Imprimatur am-1

by Rita Monaldi

  "… he confided it to Lauzun. But do you know what I think about this? That it was Lauzun himself who wrote the dedication 'a Mademoiselle '. He will have given it to his wife to pass on to Queen Maria Teresa."

  "Yet Devize told me that the score was a gift from Corbetta to the Queen."

  "A tall story, and one of no importance. A way of complicating a simple tale for you: the truth is that, after Corbetta, and before Maria Teresa came into possession of that rondeau, it passed through the hands of Fouquet, Lauzun and Mademoiselle."

  "One thing does not make sense to me, Signor Atto: did you not suspect that Lauzun was imprisoned at Pinerol near to the Superintendent in order to extract the secret from him?"

  "Perhaps Lauzun served two masters. Instead of spying on and betraying Fouquet, he may have preferred to talk openly to him- also because the Squirrel was most perspicacious. Thus, Lauzun will have helped him to win his own freedom from the King in exchange for the secretum morbi. But, and this would do him honour, he will have avoided revealing to His Most Christian Majesty the fact that Fouquet also possessed the secretum vitae, in other words, the rondeau. On the contrary, he and Mademoiselle will have availed themselves of the opportunity to revenge themselves on the King and to place the precious antidote to the plague in the hands of His Majesty's enemies: beginning, and it pains me greatly to say this, with his wife Maria Teresa, may the Lord keep her in His Glory."

  I remained deep in thought, going over in my mind all the notions which Atto had set before me.

  "There is truly something strange in that music," I observed, drawing all the threads of my memory together. "It is as though it… came and went, always the same, yet always different. I cannot explain this well, but it brings to mind what Kircher wrote about the pestilence: the distemper moves away, then returns; and in the end, it dies just when it has reached its paroxysm. It is as though… that music spoke of this."

  "Indeed? So much the better. That there is in this music something mysterious and indefinable, I too, had thought, ever since I first heard it."

  In the heat of our discussion, I had completely forgotten the reason for my calling upon Abbot Melani: to obtain an explanation of those words which he had pronounced in his sleep. Yet again, however, Atto would not let me speak.

  "Listen to me. Two unresolved problems remain: first of all, to whom could the antidote of the secretum vitae against the secretum morbi, and thus against His Most Christian Majesty, be useful? Secondly: whatever is Dulcibeni plotting? How is it that he was travelling with Devize and Fouquet before my poor friend,"-and here, Atto's voice again broke under the weight of emotion-"came to die at your hostelry?"

  I was about to remind him that he had also to discover to whom or to what Fouquet's strange death was attributable, and what had become of my little pearls, when the abbot, paternally cupping my chin in the palm of his hand, continued: "Now I ask you, if I had known at what door to knock in order to find the arcanae obices mentioned by Kircher, would I have wasted all this time just for the pleasure of your company?"

  "Well, perhaps not."

  "Certainly not: I would have set my sights directly upon Devize and the secret of his rondeau. Perhaps I would have succeeded without too much difficulty: it is possible that Devize himself does not know what is embedded in the rondeau of the 'Barricades Mysterieuses'. And we could forget about Corbetta, Lauzun, Mademoiselle and all that horribly complicated tale."At that precise moment, our eyes met.

  "No, my boy. I must admit it, you are most precious to me, but I do not intend to deceive you in order to obtain your services. Now, however, Abbot Melani must ask you to make one last sacrifice. Will you still obey me?"

  I was spared a reply by the echo of a scream: I had no difficulty in identifying the voice of Cristofano.

  I left Abbot Melani and ran directly to Bedfordi's chamber.

  "Triumph! Wonder! Victory!" the doctor kept repeating, his face purple with emotion, his hand on his heart and his back against the wall to prevent himself from falling.

  The young Englishman, Eduardus Bedfordi, was sitting on the edge of his bed, coughing noisily.

  "Could I have a drink of water?" he asked in a hoarse voice, as though he had awoken from a long sleep.

  A quarter of an hour later, all the lodgers were gathered around the stunned Devize, before Bedfordi's door. Jubilant and breathless at the happy surprise, the inhabitants of the Donzello had all flowed like a little torrent into the corridor on the first floor, and now they were bombarding one another with exclamations of amazement and questions to which they did not even expect an answer. They dared not yet approach Cristofano and the newly revived Englishman: the doctor had meanwhile regained his self-control and was meticulously examining his patient. His response was not long in coming: "He is well. He is very well, by Jove! I'd say that he has never been better!" exclaimed Cristofano, allowing himself to give way to an outburst of liberating laughter, which spread to all the others.

  Unlike Signor Pellegrino, my master, Bedfordi had immediately recovered his normal consciousness. He asked what had happened and why he was bandaged everywhere and suffering such pain in all his members: the excision of the tokens and the incisions for bleeding him had played havoc with his young body.

  He remembered nothing; and to every question that was put to him, by Brenozzi in the first place, he would react with bewilderment, opening his eyes wide and wearily shaking his head.

  Looking more closely, I saw that not all were in the same humour. The rejoicing of Padre Robleda, Brenozzi, Stilone Priaso and my

  Cloridia (who regaled me with a lovely smile) were in contrast to the absorbed silence of Devize and Dulcibeni's waxen pallor. I observed Abbot Melani, lost in thought, ask something of Cristofano. He then withdrew and returned up the stairs.

  It was only then that, in the general turmoil, Bedfordi at last understood that he had had the plague and had for days on end been given up for lost.

  "But then, the vision…" he exclaimed.

  "What vision?" came a chorus of questions.

  "Well… I think that I have been in hell."

  Thus he related that, of his illness, he remembered only having suddenly experienced a long, long fall downwards, and the fire. After who knows how long, no less a personage than Lucifer stopped before him. The Devil, with green skin, moustaches and a goatee on his chin (just like those of Cristofano, he pointed out) had planted one of his red hot talons, from which leapt tongues of fire, in his throat, and had tried to tear out his soul. Not succeeding in this, Lucifer had brandished his pitchfork and transfixed him with it again and again, almost draining him of all his blood. Then the foul beast had clutched his poor, exhausted body and thrown him into boiling pitch; and here Bedfordi swore that this had all seemed horribly real to him and that he would never have believed that one could suffer such pain. And in that pitch, the young man had remained for who knows how long, contorted by suffering, and he had begged God for forgiveness for all his sins and his little faith and had implored the Most High to rescue him from that infernal Hades. Then, darkness.

  We all listened in religious silence; but now the guests' voices were competing for who should shout "Miracle!" the loudest. Padre Robleda, who throughout the narration had been continuously making the sign of the cross, stepped forward prudently from the group and, deeply affected, signed the air in blessing; whereupon some knelt and crossed themselves in turn.

  Only the physician's countenance had darkened. He knew well, as did I, whence Bedfordi's vision came: it was none other than the delirious memory of the cruel therapies to which Cristofano had subjected him as he lay prostrate in the clutches of the pestilence. The diabolical claw which tried to tear out his soul was in reality the imperial musk with which Cristofano had induced vomiting; the cruel pitchfork of Lucifer, we recognised without difficulty as the harness which the physician had employed when bleeding his patient; lastly, the boiling pitch was none other than the cauldron over which we had placed Bedf
ordi for his steam bath.

  Bedfordi was hungry, but, at the same time, he said he was suffering from a strong sensation of burning in the stomach. Cristofano then commanded me to warm him a little of the good broth of stockdove which had already been prepared. This would both nourish him and pacify his bowels. At this juncture, however, the Englishman fell asleep.

  We resolved then to let him rest and all descended together to the chambers on the ground floor. Oddly enough, no one was troubled by the fact that he had left his own apartment; nor did Cristofano remember to scold them all and make them return to their own chambers. The plague seemed to have gone; so, by tacit accord, our seclusion was at an end; and no one so much as mentioned it.

  The guests of the Donzello seemed also to be suffering the pangs of great hunger; wherefore, I descended to the cellars, determined to cook something tasty and rich with which to celebrate. While with my head down almost to the ground among the boxes of snow I searched among kids' heads and feet, sweetbreads, legs of mutton and chicken, a multitude of thoughts passed through my mind. Bedfordi was cured. How was that possible? Devize had played for him, as recommended by Padre Robleda: was the Jesuit's theory about the magnetism of music then true? It was indeed true that the Englishman seemed to have awoken only after "Les Barricades Mysterieuses"… But was that rondeau not supposed to be a mere cipher concealing the secretum vitae? That had at least been Abbot Melani's assumption. Now, however, the melody itself had perhaps proved to be the agent of the cure… No, I really could make no sense of the whole matter. I must speak of this with Abbot Melani as soon as possible.

  Returning up the stairs, I heard the voice of Cristofano. In the dining hall, I saw that Atto had joined the group.

  "What is one to say?" asked the physician, addressing the little assembly. "It may have been the magnetism of the music, as Father Robleda avers, or my remedies, I do not know. The truth is that no one knows why the pestilence disappears so suddenly. The most wondrous thing is that Bedfordi had shown no sign of improvement. On the contrary, he was near death, and I should soon have been compelled to inform you that all hope was lost."Robleda nodded emphatically at that juncture, thus showing that he was already implicated in those desperate moments.

  "I can tell you," continued Cristofano, "that this is not the first such case. There are those who explain such mysterious recoveries by contending that nothing of the pestilence remains in the furniture or in the houses or in material things, but can disappear overnight. I recollect that when I was in Rome during the Visitation of 1656, no remedy having been found, it was decided to initiate a great fast and many processions during which the people went barefoot, in sackcloth and ashes, begging forgiveness for their sins, their faces wet with tears, all mournful and dolorous. God then sent the Archangel Michael, who was seen by all the people of Rome on the 8th of May above the Castello with a bloody sword in his hand: from that moment on, the pestilence ceased and of the infection, nothing remained, not even in clothing or in beds, which are usually among the most dangerous vehicles of contagion. Nor is that all. The historians of antiquity also tell of such strange instances. In the year 567, it is told that there was a visitation of a most terrible and cruel pestilence throughout the world, and only a quarter of humanity survived. Yet the plague suddenly ceased and infection remained in no object."

  "In the Plague of 1468," Brenozzi added in support of the physician's assertions, "more than thirty-six thousand died in Venice, and in Brescia, over twenty thousand; and many houses remained uninhabited. But these two visitations came to a sudden end and the infection was left in no thing. The same occurred during the visitations that followed: in 1485, the pestilence returned to Venice in the most horrendous form and killed many nobles, including even the Doge Giovanni Mocenigo; in 1527, it spread throughout the whole world and, finally, in 1556, it reappeared in Venice and all its dominions, although, thanks to the good governance of the senators, it did little damage. Nevertheless, at a certain point during every one of these visitations, the pestilence suddenly died out and not a trace of it remained. How, how can that be explained?" he concluded grandiloquently, growing red in the face.

  "Well, I would until now have preferred to say nothing in order not to bring bad luck upon us," Stilone Priaso added solemnly, "but, according to the astrologers, because of the malign influence of the Dog Star during the last two weeks of August and the first three of September, all those contaminated by the pestilence should die within two or three days, or even within twenty-four hours. Indeed, in London, during the plague of 1665, that was the worst period, and it is said that in a single night, between one o'clock and three in the morning, more than thirty thousand persons perished. During the same period, nothing of the sort happened to us."

  A shiver of fear and relief traversed the little assembly, while Robleda rose to poke around in the kitchen. As soon as the kids' heads, the gigot and the chicken began to give off their first sweet aromas, I served soup with asparagus and citrus fruit, in order to settle the stomach.

  "I remember that, when I was in Rome in '56," said Cristofano, resuming his narration, "the pestilence was in full spate. I was then a young physician and my colleague, who had come to visit me, told me that the fury of the distemper was about to abate. Yet, it was precisely in that week that the bulletins reported more deaths than throughout the whole year, and I pointed this out to my fellow-practitioner. He gave me the most surprising of replies. 'Judging by the number of persons who are sick at this moment,' said he, 'if the distemper were still as fatal as it was two weeks or so ago, we should have had three times as many dead. Then, it killed within two to three days, but now it lasts eight to ten days. Two weeks ago, moreover, one sick person in five survived, while now we count at least three cures. You may be certain that next week's bulletin will show a far lower mortality, and that there will be ever more recoveries. The distemper has lost its virulence, and, although the number of those infected is enormous, however long the infection itself may last, the number of deaths will be ever less elevated.'"

  "And was it so?" asked Devize, visibly perturbed.

  "Precisely so. Two weeks later, the bulletin showed half as many deaths. To tell the truth, many still died, but the number of those who recovered was far greater."

  In the weeks that followed, it was to become even clearer, explained Cristofano, that his colleague had been right: within a month, deaths had almost ceased to be reported, although the sick still numbered tens of thousands.

  "The distemper had lost its malignancy," repeated the doctor "and not gradually, but at the very height of its fury, when we were most desperate; just as has happened today in the case of the young Englishman."

  "Only the hand of God could so swiftly interrupt the course of the distemper," commented the Jesuit with great emotion.

  Cristofano gravely nodded in agreement: "Medicine was powerless in the face of the infection; death harvested thousands at every street corner; and, had matters continued thus for two or three more weeks, not a soul would have been left alive in Rome."

  Once it had lost its death-dealing potency, the physician continued, the distemper killed only a small proportion of those infected. The physicians themselves were astounded by this. They saw that their patients were getting better; they sweated abundantly and their tokens soon matured, their pustules were no longer inflamed, fevers were not so extreme and they no longer suffered from terrible pain in the head. Even those physicians whose faith was less fervent were obliged to admit that the sudden decline of the pestilence was of supernatural origin.

  "The streets filled with persons who had just been cured, with their necks and heads still bandaged; or limping from the scars left by the tokens in the groin. And all were exulting that they had escaped so great a peril."

  It was then that Padre Robleda stood up and, drawing a crucifix from his black tunic, brandished it before his listeners, proclaiming: "How marvellous a change, O Lord! Until yesterday, we were buried alive, but Thou ha
st restored us to the land of the living!"

  We knelt and, ardent in our gratitude, intoned our praise to the Most High, guided by the Jesuit. Whereupon, when luncheon was served, all sat down to eat with a great appetite.

  I, however, could not free my mind from the thought of those words of Cristofano: the plague possessed it own obscure natural cycle, in accordance with which, after spreading, it suddenly dissipated, losing its virulence until, at last, it disappeared altogether. Mysteriously it departed, as it had come. Morbus crescit sic ut mortales, senescit ex abrupto… — . the distemper grows like mortals, and suddenly grows old. Were not those the same words as Abbot Melani had read in the strange letter from Padre Kircher which he had discovered in Dulcibeni's drawers?

  After hastily consuming my meal at the big kitchen table, I found Atto in the dining hall. We understood one another at a glance. I would be calling on him as soon as possible.

  So, I went to bring his luncheon to Pellegrino, who could be considered as cured, were it not for his continual giddiness. The doctor joined me there, advising me that he in person would bring his broth to the young Englishman.

  "Signor Cristofano, could we not perhaps ask Devize to play in my master's chamber, too, so that he might again become as sharp-witted as he once was?" I took the opportunity of asking him.

  "I do not believe it would be of any use, my boy. Unfortunately, matters have not gone as I had hoped: Pellegrino will not fully recover that soon. I am certain that this was not a case of the spotted fever, nor indeed of the pestilence, as even you will have realised."

  "Then what is wrong with him?" I murmured, troubled by the innkeeper's fixed, bewildered stare.

  "Blood in the head, because of his fall down the stairs: a clot of blood which will only very gradually be reabsorbed. I think that we shall all leave here safe and sound before that happens. But, do not worry, your master has a wife, has he not?"

  So saying, he departed. While feeding Pellegrino, I thought with a pang in my heart of his sad fate, when his severe spouse returned to find him in that vague condition.