Imprimatur (51 page)

Devize's phrase came to mind: it was indeed an error to judge Maria Teresa by appearances alone.

"Do you think that she dissimulated?" I asked.

"She was a Habsburg. She was a Spaniard. Two exceedingly proud breeds, and bitter enemies of her husband. How do you think that Maria Teresa felt, exiled on French soil? Her father loved her dearly and had agreed to lose her only in order to conclude the Peace of the Pyrenees. I was present at the Isle of Pheasants, my boy, when France and Spain concluded the treaty and decided the nuptials between Louis and Maria Teresa. When King Philip of Spain had to bid his daughter farewell, and knew that he would never again see her, he embraced her and wept disconsolately. It was almost embarrassing to see a King comport himself thus. At the banquet which followed the agreement, one of the most sumptuous that I have ever seen, he barely touched his food. And in the evening, before retiring, he was heard to groan between his tears, saying, 'I am a dead man,' and other silly phrases."

Melani's words left me speechless: I had never thought that pow­erful sovereigns, the masters of Europe's fate, might suffer so bitterly for the loss of a loved one's company.

"And Maria Teresa?"

"At first, she behaved as though nothing had happened, as was her wont. She had immediately let it be understood that her betrothed was pleasing to her; she smiled, conversed amiably and showed her­self pleased to be leaving. But that night, everyone heard when in her chamber she cried in torment:
'Ay, mi padre, mi padre!"

"Then it is clear: she was a dissimulator."

"Exactly. She dissimulated hatred and love and simulated piety and fidelity. And so we ought not to be too surprised that no one should have known of the gracious exchanges of musical scores be­tween Maria Teresa, Corbetta and Devize. Perhaps it all took place under the King's nose!"

"And do you think that Queen Maria Teresa used the guitarists to hide messages in their music?"

"That is not impossible. I recall having read something of the sort many years ago, in a Dutch gazette. It was cheap scribblers' stuff, published in Amsterdam but written in French in order to spread poisonous rumours about the Most Christian King. It told of a young valet at the court of Versailles, by the name of Belloc, if I recall correctly, who wrote scraps of poetry for recital during ballets. In those verses were inserted in cipher the reproaches and sufferings of the Queen for the King's infidelities, and these were said to have been commissioned by Maria Teresa herself."

"Signor Atto," I then asked, "who is Mademoiselle?"

"Where have you heard that name?"

"I read it at the top of Devize's score. There were written the words '
à Mademoiselle'."

Although the diffuse light of the lantern was faint, I saw Abbot Melani grow pale. And suddenly in his eyes I read the fear which for the past couple of days had begun silently to consume him.

I then told him everything else about my meeting with Devize: how I had accidentally stained the score with oil and how, when en­deavouring to clean it, I had read the dedication
"à Mademoiselle'".
I recounted the few things which Devize had told me about Mad­emoiselle: namely, that she was a cousin of the King; and how the latter had, because of her past as a rebel, condemned her to remain a spinster.

"Who is Mademoiselle, Signor Atto?" I repeated.

"What matters is not who she is but whom she married."

"Married? But was she not to remain unmarried, as a punish­ment?"

Atto explained to me that matters were rather more complicated than Devize's version. Mademoiselle, who was in reality called Anne Marie Louise, Duchess of Montpensier, was the richest woman in France. Riches, however, were not enough for her: she was utterly set upon marrying a king, and Louis XIV amused himself by forbidding her the joys of matrimony. In the end, Mademoiselle changed her mind: she said she no longer wished to become a queen and to end up like Maria Teresa, subjected to the whims of a cruel monarch in some distant land. At the age of forty-four, she then fell in love with an obscure provincial gentleman: a poor younger brother from Gascony, with neither skills nor fortune who, a few years earlier, had had the good luck to be liked by the King, becoming the companion of his amusements and even acceding to the title of Count of Lauzun.

Lauzun was a cheap seducer, said Atto scornfully, who had court­ed Mademoiselle for her money; but in the end, the Most Christian King consented to the marriage. Lauzun, however, being a monster of presumption, wanted festivities worthy of a royal wedding; "like the union of two crowns," he would boast to his friends. Thus, while the wedding was held up by too many preparations, the King had time to relent and again forbid the marriage. The betrothed couple begged, entreated, threatened; all to no avail. So they married secretly. The King found this out, and that was the ruin of Lauzun, who ended up in prison, in a fortress far from Paris.

"A fortress," I repeated, beginning to understand.

"At Pinerol," added the abbot.

"Along with..."

"Exactly, along with Fouquet."

Until that moment, explained Melani, Fouquet had been the only prisoner in the enormous fortress. However, he already knew Lauzun, who had accompanied the King to Nantes on the occasion of his arrest. When Lauzun was brought to Pinerol, the Superintendent had been languishing in a cell for over nine years.

"And how long did Lauzun remain there?"

"Ten years."

"But that is so long!"

"It could have been worse for him. The King had not set the dura­tion of his sentence and could have held him at his pleasure."

"How come, then, that after ten years he was freed?"

That was a mystery, said Atto Melani. The only certain fact was that Lauzun was liberated a few months after the disappearance of Fouquet.

"Signor Atto, I no longer understand a thing," said I, unable to control the trembling which had seized my limbs. We were now al­most back at the inn, filthy and overcome by cold.

"Poor lad," said Atto Melani pityingly. "In a few nights, I have compelled you to learn half the history of France and of Europe. But it will all be useful! If you were already a gazetteer, you would have enough to keep you writing for the next three years."

"But, in the midst of all these mysteries, even you no longer un­derstand anything concerning our situation," I dared retort, disconso­late and panting with fatigue. "The more we struggle to understand, the more complicated matters become. This much I know: your sole interest is in understanding why the most Christian King had your friend Fouquet condemned twenty years ago. As for my little pearls, they are lost forever."

"These days, everyone is curious about the mysteries of the past," said Abbot Melani, calling me severely to order. "This is because the present mysteries are too frightening. I and you shall, however, re­solve both. That, I promise you."

These words were, I thought, all too facile. I endeavoured to sum­marise for the abbot all that we had learned in six days of shared claustration at the Donzello. A few weeks earlier, Superintendent

Fouquet had come to our hostelry, in the company of two gentlemen. The first, Pompeo Dulcibeni, was familiar with the system of tun­nels under the inn and used them to visit his fellow-countryman, the physician Tiracorda, who was at the present time caring for the Pope. Dulcibeni had, moreover, had a daughter by a Turkish slave, who had been stolen from him by a certain Huygens, backed by a man called Feroni, when Dulcibeni was in the service of the Odescalchi, in other words, the family of the Pope.

Fouquet's second companion, Robert Devize, was a guitarist whose relations with Maria Teresa, Queen of France, were not clear. He was a pupil of Francesco Corbetta, an intriguing personage who had written and, before dying, donated to Maria Teresa the
rondeau
which we so often heard Devize playing. The music sheet of this
rondeau
, however, bore a dedication to Mademoiselle, the cousin of the Most Christian King and wife of the Count of Lauzun. The latter had, for ten years, been the companion of Fouquet at Pinerol, before the Superintendent's death...

"You should say 'before his escape'," Atto corrected me, "seeing that he died at the Donzello."

"Correct. And then..."

"And then we have a Jesuit, a runaway Venetian, a harlot, a Neapolitan astrologer, a drunkard of a host, an English refugee and a phy­sician from Siena: like all his colleagues, a murderer of defenceless Christians."

"And the two
corpisantari
," I added.

"Ah yes, the two monsters. And, last of all, we ourselves who are racking our brains while someone in the hostelry has the plague, bloodstained pages from the Bible are to be found in the galleries beneath the city, as well as phials full of blood and rats puking blood... too much blood, now that I come to think of it."

"What does it all mean, Signor Atto?"

"A fine question. How many times must I repeat to you? Think of the crows and the eagle. And behave like an eagle."

By that time, we were already climbing the stairs that led to the secret chamber in the Donzello; and soon after that, we separated, after giving each other an appointment for the morrow.

*

Even in those days overburdened with emotion, there would some­times arise and keep turning in my mind an edifying maxim which the old lady who had so lovingly educated and instructed me was wont to chant, as one does with children: never leave a book half-read.

It was with that wise precept in mind that I decided, upon rising, to complete my reading of Stilone Priaso's astrological almanack. My scrupulous teacher was not mistaken: better not to open a book than to read it only in part, thus committing to memory a mere fragment, together with an erroneous judgement. Perhaps, I reflected, the re­maining pages might enable me to gain a more balanced view of the obscure powers which I had hitherto attributed to that mysterious booklet.

Upon awakening, moreover, I felt less faint than on the preceding mornings; 1 had slept soundly and sufficiently, even after the carousel of stalking and spying and narrow escapes which had led us to follow Dulcibeni the whole way along gallery C until we came to the under­ground river; and, above all, after the surprising revelations concern­ing Devize (and his mysterious
rondeau)
which the abbot and I had discovered during our return to the inn.

My mind still refused to dwell upon that intricate story. Yet, now I found an opportunity to finish reading the gazette which the
corp­isantari
had taken from Stilone Priaso, and which I still kept under the mattress of my little bed.

This small volume seemed to have predicted accurately the events of the past few months. Now, I wanted to know what the future held in store for us.

So 1 read the predictions for the third week of September, which would soon be upon us.

The Vaticinations which are to be conjectured from the Starres will, during this

Week, be given principally by Mercury, which will receive two Luminaries in

its Domiciles and, being in the Third House, in Coniunction with the Sunne,
promises Voyages undertaken by Princes, the Sending of volumi­nous Dispatches and divers Royall Embassies.

Jupiter and Venus conjoined seek to bring together in the Igneous Trine
an Assembly of the Virtuous to treat of a League, or a Peace of great Importance.

My attention was drawn at once to "Voyages undertaken by Princes, the Sending of voluminous Dispatches" and "Royall Embassies" and no doubt remained in my mind: these must be the dispatches announcing the outcome of the battle for Vienna, which must by then have been decided.

Soon, indeed, a multitude of mounted messengers, perhaps despatched by the very sovereigns and princes who had taken part in the fray, would spread across Europe, bearing the verdict in three days to Warsaw, in five, to Venice, in eight or nine to Rome and Paris, and later still to London and Madrid.

Once again, the author of the almanack had found his mark: not only had he foreseen a great battle, but the frenetic spreading of the news on the morrow of the final clash.

And was not the "Assembly of the Virtuous to treat of a League, or a Peace of great Importance" of which the Almanack spoke, the peace treaty which would surely be sealed between victors and van­quished?

I read on, coming to the fourth and last week of September:

Ill Tidings for the Sick
may be received during this fourth Weeke of Sep­tember, since the Sun rules the Sixth House and has given over the care of the Infirm to Saturn; hence, there shall reign Quartan Fevers, Fluxes, Dropsy, Swellings, Sciatica, Gout and Pain caused by the Stone. Jupiter, however, rules the Eighth House and will soon bring Health to many Patients.

There would, then, be other threats to health: fevers, disturbanc­es in the circulation of the humours, excessive water on the stomach, pains in the bones, legs and bowels.

These were all grave threats; yet, according to the almanack, they were not insuperable. The worst was indeed still to come:

The first Tidings of this Weeke may be somewhat violent, for they will be sent by Mars, the Ruler of the Ascendant, who, being in the Eighth House, may cause us to hear of the Deathe of Men by Poyson, Steele or Fire. Saturn in the Sixth House, which rules over the Twelfth House, promises Deathe to certain enclosed Noblemen.

Upon reading those last words, I became breathless. I threw the gazette far from me and, with clasped hands, implored heaven's aid. Perhaps nothing that I had read in the course of my life so marked my soul as those few, cryptic lines.

"Violent" events were, then, brewing; such as "the Death of Men by Poyson, Steele or Fire". Death was destined for "enclosed Noble­men": some of the guests at the Donzello were certainly noble and, for sure, all were "enclosed" because of the quarantine!

If ever I had needed another proof that the almanack (the work of the Devil!) foretold events, here I had it: it spoke of
us,
cloistered in the Donzello by the pestilence, and of the death of certain gentle­men among us.

Violent death, and by poison: and had not Superintendent Fou­quet perhaps been poisoned?

I knew that a good Christian must not yield to despair, even when his plight is most tragic. I would, however, be lying if I were to pre­tend that I faced these unheard-of revelations with manly dignity. Never had I felt myself so abandoned, despite my foundling's con­dition, in thrall to stars which, for who knows how many centuries, perhaps since their course began, had determined my destiny.

Overcome by terror and desperation, I grasped the old rosary which I had received as a gift from the pious woman who had raised me, kissed it passionately and pocketed it. I recited three paternos­ters and realised that, in my fear of the stars, I had entertained doubts about divine providence, which every Christian should acknowledge as his sole guide. I felt a burning need to purge my soul and to re­ceive the comfort of the Faith: the time had come for Confession before God; and, thank heaven, there was in the hostelry someone who could help me.

"Well, come in my son, you are right to cleanse your soul at a time as difficult as this."

As soon as he had heard the reason for my visit, Robleda wel­comed me to his little chamber with great benevolence. The secret of Confession melted my heart and loosed my tongue and I honoured the sacrament with ardour and commitment.

Once he had given me absolution, he asked me the origin of so many sinful doubts.

Without mentioning the almanack, I reminded Robleda that a while before, he had spoken to me of the predictions concerning the

Angelic Pope and this conversation had caused me to meditate long on the topic of fate and predestination. During the course of these cogitations, the thought had come to me that some held all sublu­nary things to be determined by the influence of the stars, so that such events could be adequately foretold. I knew that the Church rejected such views, which indeed belonged among the doctrines to be condemned. Yet, the physician Cristofano had assured me that as­trology could do much for medical practice, and was therefore a good and useful thing. That was why, torn between such conflicting views, I had thought to ask Robleda to enlighten and counsel me.

"Bravo, my boy, we must always turn to Mother Church when confronting the many and various uncertainties of existence. I can understand that, here in this hostelry, with such comings and go­ings of travellers, you should have heard speak of the illusions which soothsayers, astrologers and necromancers of all sorts spread among simple souls. You must not listen to such chatter. There exist two forms of astrology, one false and one true. The first sets out, on the basis of men's date of birth, to foretell the events in their lives and their future behaviour. This is a false and heretical doctrine, which, as you know, has long been forbidden. There is, however, a good and true astrology, the aim of which is to investigate the power of the stars through the investigation of nature, for the purpose, not of pre­diction, but the accumulation of knowledge. And if one thing is abso­lutely certain, it is that the stars do influence things here on earth."

In the first place, declared Robleda, glad of the opportunity to hold forth and to show off his science, we have the ebb and flow of the tides, known to all and caused by the mysterious influence of the moon. Likewise, mention should be made of the metals in the deep bowels of the earth, reached neither by the light nor the heat of the sun, and which must therefore be produced thanks to the influence of the stars. Many other experiences, too, (which he could have listed
ad abundantiam)
would be difficult to explain without admitting the intervention of celestial influences. Even that modest little plant, penny-royal (or
Menthapulegium
), according to Cicero in
De Divinatione,
flowers only at the winter solstice—on the shortest day of the year. Other demonstra­tions of the power of heavenly bodies over bodies terrestrial could be drawn from meteorology: the rising and setting of the seven stars situated at the head of the constellation of Taurus, which the Greeks called the Hyades, are usually accompanied by abundant rainfall. And what can be said of the animal kingdom? It is well known that, with the waxing and waning of the moon, oysters, crabs and other similar creatures lose vital energy and vigour. What Cristofano had said was, moreover, true: Hippocrates and other highly skilful physicians knew that dramatic shifts took place in the progression of illnesses at the solstices and equinoxes. All of this was, said the Jesuit, in accord­ance with the teaching of the angelic doctor, Saint Thomas, and with that of Aristotle, in the
Meteora,
and was confirmed by many other philosophers, including Domingo Soto, Iavello, Dominique Bagnes, and I could have learned far more, had I read
The True and False Astrology
, a wise and truthful volume by his brother Jesuit Giovanni Battista Grassetti; which had gone to press only a few months previously.

"But if, as you say, good astrology is not in conflict with the Chris­tian religion," I objected, "then there must exist a Christian astrology."

"And it does indeed exist," replied Robleda, now indulging him­self in the display of his own knowledge, "and it is a pity that I do not have with me the
Enriched Christian Zodiac or the Twelve Signs of Divine Predestination
, a work of the purest doctrine and the product of the ingenuity of my brother Jeremiah Drexel, published in this holy city some forty years ago."

In that volume, explained Robleda, the twelve signs of the astrological tradition were at last replaced by as many symbols of the One True Religion: a burning candle, a skull, a golden ciborium of the Eucharist, a bare, unveiled altar, a rosebush, a fig tree, a tobacco plant, a cypress, two lances conjoined with a crown of olive leaves, a scourge, with fasces, an anchor and a shield.

"And would these be the signs of the Christian zodiac?" I inquired, full of wonderment.

"More than that: each of these is the symbol of the eternal values of the Faith. The burning candle represents the inner light of the immortal soul, as it is written
Lucerna pedibus meis verbum tuum et lumen semitis meis,
the cranium symbolises meditation upon death, the golden ciborium represents the frequency of Confession and Communion, the altar... Look, you have dropped something."

In drawing the rosary from my pocket, some of the leaves found by Ugonio and Ciacconio, which I kept in the same pocket, had fallen to the ground.

"Oh, it is nothing," I lied. "It is... a curious spice which they gave me at the market on the Piazza Navona a few weeks ago."

"Give it to me," quoth Robleda, almost tearing one of the leaves from my hand. He turned it over several times in his hand, visibly astonished.

"How curious," said he, at length. "I wonder how it came to be here."

"Why?"

"It is a plant that does not grow in Europe. It comes from far over­seas, from Peru in the Western Indies."

"And what is it called?"

"Mamacoca."

Padre Robleda then told me the surprising story of
mamacoca
, an unusual little plant which was to have much importance in the events of the days that followed.

In the beginning, he informed me, when the Western Indies were conquered and the local savages (followers of false religions and cultivators of blasphemy) duly subjugated, no sooner had the Jesuit missionaries undertaken the holy work of evangelisation than they passed at once to the study of the innumerable varieties of plants of the New World. It was an endless universe: while the ancient and authoritative
Materia Medica
of Dioscurides mentioned some three hundred plants in all, the physician Francisco Hernandez had in the seventeen volumes of his
Historia Natural de las Indias
counted over three thousand plant species.