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* But,
what infinite sadness, /your life has now dissolved...

The abbot turned towards me, his features contorted by emotion.

"Now my friend sits on the right hand of the Most High, among the just and the martyrs," he exclaimed emphatically. "You should know, Fouquet's mother looked with apprehension upon her son's ascent, which made him powerful over the things of this world, but weakened his soul. And every day, she prayed to God that he should alter the Superintendent's destiny, so as to guide him onto the path of redemption and sanctity. When his faithful servant La Foret came with the news of his arrest, Fouquet's mother knelt, full of joy, and thanked the Lord, exclaiming: 'Now he will surely become a saint.'

Atto broke off for a moment to control the anguish that tightened his throat and prevented him from speaking.

"That good woman's prediction," he resumed, "came true. Ac­cording to his confessor, Fouquet, in the last period of his impris­onment, had admirably purged his soul. It seems that he even wrote a number of spiritual meditations. Certainly, he often re­peated in his letters to his wife how grateful he was for that prayer of his mother, and how happy he was that it had been answered." The abbot sobbed: "Oh Nicolas! Heaven demanded the highest price of you, but accorded you a second grace: it spared you from that miserable destiny of worldly glory which leads inevitably to a vain cenotaph."

After allowing the abbot and myself a few more moments in which to soothe our souls, I tried to change the subject: "I know that you will not agree to this, but has the time perhaps not come to question Pompeo Dulcibeni or Devize?"

"Not at all," he retorted sharply, promptly abandoning every trace of his previous despair. "If those two have anything to hide, any ques­tion will put them on their guard."

He rose to wipe his face. Then he rummaged among his docu­ments and finally handed me a paper.

"There are other matters to think about, for the time being: we must unravel such clues as we have. You will recall that when we set foot in Komarek's clandestine printing press, the floor was littered with sheets of paper. Well, I found time to pick up a couple of these. Tell me if this reminds you of something."

Carattere Testo Paragone Corsivo.

LIBER J O S VE

Hebraice Jehoshua.

Caput Primum.

ET factum est post mortem Moysi servi Domini, ut loqueretur Dominus ad Josue filium Nun, ministrum Moysi, & diceret ei; Moyses seruus mens mortuus est surge & transi Jordanem istum tu & omnis populus tecum, in terram, quam ego dabo filiis Israel. Omnem locum, quem calcaverit vestig­ium pedis vestri, vobis tradam, sicut locutus sum Moysi. A deserto & Libano usque ad fluvium magnum contra Solis occasum erit terminus vester. Nullus poterit vobis resistere cunctis diebus vitae tuae: sicut fui cum Moyse, ita ero tecum: non dimittam, nec derelinquam te. Confortare & esto robustus: tu enim sorte divides populo huic terram...

"It seems to be another passage from the Bible." "And so?"

I turned it over in my hands: "This, too, is printed on only one side!"

"Correct. The question then follows: is there some new fashion in Rome for printing Bibles on one side only? 1 do not think so: it would call for so much paper, the books would weigh twice as much and would perhaps cost double too." "And what does that tell you?" "That tells me these pages are not from a book." "What are they then?" "An assay of skill." "Do you mean a printer's proof?"

"Not just that: it is a sample of what the printer is able to of­fer his clients. After all, what did Stilone Priaso tell the
corpisantari?
Komarek needs money, and in addition to his humble duties in the print-shop of the Congregation for the Propagation of the Faith, he takes on a few clandestine jobs. But, at the same time, he will need to find, so as to speak, 'ordinary' clients. Perhaps he has already re­quested an authorisation to print on his own account. He will have prepared a sample to show future customers the quality of his work. And, to show a sample of characters, one page will suffice."

"I do believe that you are right."

"I do believe so too. And I shall show you the proof of this: what does the first line of our new page say? 'Carattere Testo Paragone Corsivo.' I am no expert, but I maintain that 'Paragone' is the name of the typeface used in this text. On the other page, and in exactly the same place, I read 'nda'. Probably, the complete word was
Ro
tonda
for some rounded typeface."

"Does all this mean that we must now go back to suspecting Sti­lone Priaso?" I asked in no small state of agitation.

"Perhaps so, perhaps not. But what is certain is that to find our thief we must search among Komarek's customers. And Stilone Pria­so is one of them. Moreover, like our gazetteer, the thief of your lit­tle pearls cannot be weighed down by riches. And, lastly, he hails from Naples; the very city from which Fouquet left for the Donzello. Strange, is it not? However..."

"However?"

"That is all too obvious. Whoever poisoned my poor friend is cun­ning and skilful, and will have taken steps to ensure that he is above suspicion, and to pass unobserved. Can you imagine a perennially anxious character like Stilone Priaso in that role? Do you not think it would be absurd, if he were the assassin, that he should go about with an astrological gazette under his arm? To pass oneself off for an astrologer would certainly not be a good cover for an assassin. Even less, to indulge in petty thieving by filching your pearls."

Of course. Stilone really did seem to be an astrologer. I told Atto with what melancholy and pain the Neapolitan had narrated the tale of Abbot Morandi.

As I was leaving his chamber, I decided to put to Melani the ques­tion which I had been holding in reserve for some time.

"Signor Atto, do you or do you not believe that there is some con­nection between the mysterious thief and the death of Superintendent Fouquet?"

"I do not know."

He was lying. I was sure of it. When, back in my bed after serving luncheon, I gathered my ideas together, I felt a cold, heavy curtain fall between me and Abbot Melani. He was certainly hiding some­thing else from me, as he had hidden the presence of Fouquet at the inn under barefaced lies and, before that, the letters discovered in Colbert's study. And with what impudence he had narrated to me the story of the Superintendent! He had spoken of him as though he had not seen him for years, while he and Pellegrino had seen him die (and in my mind i weighed up that tremendous event) only a few hours before. He had then had the effrontery to suggest that Dulcibeni and Devize were hiding something about Mourai, alias Fouquet. And who was he to talk? What high priest of deceit, what virtuoso of simulation could Abbot Melani be? I cursed myself for not heeding those things which I had learned concerning him when I overheard Cristofano, Devize and Stilone Priaso conversing. And I cursed myself for having felt flattered when he praised my perspicacity.

I was exceedingly irritated, and so all the more desirous of squar­ing up to the abbot in order to put to the proof my ability to stay ahead of his moves, to unmask his omissions, to interpret his silences and to cut through his eloquence.

Indulging myself in the subtle and envious rancour which I felt for Melani, worn out by my sleepless night, I fell very gently asleep. On the point of giving myself up to Morpheus, I unwillingly banished the thought of Cloridia.

For the second time that day, I was awoken by Cristofano. I had slept for four hours without a break. I felt well, I know not whether because of my nap or the
magnolkore
which I had taken care to drink and to spread on my chest beforehand. On seeing that I had recov­ered, the doctor left, reassured. I remembered then that I must com­plete my round of visits to administer the remedies against infec­tion. I dressed and took with me the bag containing the little jars. I intended first of all to administer a stomach theriac and a decoction of ivy with syrup to Brenozzi, and a fumigation to Stilone Priaso, then to descend to the first floor and visit Devize and Dulcibeni. I passed through the kitchen in order to boil a little water in the kettle.

I ordered matters so as to deal quite swiftly with the Venetian. I could no longer tolerate his manner of interrogating me, putting questions and then answering them himself before I could so much as open my mouth. Nor could I refrain from observing his disgust­ing habit of grasping his nether parts in restless counterpoint, like those youngsters who have just lost their innocence but, being inex­perienced in life, cannot stop pestering their little celery stalk with vain digital interrogations. I saw that he had not touched his food but avoided asking questions, fearing that this might unleash another flood of words.

I then knocked on the Neapolitan's door. He called me in but, while I was laying out my things, I saw that he too had left his meal untouched. I asked him if by any chance he felt unwell.

"Do you know where 1 come from?" he asked me in response.

"Yes Sir," I replied in some perplexity. "From the Kingdom of Naples."

"Have you ever been there?"

"Alas, no, I have never visited any other city in my whole life."

"Very well, know then that in no land has heaven been so prodi­gal of its beneficent influences in every season," he began grandilo­quently, while I prepared his inhalation. "Naples, gentle and popu­lous capital of the twelve provinces of the kingdom, is situated in a magnificent theatre overlooking the sea, framed by soft hills and rolling plains. Founded by a nymph named Partenope, it enjoys the myriad fruits, the purest fountains, the famed fennel and all man­ner of herbs offered by the nearby plain known as Poggio Reale, all of which may justifiably raise eyebrows into arches of wonderment. Then, on the fertile littoral of Chiaia, as on the hills of Posilippo, cauliflowers are harvested, and peas, cardoons and artichokes, rad­ishes, roots and the most exquisite salads and fruit. Nor do I believe that there exists a place more fertile and delightful, o'erflowing with every amenity, than the proud shores of Mergellina, ruffled only by soft zephyrs, which deservedly received the ashes of the immortal Marone and of the incomparable Sanazzaro."

So it was not purely by chance that Stilone Priaso styled him­self a poet. He, in the meanwhile, pursued his discourse from under the sheet with which I had covered his head, immersed in balsamic vapours: "Moving further, we come to the antique city of Pozzuoli, with its copious bounty of asparagus, artichokes, peas and pumpkins out of season; and in the month of March, early sour-grape juice, to the good people's astonishment. Luscious fruit on Procida; on Ischia, medlars both white and red, fine Greco wines and pheasants plenti­ful. At Capri, the finest of heifers and splendid quails. Pork at Sor­rento, game at Vico, the sweetest of onions at Castell'a Mare, grey mullet at Torre del Greco, red mullet at Granatiello, Lachrimae on the Monte di Somma, once known as Vesuvius. And watermelons and saveloys at Orta, Vernotico wine at Nola,
torrone
at Aversa, melons at Cardito, apricots at Arienzo, Provola cheeses at Acerra, cardoons at Giugliano, lampreys at Capua, olives at Gaeta, legumes at Venafro; and trout, wine, oil and game at Sora..."

At last, I understood.

"Do you perhaps mean to suggest, Sir, that the food which I am serving you does not meet with your approval?"

He stood up and looked at me with a hint of embarrassment.

"Er... to tell the truth, we eat nothing but soups here. But, that is not the point..." said he, stumbling in his search for words. "Well, in short, your mania for putting cinnamon in all your broths, sauces and soups will end up accomplishing the extermination which we were expecting from the plague!" And unexpectedly, he laughed out loud.

I was confused and humiliated. I begged him to lower his voice lest we be overheard by the other guests; but I was too late. From the chamber next door, Brenozzi had already heard Stilone's protest and was laughing unrestrainedly The echo spread to Padre Robleda's apartment, and in the end both of them leaned out of their windows. Stilone Priaso went on to open his door, caught up in the chorus of hilarity: I begged him to close it, but in vain. I was overwhelmed by a barrage of scornful jokes and mockery, and they laughed until they cried, all at the expense of my cooking. Only, it seemed, the chari­table accompaniment of Devize's music rendered it all a little less unbearable. Even Padre Robleda struggled to suppress a guffaw.

None of them had yet confessed the truth to me, explained the Neapolitan, for they had learned from Cristofano of Pellegrino's awakening and were counting upon my master's swift return, besides which, these were the least of their cares during those days. The recent increase in my doses of cinnamon had, however, rendered the situation untenable. Here, Priaso broke off, seeing from my coun­tenance how humiliated and offended I was. The other two closed their doors again. The Neapolitan put a hand on my shoulder.