.'
"The King has no pity even for his relatives," I commented.
"Indeed. When Maria Teresa died, last July, do you know what His Majesty said? 'This is the first displeasure she has given me.' And nothing else."
Devize continued talking, but now I was no longer listening to him. One word was pulsing in my head: July.
"Did you say that the Queen died in July?" I asked, brusquely interrupting him.
"What did you say? Ah yes, on the 30th of July, after an il
lness."
I asked no more. I had finished cleaning the page, rapidly removing the powder from both sides of the sheet and returning it to its cover. I took my leave and left the chamber almost panting with agitation. Closing the door, I leaned on the wall to reflect.
A sovereign, the Queen of France, had died of an illness in the last week of July: exactly in accordance with the prediction of the astrological almanack.
It was as though I had received a warning through the mouth of Devize: a piece of news (of which only I, a poor prentice, had remained unaware) had provided yet another confirmation of the infallibility of the astrological gazette and the ineluctability of fate's writing in the stars.
Cristofano had assured me that astrology was not necessarily contrary to the Faith, and was indeed of the greatest utility for medicine. Yet, in that moment there came to me the memory of the unfathomable reasoning of Stilone Priaso, the strange story of Campanella and the tragic destiny of Father Morandi. I prayed heaven to send me a sign that might free me from fear and show me the way.
It was then that I again heard the notes of the wonderful rondeau arising from the deep tones of the theorbo: Devize had begun playing again. I joined my hands in prayer and remained motionless, with my eyes closed, torn between hope and fear, until the music came to an end.
I dragged myself back into my chamber and there collapsed onto the bed, my soul emptied of all willpower and all vigour, tormented by events in which I could discern neither meaning nor order. Giving way to torpor, I hummed the sweet melody which I had just heard, almost as though it could confer on me the favour of a secret key wherewith to decipher the labyrinth of my sufferings.
I was awoken by some noise from the Via dell'Orso. I had drowsed for only a few minutes: now my first thought went again to the almanack, mixed, however, with a bitter-sweet concert of desire and privation, the first cause of which I had no difficulty in discerning. To find peace and relief, I knew that I had only to knock at a door.
For several days now, I had left Cloridia's meals before her door, only knocking to signal their serving. Since then, only Cristofano had had access to her apartment. Now, however, the conversation with Devize had opened up the wound of my distance from her.
What did it matter now that she had offended me with her venial request? With the pestilence circulating among us, she could be dead within a day or two; so I thought to myself with a pang in my heart. Pride, in extreme circumstances, is the worst of counsellors. There would surely be no lack of pretexts for me to visit her again: I had much to tell her and no less to ask.
"But I know nothing about astrology, that I have already told you," said Cloridia defensively when I showed her the almanack and explained to her how precise its predictions had turned out to be. "I know how to read dreams, numbers and the lines of the hand. For the stars, you must go to someone else."
I returned to my bedchamber thoroughly confused. That, however, was not so serious. Only one thing mattered: the blind god with little wings had again pierced my breast with his darts. It did not matter that I might never entertain any hope with Cloridia. It did not matter that she was aware of my passion and might laugh at it. I was still fortunate: I could see her and converse with her as and when I wished to, at least for as long as the quarantine lasted. This was a unique opportunity for a poor prentice like me; priceless moments which I would certainly remember for the remainder of my grey days. Again, I promised myself that I would return to visit her as soon as possible.
In my chamber, I found a little refreshment which Cristofano had left for me. A prey to love's drunkenness, I sipped the glass of wine almost as though it were the purest nectar of Eros, and swallowed a piece of bread and cheese as though it were the finest manna, sprinkled upon my head by the tender Aphrodite.
Replete, and with the dissipation of the soft aura which the encounter with Cloridia had left in my soul, I resumed my meditations upon my colloquy with Devize: I had succeeded in obtaining nothing from him about the death of Superintendent Fouquet. Abbot Melani was right: Devize and Dulcibeni would not speak easily about that strange affair. I had however succeeded in not arousing the suspicions of the young musician. On the contrary: with my ingenuous questions, and the damage which I had clumsily done to his score, I had imprinted in his mind the indelible image of an uncouth and stupid servant.
I went to visit my master, whose condition I found to be slightly improved. Cristofano was present, having just fed him. Pellegrino began to speak with a certain fluency and seemed sufficiently to understand what was said to him. Of course, he was far from enjoying perfect health, and still slept through most of the day, but, concluded Cristofano, it was not unreasonable to expect that he would soon be able to walk normally.
After spending some time with Pellegrino and the doctor, I returned to my chamber and at last allowed myself to enjoy sleep worthy of the name. I slumbered for hours, and when I descended to the kitchen, it was already dinner time. I hastened to cook for the guests, preparing a few slices of lemon with sugar, to stimulate the appetite. I continued with a Milanese soup, whose recipe called for egg yolk, Muscatel in which some crushed pine kernels had been soaked, sugar, a discreet dose of cinnamon (which, however, I decided this time to omit) and a little butter: all of this pounded in the mortar, sieved and placed in a little boiling water until it thickened. To this I added a garnish of a few bergamots.
After I had completed my round, I returned to the kitchen and prepared half a small jug of hot roasted coffee. Then I climbed to the little tower on tiptoe, so as not to be caught out by Cristofano.
"Thank you!" exclaimed Cloridia radiantly, as soon as I had opened her door.
"I prepared this only for you," I had the courage to tell her, blushing violently."I adore coffee!" said she, closing her eyes and sniffing ecstatically at the fumes which spread across the room from the little jug.
"Do they drink much coffee where you come from, in Holland?"
"No, but I do like very much the way in which you have prepared it, diluted and abundant. It reminds me of my mother."
"I am pleased. I had the impression that you had never known her."
"That was practically the case," she replied hurriedly. "I mean: I hardly remember her face, only the aroma of coffee, which, as I was later to learn, she prepared wonderfully well."
"Was she, too, Italian, like your father?"
"No. But did you come here to pester me with questions?"
Cloridia had become gloomy; I had ruined everything. Yet, suddenly, I saw her seek my eyes with hers and bestow on me a beautiful smile.
She invited me kindly to take a seat, pointing to a chair.
From a chest of drawers she took two little goblets and a dry roll with aniseed, and poured me some coffee. Then she sat before me, on the edge of the bed, sipping greedily.
I could think of nothing to say with which to fill the silence. And I was too ashamed to ask more questions. Cloridia, however, seemed pleasantly occupied, dipping a piece of the cake into the hot beverage and biting it with both grace and voraciousness. I melted with tenderness looking upon her and felt my eyes grow moist as I pictured myself plunging my nose in her hair and brushing her forehead with my lips.
Cloridia looked up: "For days now, I have spoken only with you, and yet I know nothing of your life."
"There is so little in it to interest you, Monna Cloridia."
"That is not true: for instance, where do you come from, how old are you, and how did you come to be here?"
I told her succinctly of my past as a foundling, my studies, thanks to the instruction of an old nun, and the benevolence of Signor Pellegrino towards me.
"So you have received instruction. I imagined that from your questions. You have been most fortunate. I, however, lost my father at the age of twelve and I have had to make do with the little which he had time to teach me," said she, without losing her smile.
"You learned Italian only from your father. Yet you speak it admirably."
"No, I did not learn it only from him. We were living in Rome when I was left alone. Then other Italian merchants brought me to Holland with them again."
"It must have been so sad."
"That is why I am here now. I wept for years, in Amsterdam, recalling how happy I had been in Rome. Meanwhile, I read and studied alone, in the little time that remained to me between…"
She did not need to finish her sentence. She was surely referring to the sufferings which life inflicts upon orphans, and which had led Cloridia onto the road to an abominable life of prostitution.
"But thus I succeeded in obtaining my freedom," she continued, as though she had guessed my thoughts, "and I could at last follow the life which is hidden in my numbers…"
"Your numbers?"
"But of course, you know nothing of numerology," said she with ostentatious courtesy, making me feel slightly ill at ease. "Well," she continued, "you must know that the numbers of our date of birth, but also those of other important dates in our lives, contain in themselves our whole existence. The Greek philosopher Pythagoras said that, through numbers, all could be explained."
"And the numbers of your date of birth brought you here to Rome?" I asked, slightly incredulous.
"Not only: I and Rome are one and the same thing. Our destinies depend the one upon the other."
"But, how is that possible?" I asked, fascinated.
"The numbers speak clearly. I was born on the 1st of April, 1664, while the birthday of Rome…"
