by Rita Monaldi
Atto, as I already knew, feared that he might have been the victim of an anti-French plot, perhaps at the hands of the imperial party. Of this he was, however, not at all convinced. Sfasciamonti's talk of the cerretani, of whom he had never previously heard tell, had made him uncertain. To the Connestabilessa he had written that he wished to request an audience with the Imperial Ambassador, Count von Lamberg, but the latter, who was expected at the Villa Spada, had not yet arrived. He would surely be present on the morrow, at the wedding. Until then, the Abbot — and I — must needs wait.
Otherwise, I found myself thinking once more, what had I learned from Abbot Melani? A conclave was in sight, that he had indeed told me, and had even shown me a list of cardinals written in his own hand; but, apart from that? Where now was the didactic passion of the veteran agent who had imparted so many and such dense teachings to me at the time when I was working as an apprentice at the Locanda del Donzello? And Atto must indeed know plenty about conclaves: he had even boasted of getting a pope elected.
Abbot Melani had really aged, I concluded rather sadly. Now, rather than by word of mouth, I was obtaining clues and news mainly from his personal effects, which I had surreptitiously examined, from his clothing (among which I had discovered my little pearls) and, above all, from the secret correspondence with the Connestabilessa.
Madama la Connestabilessa, the Princess Maria Mancini Col- onna: on her account Atto had spoken with passionate prolixity during our excursion to the Vessel a few hours earlier. But that tale dated back to many, many years ago, and had nothing to do with the forthcoming conclave. Indeed, Atto had been at great pains to keep the "current" state of his relations with the Connestabilessa strictly to himself; he had not yet, for example, breathed a word to me of their common interest in the matter of the Spanish succession. Nor of whatever the Connestabilessa, born in Rome and brought up in Paris, might have to do with the Kingdom of Spain.
At length I gave up my search for the little book bound by the late lamented Haver, plunged my hands again into the Abbot's dirty linen and took out the folder of secret correspondence between him and the Connestabilessa. As on the first occasion, I found the letter from Maria Mancini together with the reply, as yet unsealed, by the Abbot. I scanned rapidly through both: I wanted also to have time to take a glance at the previous missives, which I had set on one side the day before.
The Connestabilessa's letter opened with a reference to the assault suffered by Abbot Melani:
What pain you have caused my heart, my friend! How are you? How is your arm? Is there really any reason to suspect the hand of the cruel Empire behind all this? I pray ardently that you should at least be spared by the hand of the Imperial assassins; for many, far too many, dead men bear a banner marked with the two — headed eagle of Vienna.
Take care, keep looking all around you. I tremble at the idea of your requesting an audience with Count von Lamberg. Do not eat at his table, drink not from the chalice filled by his hand, accept nothing from him, not even a pinch of snuff. Where the dagger failed, poison, the Imperial agents' weapon of choice, might succeed.
Do you always keep on your person the Bezoar stone which I sent you a few years ago? It will preserve you from all things toxic, never forget that!
I turned my mind again to the question: had I not found a pistol among Atto's personal effects? Clearly, he had not taken his own security lightly. The letter continued:
Never forget the horrible death of the Duke of Osuna who, no sooner had he been appointed general in charge of coastal defences in the Mediterranean, began to work for a truce with the French; but alas, after taking a pinch of snuff he was struck down by paresis of the spine and suffocation, and died at three o 'clock in the morning, without having been able to utter a word. And what should we say of the sudden and mysterious death of the Secretary of State, Manuel de Lira, who strove so hard for peace with France? Finally, permit me to remind you, despite the pain which the very thought causes me for reasons well known to you, of the most atrocious crime of all: the late Queen of Spain, our most beloved Marie- Louise of Orleans, the first wife of King Charles II, who never lost an opportunity to convince her consort of the need not to join the league against the Most Christian King, his uncle, and was hated by many in Spain, amongst them, Count Mansfeld, the Ambassador of the Empire.
Do you not recall? The poor Queen was afraid; she had even written to the King of France, begging him for an antidote for poison. But when this reached Madrid, Marie-Louise was already dead.
The evening before — I read in the Connestabilessa's letter — the Sovereign wanted milk, but little was available in the capital. It was said that, at the last moment, the Countess of S, a friend and protegee of the Imperial Ambassador, as well as an exile from France following the Affair of the Poisons, the first victim of which, some thirty years earlier, had been Madame, Marie-Louise's mother, arranged for her to have a little. When the Queen of Spain died in dreadful agony, some swore that the fresh and delicious milk which she had drunk before feeling ill had been prepared at the house of Ambassador Mansfeld. And it was perhaps no coincidence if the Countess of S left suddenly on the morning after the crime, so arranging matters that all trace of her was lost.
I noticed that here Maria Mancini had been at pains to conceal the name of the presumed poisoner, of French origin, yet a member of the imperial party. I would also have liked to know what the reasons "well known" to Atto might have been, which made the memory of the deed so painful for the Connestabilessa, but the letter continued with a heartfelt address to that Silvio, which pseudonym I presumed must, by means of a set of screens behind screens, conceal the person of Abbot Melani himself:
Silvio, Silvio, vain boy, if you imagine this mishap by chance befell, you widely are deceived. These accidents so monstrous and so strange befall us mortals by divine permission. Don't you reflect the Gods by you were slighted, by this your haughty pride and high disdain of love and everything the world deems human? They cannot abhor, although it be in virtue. Now you are mute, who were but now so haughty!
I wondered yet again at the vehemence with which the Connestabilessa hurled indecipherable accusations against Abbot Melani. As though that were not enough, after a few lines of excuses for her own delay (brought about by some slight fever), came the usual note about that so-called Lidio:
You charge me with according scant value to Lidio's presumed felicity. Yet I reply to you that in every matter it behoves us to mark well the end: for oftentimes God gives men a gleam of happiness, and then plunges them into ruin. And to him I repeat: with respect to that whereon you question me, Lidio, I have no answer to give, until I hear that you have closed your life happily.
Who then could this mysterious Lidio be, whom the Connestabilessa addressed through Atto's mediation, employing such impenetrable expressions? And what was the obscure mirror game which, from time to time, caused her to address the Abbot by the name of Silvio?
Nor did I learn much from Atto's reply; I was soon bogged down in a larding of unctuous flattery and affectation:
O that delightful rock on which so oft whole floods of tears and gales of sighs have struck in vain! Must I believe you live and feel some tender strokes of pity for my suff'rings? Is that a human breast, or is it marble?
Your sweetness moves me, my friend, and I tremble with anger at myself for having so improvidently caused you such agitation. Was the fever perhaps my fault too?
My ink tipp'd pen, and you curst arrows (which have pierced her side, so well by me belov'd), ye native brethren, or else for cruelty so called, I'll break you all. No longer darts or arrows shall you remain, but rods with useless wings, headed with steel in vain, lopped of your points and feathers!
And here the Abbot's letter was stained with ink; Atto had actually broken his goose quill, guilty of having written things that had worried the Connestabilessa and perhaps even made her ill. After a moment of sheer astonishment at such vehemence, I resumed my reading. (Melani had obvio
usly found a new pen.)
Wound me then likewise with your plume, I beg of you. Indeed I demand it!
Ah, do not wound, but spare these eyes, these hands, which were the guilty ministers because by an unguilty will they were directed. Here, strike my breast, that enemy to love, foe to all tenderness, this cruel heart which was so harsh to thee. My breast is open.
After that, the tone, relinquishing passion, returned to the realms of common sense. Atto was concerned above all to show courage and boldness in his dealings with Lamberg, and not to betray the anxiety which must, however, be tormenting him.
As for me and my life, fear not, my goodfriend. Of course, I have with me your beautiful oriental stone. How could I ever forget the Bezoar? In France, too, it is esteemed as a protection against malignant fevers and poison. When I am received by the Ambassador, I shall keep it jealously in my pocket, ready to help me in the event of my feeling in any way unwell.
However, when young, I knew Count von Lambergs father well: he was Imperial Ambassador to Madrid just when I was with Cardinal Mazarin at the Isle of Pheasants for the peace treaty between France and Spain. We snatched the hand of the Infanta Maria Teresa, for whom the Emperor Leopold so longed, from under his nose. Indeed, King Philip IV ended up by granting her to Louis XIV after much arm- twisting, so as to be able to gain less humiliating peace terms. And that was mostfortunate: but for this, today the Most Christian King would not be able to lay claim to rights to the Spanish Crown for his nephew the Duke of Anjou. Philip IV did, it is true, make Maria Teresa sign a document renouncing any claim to the Spanish throne (just as Anne of Austria before her had done when she married Louis XIII of France); but since then plenty of jurists have demonstrated that such renunciations are invalid.
All in all, my dear, Lamberg senior rendered Austria the worst of services, just as we rendered France the very best. If the son's abilities are equal to his father's, it is certain that neither I nor French interests in the Spanish succession will be in any danger. However, I shall soon know how matters stand: the arrival of the Imperial Ambassador is expected at any moment. And you? When will you be here?
Silvio was proud, 'tis true, but he venerates the gods, and was one day vanquished by your Cupid. Since then he has ever bowed down before you, calling you his.
Altho' his you were not.
Emotion caused me to raise my eyes after reading those last lines. Poor Abbot Melani: in reminding the Connestabilessa of the love he had borne her for forty years, in the end he was reminding her only of his immutable castrato's condition; Maria had never been his, nor could she ever have been.
As a post scriptum to the letter, a fleeting reference to that Lidio:
I come now to our Lidio. 'Tis enough to speak of him: You have won, for the time being. But what you will receive when we meet will convince you. Then you will change your opinion. You know what value he sets upon your judgement and your satisfaction.
I closed the envelope and began to reflect. Judging by his epistolary exchange with the Connestabilessa, it seemed that Atto's diplomatic interest was concerned solely with the Spanish succession and the risks (including physical ones) connected therewith. Not a word about the forthcoming conclave, for which he had told me that he had come to Rome. Not only that, but, according to the letter, Atto feared that he might be a target for an imperial stiletto (or poison) because of the Spanish succession, while he said absolutely nothing about the conclave, where he would, after all, be defending French rights at the expense of those of Austria. I might even have said that Atto cared nothing for the conclave.
For a moment, I suspended my cogitations: that impression, I told myself, seemed unreasonable, indeed unfounded. I really could not believe that Atto did not care about the conclave that seemed to be approaching.
It seemed absurd. But had I not learned from the Abbot in person, so many years before, to reason on the basis of suppositions and not to back down before truths that seemed utterly improbable? The conclave and the succession… or perhaps the succession and the conclave? Indeed, it seemed as though the success of the conclave depended upon that of the Spanish succession.
I skimmed rapidly through the rest of the correspondence, in the hope of casting some light on the identity of the mysterious Countess of S. The envelopes were all as bulky: confidential and extremely detailed reports on the kingdom of Spain and King Charles II. They were all numbered, with almost invisible figures written in a corner. I opened the first of them. It must have dated from some time previously; the Connestabilessa was writing from the Spanish capital.
Observations which maybe of use in relation to
Spanish affairs
Here in Madrid, everyone wonders what will become of the Kingdom after the death of the Sovereign. Any hope of an heir has long since disappeared; el Rey is ill and they all say that his seed is already dead. With the Sovereign's poor body devoured by illness, all is moving towards the setting of the sun in this Kingdom on which the sun never sets: the power of Spain, the splendour of the Court, even the glorious past is obscured by the miseries of the present time…
I read with surprise those disconsolate, bitter, definitive lines. Who then was Charles II of Spain, el Rey, as the Connestabilessa called him in her letters to Atto? I realised that I knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about that dying sovereign and that limitless kingdom. I therefore plunged into the gloomy reading of that report, engulfing myself in the sense of disaster hanging over those lines which, like a skilfully distilled poison, infused my entire spirit during my furtive reading.
Let the curtains be drawn and the shutters closed on ample windows, let the sun be banished from the throne room, let a moonless night descend mercifully upon the Escorial: the body of el Rey is falling horribly apart, my friend, and with it his entire lineage. Let the wind rise and sweep away the foul stench of regal death; we are all drinking from the waters of Lethe, lest proud Spain recall the insult of so repugnant an end.
The Connestabilessa's groan of pain touched me profoundly. I read on: those were not mere metaphors that the letter evoked. Life in the royal palace really was being lived away from the light of day, by the glimmer of the occasional candle: thus they tried to attenuate for courtiers and visiting ambassadors the dreadful spectacle of the King's body and face.
His nose is swollen and cankered, his enormous forehead disfigured by threatening carbuncles, his cheeks livid, his breath stinks of rotten innards.
His eyelids the colour of flayed flesh hood the deep black and bubonic bags of the eyes which now move with difficulty and are half blind. Even his tongue no longer obeys him. His speech is uncertain, reduced for all those who have not frequented him for all his life to a babbling, an incomprehensible mutter.
Exhausted, limp, wheezing — the Connestabilessa recounted in her report — el Rey was subject to continual fainting fits. He would swoon, throwing the court into a panic, then he would recover, suddenly rising to his feet before collapsing on the throne like a marionette without strings. He would switch from somnolence to sudden, exceedingly violent fits of epilepsy. He walked, dragging himself along with great difficulty and could stay standing only if he leaned against a wall, a table, or someone's shoulder. It was an effort for him even to bring his hand to his mouth. Both organs and limbs were worn out. His feet and his knees were ever more swollen. He was becoming dropsical. They tried to cure him with a diet based on cocks and capons fed on serpents; to drink, fresh cow's urine. For several months now, el Rey had been dragging himself from his bed to an armchair and from that back to bed. His body was already in a state of decomposition. And he was only thirty-nine.
I left off reading for a moment: so the King of Spain was barely two years older than me! What horrendous illness could have reduced him to such a state?
I scanned rapidly through those pages in search of a reply.
Attacks of the falling sickness, my friend, are devastating el Rey's flesh more and more with each passing day. At Court, we have by now
learned to recognise the warning signs: His Majesty's lower lip first becomes as pale as that of a cadaver, then becomes blotched with red, blue and green. Soon his legs are seized with tremors and then his whole body is shaken by the most painful squirming and spasms: once, twice, ten times.
Charles II of Spain vomited several times a day. The Catholic King's horrible lantern jaw, inherited from his Habsburg ancestors, is not just ugly: when the monarch closes his mouth, his lower set of teeth, which protrude too much, do not meet the upper row. One could easily place a finger between them. King Charles cannot chew. Unfortunately, from his forebears, particularly the Emperor Charles V he also inherited the appetite of a lion. Thus, he ends up eating everything whole. He gulps down goose livers as though he were quaffing water, while the court stands by, gloomy and powerless. Then, a little while after rising from table, he throws up the entire meal. Vomiting is accompanied by fevers and violent headaches which confine him to his bed for days on end. He struggles to follow his counsellors' reasoning, and never smiles. Not even the buffoons, the court dwarves or the marionettes, which once made him laugh so much, can amuse him any more.
Not that his spirit, memory and ready wit have completely abandoned him; but for most of the time he remains taciturn and melancholy, torpid and listless, his days marked by the sad rhythms of asthma.
His subjects have, with time, grown accustomed to having for a sovereign a man reduced to this state. The ambassadors of foreign kingdoms, however, cannot believe their eyes; as soon as they take up their posts and are received at court for the first time, they find themselves facing a man at the point of death, his gaze empty and his speech fading. In his presence, one can find relief only by turning away one's eyes, and one's nose.
