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"Do you then think," I interrupted, "that the letters from Kircher which you discovered in Colbert's study were found in that box?"

"Perhaps."

"And how did the trial end?"

Fouquet had requested that several judges should be challenged on grounds of partiality: for instance, Pussort, Colbert's uncle, who persistently referred to the Serpent his nephew as "my party". Pussort attacked Fouquet so coarsely as even to prevent him from re­sponding, thus upsetting all the other judges.

Chancellor Seguier also sat in the court, yet during the Fronde he had been among the insurgents against the Crown. Fouquet observed: how could Seguier judge a state crime? The next day, all Paris applauded the brilliant counter-attack of the accused, but the challenge was rejected.

The public began to murmur: not a day passed without some new accusation being levelled against Fouquet. His accusers had made the rope so thick that it was becoming too unwieldy to strangle him with.

So, the decisive moment drew nigh. Some judges were requested by the King in person no longer to take an interest in the trial. Talon himself, who in his speeches for the prosecution had showed great zeal without obtaining much success, had to make way for another Procurator-General, Chamillart. It was he who, on 14th November, 1664, set out his own conclusions before the Chamber of Justice. Chamillart called for Fouquet to be condemned to death, and for the restitution of all sums illicitly taken from the state. It then fell to the rapporteurs of the trial to make their concluding speeches. Judge Olivier d'Ormesson, vainly subjected to Colbert's attempts at intimi­dation, spoke passionately for five whole days, unleashing his fury against Berryer and his men. He concluded by calling for a sentence of exile: the best possible solution for Fouquet.

The second rapporteur, Sainte-Helene, spoke in more languid and tranquil tones, but called for the death sentence. Then each judge had to utter his own verdict.

The ceremony was long-drawn-out, agonising and ruinous for some. Judge Massenau had himself carried into court, despite a grave indisposition, murmuring: "Better to die here." He voted for exile. Pontchartrain had resisted Colbert's allurements and his threats: he too voted for exile, thus ruining his own career and that of his son. As for judge Roquesante, he ended his own career in exile, for not hav­ing voted in favour of a death sentence.

In the end, only nine out of the twenty-six commissaries opted for the death sentence. Fouquet's head was saved.

As soon as it became known, the verdict which saved Fouquet's life and gave him back his freedom—albeit outside France—met with great relief and was greeted by much rejoicing.

It was here that Louis XIV entered the scene. Overcome by wrath, he resolutely opposed exile. He annulled the sentence of the Chamber of Justice, thus rendering utterly pointless the three long years of the trial. In a decision unique in the annals of the Kingdom of France, the Most Christian King reversed the royal right to commute sentences, hitherto used only to pardon, and condemned Fouquet to life imprisonment, in solitary confinement, in the distant fortress of Pinerol.

"Paris was utterly shocked. None could comprehend the reasons behind that gesture. It was as though he nurtured a secret and im­placable hatred for Fouquet," said Abbot Melani.

It was not enough that Louis XIV should dismiss him, humiliate him, despoil him of all his property and have him imprisoned on the faraway borders of France. The King himself sacked the Chateau de Vaux and his residence at Saint-Mandé, decorating his own palace with Fouquet's furniture, his collections, carpets, gold services and tapestries and incorporating into the Royal Library the thirteen thou­sand precious volumes lovingly chosen by the Superintendent in the course of years of study and research. The whole was valued at no less than forty thousand
livres.

To Fouquet's creditors, who suddenly emerged on all sides, there remained: the crumbs. One of them, an ironmonger named Jolly, forced his way into Vaux and the other residences, furiously tearing off with his bare hands all the padding and wall-coverings of precious leather; he then dug up and carried off the exceedingly modern lead pipes and hydraulic conduits, thus almost reducing to nothing the value of the parks and gardens of Vaux. Stucco decorations, ornaments and lamps were hurriedly stripped away by a hundred angry hands. When the pillage came to an end, the glorious residences of Nicolas Fouquet resembled nothing so much as two empty shells: the proof of the wonders which they contained rests only in the inventories of his persecutors. Fouquet's possessions in the Antilles were mean­while plundered by the Superintendent's overseas dependents.

"Was the Chateau de Vaux as fine as the Palace of Versailles?" I stupidly asked Atto Melani.

"Vaux anticipated Versailles by a good five years," said Atto with calculated bombast, "and in many ways it was the inspiration behind it. If only you knew how heart-rending it is for those who frequented Fouquet, when moving through the Palace of Versailles, to recognise the paintings, the statues and the other marvels that belonged to the Superintendent and which still have the savour of his refined and sure taste..."

I said nothing and even wondered whether he was about to give way to tears.

"A few years ago, Madame de Sevigne made a pilgrimage to the Chateau de Vaux," Atto resumed. "And there she was seen to weep for a long time at the ruin of all those treasures and their great patron."

The torment was compounded by the system of incarceration. The King gave orders that at Pinerol Nicolas Fouquet was to be forbidden to write or to speak with anyone, apart from his gaolers.

Whatever the prisoner had in his head or on his tongue was to remain his and his alone. The only one entitled to hear his voice, through the ears of his keepers, was the King. And if Fouquet did not desire to speak with his tormentor, he had but to keep silence.

Many in Paris began to guess at an explanation. If Louis XIV wished to silence his prisoner for all eternity, he had only to arrange for him to be served a soup with suitable condiments...

But time passed, and Fouquet was still living. Perhaps the ques­tion was more complicated. Perhaps the King wanted to know some­thing which the prisoner, in the cold silence of his cell, was keeping to himself. One day, they imagined, the rigours of prison would con­vince him to talk.

Ugonio called for our attention. Distracted by our conversation, we had forgotten that, while we were in the house of Tiracorda, Ci­acconio had smelled a foreign presence. Now the
corpisantaro'
s nose had again scented something.

"Gfrrrlubh."

"Presence, perspiraceous, antiquated, scarified," explained Ugo­nio.

"Can you perhaps tell us what he ate for luncheon?" asked Atto Melani derisively.

I feared that the
corpisantaro
might take this amiss, for his exceed­ingly fine sense of smell had been useful to us and would probably continue to be so.

"Gfrrrlubh," came Ciacconio's calm response, after he had again sampled the air with his deformed and carbuncle-encrusted nose.

"Ciacconio has scented cow's udderlings," translated his compan­ion, "with a probability of hen-fruit, hamon and white vino, mayhap with broth and saccar."

Atto and I exchanged astonished glances. This was exactly the dish which I had taken such great pains to prepare for the guests at the Donzello. Ciacconio could know nothing about that; yet he was able to discern from the odorous traces left by the stranger not only the smell of cows' teats but even the aroma of a number of the ingredients which I had added to the dish. If the
corpisantaro''
s sense of smell was accurate, we concluded incredulously, we must be fol­lowing a lodger at the Donzello.

The narration of Fouquet's trial had lasted quite a while and dur­ing that time we had explored a fairly lengthy portion of gallery C. It was hard to say how far we had come from beneath the Piazza Navona and where we now were; but, apart from some very slight bends, our trajectory had involved no deviation whatever: we had therefore fol­lowed the only direction possible. Hardly had we made that observa­tion, when all changed.

The ground became damp and slippery, the air denser and heav­ier, and in the gloomy silence of the gallery a distant rustling sound could be heard. We advanced cautiously, while Ciacconio's head rocked from side to side, as though he were suffering. A nauseating odour could be detected, which was, I knew, familiar, but could not as yet identify.

"Sewers," said Atto Melani.

"Gfrrrlubh," confirmed Ciacconio.

Ugonio explained that the sewage was disturbing his colleague no little, and making it impossible for him to identify other odours clearly.

A little further on we found ourselves walking through real pud­dles. The stink, which had at first been indistinct, grew intense. At last we found the cause of all this. In the wall to the left, there was a wide and deep opening, through which poured a flood of black, fetid water. The rivulet followed the slope in the gallery, partly flowing along the sides, partly ending up in the seemingly endless darkness of the passageway. I touched the opposite wall: it was damp and left a fine coating of slime on my fingertips. Our attention was attracted by a detail. On its back in the water before us, and indifferent to our presence, lay a large rat.

"Mortified," proclaimed Ugonio, nudging it with one foot.

Ciacconio took the rat by the tail with his two clawed fingers and let it hang. From the rat's mouth into the greyish water there ran a fine stream of blood. Ciacconio lowered his head, observing the un­expected phenomenon with an air of surprise.

"Gfrrrlubh," he commented thoughtfully.

"Mortified, bloodified, maldistempered," explained Ugonio.

"How does he know that it was ill?" I asked.

"Ciacconio loves these little animals very much, is that not so?" intervened Abbot Melani.

Ciacconio nodded affirmatively, showing with an ingenuous and bestial smile his horrible yellow teeth.

We continued on our way, moving beyond the stretch of gallery soaked by the flood from the sewers. Everything suggested that the leakage was recent and that normally we should have found there no trace of water. As for the rat, this was no lone discovery. We soon came across three more dead rodents, more or less of the same dimensions as the first one. Ciacconio inspected them: all bled abundantly from the mouth because, said the
corpisantari,
of some undefined illness. Here was yet another encounter with blood: first, the bloodstained page from the Bible, then the phial, now these rats.

Our exploration was interrupted by yet another surprise. This time we found no infiltration, however copious, but a veritable wa­tercourse, which rushed rapidly through a gallery perpendicular to our own and appeared to be fairly deep. This was in all probability an underground river, whose waters were perhaps mixed with some of the waste materials normally borne by the sewers. There was, how­ever, no bad smell like that which had so upset Ciacconio.

With no little disappointment, we had to admit defeat. We could go no further, and a long time had passed since we left the Donzello. It would not do to remain any longer outside the inn, given the risk that our absence might be discovered. Thus, tired and worn, we de­cided to turn back.

While we turned around, Ciacconio once more sniffed the air sus­piciously.

Atto Melani sneezed.

*

The return to the Donzello was long, sad and tiring. We came back to our bedchambers with our hands, faces and clothing mud-stained and wet. I threw myself onto my bed exhausted and almost at once fell into a deep sleep.

When I stirred in the morning, I found that I was still lying in the same uncomfortable posture as when I lay down the night before. It was as though my legs were tormented by a thousand swords. I stretched out an arm to raise myself into a sitting position and my hand met the rough, crumpled surface of an object with which I had obviously shared my bed. It was Stilone Priaso's astrological alma­nack, which I had so precipitously put aside some twenty-four hours before, when Cristofano called me to work.

The night which had just passed had fortunately helped me to forget the tremendous occurrences which the almanack had, by oc­cult means, precisely foretold: the death of Colbert, that of Mourai (rather, of Fouquet) and the presence of a poison; the "malignant fe­vers" from which my master and Bedfordi would suffer; the "hidden treasure" which would come to light at the beginning of the month, or in other words, the letters hidden in Colbert's study and stolen by Atto; the "subterranean earthquakes and fires" which had resounded through our cellars; and, lastly, the prediction of the siege of Vien­na: or, in the words of the gazette, " battles and assaults against the City", as foreseen by "Ali and Leopoldus Austriacus".

Did I wish to know what would happen in the days to come? No, I thought, with a tightening of my stomach, at least for the time being, I did not desire that. I looked instead at the preceding pages and my eyes alighted on the last week of July, from the 22nd until the last day of the month.

This Weeke, News of the World will be received from Jupiter, who governs the ruling House. That being the Third House, he sends many Dispatches, perhaps concerning the lllnesse of a Ruler, who will in the End tearfully quit a Kingdom.

So, at the end of July, the death of a sovereign was expected. I had heard of no such thing and so it was with satisfaction that I saluted the arrival of Cristofano: I would ask him.

But Cristofano knew nothing of this. Once again, he wondered, and inquired of me, how it was that I should be concerned with mat­ters so distant from our present predicament: first, astrology, then, the fortunes of sovereigns. Thanks be to heaven, I had enjoyed suf­ficient presence of mind to conceal the astrological gazette in my couch in good time. I felt pleased to have discovered an inaccuracy, and one of some importance, in the almanack's hitherto all too pre­cise predictions; this meant that they were not infallible. Secretly, I breathed a sigh of relief.

Cristofano, meanwhile, looked pensively at my eyes. He said that youth was a most happy season in human life, one that tended to un­leash all the forces of body and mind. However, he added emphatically, one must not abuse this sudden and sometimes disorderly flowering, thus dissipating its new and almost uncontrollable energies. And while, with concern, he prodded the bags under my eyes, he reminded me that dissipation was above all sinful, as was commerce with women of easy virtue (and here he nodded in the direction of Cloridia's little tower), which could, moreover, lead to the French pox. He knew this well, having had personally to cure many with his authoritative remedies, such as the Great Ointment and Holy Wood. Yet, for health, such commerce was perhaps less inauspicious than solitary dissipation.

"Excuse me," said I, in an endeavour to deflect the discussion from that thorny subject, "I have another question: do you perhaps know what illnesses rats suffer from?"

Crisofano laughed. "That is all we need. 1 can see it all now... One of our guests must have asked you whether there are rats in the hostelry, is that not so?"

My smile was uncertain, neither affirming nor denying.

"Well, I ask you, are there rats in the hostelry?"

"Good heavens, no, I have always cleaned everywhere with the greatest of care."

"I know, I know. If that were not the case, in other words, if you had found any dead rats, I myself would have put you on your guard."

"And why is that?" .

"Why my poor boy, rats are always the first to catch the pestilence: Hippocrates recommended that one should never touch them, and in this he was followed by Aristotle, Pliny and Avicenna. The geographer Strabo tells that in ancient Rome the dreadful meaning of rats appear­ing sick in the streets was well known; for it portends a visitation, and he reminds us that in Italy and Spain, prizes were awarded to who­ever killed the greatest number of them. In the Old Testament, the Philistines, being afflicted with a frightful pestilence which affected their posterior parts, causing the putrefied intestines to issue forth from the anus, noticed that the fields and villages had been invaded by rats. They then questioned the seers and the priests who replied that the rats had devastated the earth and that, to placate the wrath of the God of Israel, they must offer Him an
ex voto
with a representa­tion of the anus and of the rats. Apollo himself, a deity who caused the plague when wrathful and turned it away when placated, was known in Greece as Smintheus, or destroyer of mice and rats: and indeed, in the
Iliad,
it was Apollo Smintheus who destroyed with the pestilence the Achaeans besieging Troy. And Aesculapius, too, was represented during visitations of the plague, with a dead rat at his feet."

"Then rats cause the plague!" I exclaimed, thinking with horror of the dead rodents which I had seen under the ground the night before.

"Calm down, my boy. I did not say that. What I have just told you are only ancient beliefs. Today we are fortunate enough to be living in 1683 and modern medical science has made immense progress. Vile rats do not cause the plague, which results, as I have already had occasion to explain, from the corruption of the natural humours and principally from the wrath of the Lord. It is, however, true that rats fall sick with the plague and die from it, just like men. But it suffices not to touch them, as Hippocrates said."

"How does one recognise a rat with the plague?" I asked, fearing the reply.

"Personally, I have never seen one, but my father did: they suffer from convulsions, their eyes are red and swollen, they tremble and squeal in agony."

"And how does one know that it is not another malady?"

"It is simple; they soon lose all their natural fluids and die, pirou­etting and spitting blood. And, when dead, they become bloated and their whiskers remain rigid."

I blanched. All the rats found in the galleries had a rivulet of blood flowing from their pointed muzzles. And Ciacconio had even taken one by the tail.

I was not afraid for myself, being immune to the distemper; but the discovery of those little carcasses meant perhaps that the plague was spreading through the city. Perhaps other houses and other inns had already been shut up and within them wretched unfortunates shared our anguish. Being in quarantine, we had no means of know­ing. I therefore asked Cristofano whether, in his view, the pestilence had spread.

"Fear not. In the past few days I have several times requested information from the watchmen who mount the guard in front of the inn. They have told me that there are no other suspected cases in the city. And there is no reason not to believe that to be the case."

As we descended the stairs, the doctor ordered me to rest for a few hours in the afternoon, obviously after anointing my chest with the
magnolicore.

Cristofano had come to my room to warn me that he himself would see to the preparation of something quite simple and nutritious for luncheon. Now, however, he needed my assistance: he was concerned about some of the guests who, the evening before, after the dinner based on cows' teats had been beset by fits of heavy eructations.

As soon as we reached the kitchen, I saw, placed upon a little stove, a heavy glass bell equipped with a spout shaped like an alembic, in which oil was beginning to distil. Underneath, something was burning in a little pot, giving off a great stink of sulphur. Next to it, there stood a flask in an earthenware container which the physician grasped and began to tap delicately with his fingertips, producing a delicate ringing sound.

"Do you hear how perfectly it sounds? I shall use it for reduc­ing to ash the oil of vitriol which I shall apply to the tokens of poor Bedfordi. And let us hope that this time they will mature and at last burst. Vitriol is rather corrosive, most bitter, of black humour, and unctuous; it greatly chills all intrinsic heat. Roman vitriol—of which I was fortunate enough to purchase a stock before our quarantine—is the best, because it is congealed with iron, while the German prod­uct is congealed with copper."

I had understood very little, except that Bedfordi's condition had not improved. The physician continued: "In order to help our guests' digestion, you will help me to prepare my angelical electuary, which by its attractive and non-modifying virtues, resolves and evacuates all indispositions of the stomach, heals ulcerated wounds, is a salve for the body and calms all altered humours. It is also good for catarrh and for toothache."

He then handed me two brown felt bags. From one, he extracted a couple of flasks of wrought glass.

"They are very beautiful," said I.

"For electuaries to be maintained in good condition according to the art of the herbalist, they must be stored in the finest glass, and for this purpose other flasks are worthless," he explained proudly.

In one, Cristofano explained, was his quinte essence, mixed with electuary of fire of roses; in the other, red coral, saffron, cinnamon and the
lapisphilosophorum Leonardi
reduced to powder.

"Mix," he ordered me, "and administer two drachms to everyone. Go to it at once, for they must not partake of luncheon for at least another four hours."

After preparing the angelic electuary and pouring it into a bottle, I did the rounds of all the apartments. I left Devize's for last, since he was the only one to whom I had not yet administered the remedies which preserve from the plague.

As I approached his door, with the bag full of Cristofano's little jars, I heard a most graceful interweaving of sounds, in which I had no difficulty in recognising that piece which I had so many times heard him play, and whose ineffable sweetness had invariably enchanted me. I knocked timidly and he quite willingly invited me to come in. I explained the purpose of my visit to him and he assented with a nod, while still playing. Without proffering a word, I sat down on the floor. Devize then put down his guitar and fingered the strings of an instrument which was both far bigger and far longer, with a wide fingerboard and many bass notes to be played unfretted. He broke off and explained to me that this was a theorbo, for which instrument he himself had composed many suites of dances with the most vigorous succession of preludes, allemandes, gavottes, courantes, sarabandes, minuets, gigues, passacaglias and chaconnes.

"Did you also compose that piece which you play so often? If only you knew how that enchants everyone here at the inn."

"No, I did not compose that," he replied with a distracted air. "The Queen gave it to me to play for her."

"So you know the Queen of France in person?"

"I knew her: Her Majesty Queen Maria Teresa is dead."

"I am sorry, I..."

"I played for her often," he continued without pausing, "and even for the King, to whom I had occasion to teach some rudiments of the guitar. The King always loved..." His voice trailed off.

"Loved whom, the Queen?"

"No, the guitar," replied Devize with a grimace.

"Ah yes, the King wanted to marry the niece of Mazarin," I recited, regretting at once that I should thus have given away the fact that I had overheard his conversations with Stilone Priaso and Cristofano.

"I see that you know something," said he, somewhat surprised. "I imagine that you will have gleaned this from Abbot Melani."

Although taken by surprise, I succeeded in neutralising Devize's suspicions: "For heaven's sake, Sir... I have endeavoured to keep my distance from that strange individual, ever since..."—and here I pretended to be ashamed—"ever since, well..."

"I understand, I understand, you need say no more," Devize interrupted me with a half-smile. "I do not care for pederasts either..."

"Have you too had cause for indignation towards Melani?" I asked, mentally begging pardon for the ignominious calumny with which I was staining the honour of the abbot.

Devize laughed. "Fortunately, no! He has never... um... bothered me. Indeed we never addressed a word to one another in Paris. It is said that Melani was an exceptional soprano in the days of Luigi Rossi, and of Cavalli... He sang for the Queen Mother, who loved melancholy voices. Now he sings no more: he uses his tongue for lies, alas, and betrayal," said he acidly.