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"Francesco Redi, the greatest man of letters and science in all

Tuscany. Such were the muses on whose lips my name travelled, my boy."

"Do you still appear before the French royal family?"

"Once youth has vanished, the voice is the first of the body's vir­tues to become unreliable. As a young man, however, I sang in the courts of all Europe, and thus had occasion to make the acquaintance of many princes. Nowadays, they are pleased to ask me for advice, when they must take important decisions."

"You are then... a counsellor abbot?"

"Yes, let us say that."

"You must often be at court, in Paris."

"The court is now at Versailles, my boy. As for myself, that is a long story."

And, frowning, he added: "Have you ever heard of Monsieur de Fouquet?"

The name was, I replied, utterly unknown to me.

He poured himself another glass of wine and fell silent. His silence caused me no embarrassment. We remained thus awhile, without proffering a word, lulled by a spark of reciprocal sympathy.

Atto Melani was still dressed as he had been that morning: with his abbot's periwig, hood and grey-mauve soutane. Age (and his did not show) had enveloped him with a fine layer of fat which softened a rather hooked nose and severe features. The white powder on his face, which changed to carmine on his prominent cheeks, spoke of a perennial conflict of instincts; his broad, wrinkled forehead and arched eyebrows suggested a cold and haughty nature. Yet that was only a pose: it was contradicted by the mocking fold in his fine, con­tracted lips and in his slightly receding, but fleshy, chin, in the midst of which sat an impertinent dimple.

Melani cleared his throat. He drank a last draught and kept the wine in his mouth, letting it smack between his tongue and his palate.

"We shall make a pact," said he all of a sudden. "You need to know everything. You have not travelled, you have experienced nothing, seen nothing. You are perspicacious; one remarks certain qualities immedi­ately. But without a helping hand at the outset, you will never arrive anywhere. Well, in the twenty days of claustration that lie before us, I can give you all that you need. You, in exchange, will help me."

I was astounded. "In what way?"

"What the deuce, to find out who poisoned Monsieur de Mourai!" answered the abbot, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, and he gazed at me the while with a little half-smile.

"Are you certain that this was poisoning?"

"Absolutely," exclaimed he, standing up and moving around in search of something to else to eat. "The poor old man must have swallowed something lethal. You heard the physician, did you not?"

"And what does it matter to you?"

"If we do not stop the assassin in time, he will soon strike down other victims here."

Fear dried my throat at once, and any remaining appetite aban­doned my poor stomach.

"By the way," asked Atto Melani, "are you quite sure of what you told Cristofano about the broth which you prepared and served up to Mourai? Is there nothing else that I should know?"

I repeated to him that I had never taken my eyes off the pan, and I had personally administered the broth, sip by sip, to the gentleman. Any outside intervention must therefore be ruled out.

"Do you know if he took anything earlier?"

"I would say not. When I arrived, he had just risen and Dulcibeni had already gone out."

"And afterwards?"

"No, I think not. After serving him the broth, I prepared the basin for his foot bath. When I left him, he was dozing."

"That means only one thing," he concluded.

"Namely?"

"That you killed him."

He smiled at me. He was jesting.

"I shall serve you in all things," I found myself promising him, with my cheeks on fire, torn between emotion at the challenge which I faced and fear of the danger.

"Bravo. For a start, you could tell me all that you know about the other guests, and whether, in the last few days, you have noticed any­thing unusual. Have you heard any bizarre conversation? Has anyone been long absent? Have letters been delivered or dispatched?"

I responded that I knew very little, apart from the fact that Brenozzi, Bedfordi and Stilone Priaso had lodged at the Donzello at the time of the late Signora Luigia. I then mentioned, not without some hesitancy, that it seemed to me that Padre Robleda, the Jesuit, had gone at night to Cloridia's apartments. The abbot simply guf­fawed.

"My boy, from now on, you will keep your eyes open. Above all, you will watch the two travelling companions of old Mourai, the French musician Robert Devize, and Pompeo Dulcibeni, the Marchigiano."

He saw that I had lowered my eyes, and continued: "I know what you are thinking: you want to be a gazetteer, not a spy. Know then that the two trades are not so different from one another."

"But shall I need to know all that you mentioned a moment ago? About the Quietists, the Gallican Articles, and..."

"That is the wrong question. Some gazetteers have gone far, yet know little: only really important things."

"And what are those?"

"Things which they will never write. But we shall speak of that tomorrow. Now let us go and sleep."

While we were climbing the stairs, I glanced in silence at the ab­bot's white face by the light of the lantern: here was my new master, and I savoured all the excitement of the situation. True, all had come to pass so very suddenly, yet I was vaguely aware that Melani was imbued with a similar secret pleasure at having me for a disciple. At least for as long as the quarantine lasted.

The abbot turned towards me before we took leave of each other, and smiled. Then he disappeared down the second-floor corridor, without a word.

I spent a good part of the night sewing together some old clean leaves of paper piled up on the table where my master kept his accounts, and then writing down on these the recent events which I had wit­nessed. I had decided: I would not lose a single word of what Abbot Melani had taught me. I would transcribe it all and conserve it jeal­ously.

Without the help of those ancient notes today, sixteen years later, I could not be here compiling these memoirs.

*

The morning after, I awoke to a strange surprise. I found Signor Pellegrino asleep on his bed, in the chamber which we shared under the eaves. He had made no preparation whatever for our guests' repast; which, despite our exceptional circumstances, was nevertheless required of him. My master, dressed in the clothes he had worn the evening before, lay sprawled across the bedcovers, showing every sign of having fallen asleep under the influence of some cheap red wine. After rousing him with some difficulty, I went to the kitchen. As I was descending the stairs, I heard, drawing ever nearer, a distant cloud of sounds, confused at first, albeit pleasant. As I drew closer to the entrance of the dining chamber, next to the kitchen, the music grew clearer and more intelligible. It was Signor Devize who, clum­sily perched on a wooden stool, was practising his instrument.

A strange enchantment overcame all who heard Devize's playing, in which the joy of listening was conjoined with the pleasure of the eyes. His doublet of Isabella-coloured bourette and his unadorned apparel, his eyes whose colour shifted from green to grey, his fine cinder-grey hair: everything in him seemed to give way to the vivid tones which, with extravagant chromatics, he drew from the six strings. Once the last note had vanished into thin air, the enchantment broke; and there before one sat a sulky little red-faced man, almost scorbutic, with minute features, a small nose reaching down towards a fleshy, pouting mouth, the short, bull-like physique of an ancient Teuton, a martial gait and brusque manners.

He did not pay much attention when I entered and, after a brief pause, resumed his playing. Suddenly, from his fingers, there sprang up no mere music, but an admirable architecture of sounds which to this day I could describe, were heaven to grant me the words, and not just the memory. It began with a simple, innocent air which danced,
arpeggiato
, from the tonal chord to that of the dominant (thus the virtuoso was later to explain it to me, as yet utterly ignorant of the art of sounds), then reprised that movement, and, after a surprising free cadenza passage, repeated it all. This was, however, only the first of a rich and surprising collection of gems which, as Signor Devize later explained to me, was called a
rondeau
and which was composed of that same first air, repeated several times, but each time followed by a new precious jewel, utterly original and resplendent in its own light.

Like every other
rondeau
, this one, to which I was to listen on many subsequent occasions, was crowned by the extreme and con­clusive repetition of the first stanza, which seemed to endow the whole with meaning and completeness. But, although the innocence and simplicity of that first stanza was utterly delicious, it would have been nothing without the sublime concert of the others which, one after the other, refrain upon refrain, arose ever freer, bolder and more exquisite from that admirable structure; so much so that the last of these was for the intellect and the ears a most sweet and extreme challenge, like those which knights issue to one another over ques­tions of honour. The final arpeggio, after descending prudently, even timidly, towards the bass notes, made a sudden ascent towards the high notes, then jumped to the highest, transforming its tortuous and timorous advance into a clear river of beauty, into which it loos­ened its long tresses of harmony with an admirable progression to bass. And there it remained, absorbed in mysterious and ineffable harmonies, which to my ear sounded forbidden, even impossible (which is the main reason why words fail me here), and at last moved unwillingly towards peace, making way for the final repetition of the initial stanza.

I listened rapt, without proffering a word, until the French musi­cian had stilled the last echo from his instrument. He looked at me.

"You play the lute so well," I ventured timidly.

"In the first place, this is no lute," he answered, "it is a guitar. And besides, you are not interested in how well I play. You like this mu­sic. One can see from how you listen. And you are right: I am rather proud of this
rondeau."

Here, he explained to me how a
rondeau
was made, and how that which I had just heard differed from others.

"That to which you have just listened is a
rondeau
in the style we call
brise,
or broken. In other words, it imitates the lute: the chords are not all played together but strummed,
arpeggiato."

"Ah, I see," I replied, confusedly.

From my expression, Devize must have understood how unsatisfactory his explanation had been, and he went on to say that, while the refrain was written according to the good old rules of consonance, the alternate passages contained ever new harmonic assays, which all concluded in an unexpected fashion, almost as though they were alien to good musical doctrine. And after reaching its apogee, the
rondeau
brusquely entered its coda.

I asked him how it was that he spoke our language so fluently (although with a strong French accent; but that, I did not mention).

"I have travelled much, and I have come to know many Italians whom, by inclination and in practice, I regard as the best musicians in the world. In Rome, however, the Pope has already had the Teatro Tor di Nona, which was near this hostelry, closed for years; but in Bo­logna, in the cappella of San Petronio, and in Florence, one can hear many fine musicians and many magnificent new works. Indeed, our great maestro Jean-Baptiste Lully, who ornaments the King's glory at Versailles, is a Florentine. Best of all, I know Venice where, of all Italian cities, music flourishes the most. I adore the theatres of Ven­ice: the San Cassiano, the San Salvatore, and the famous Teatro del Cocomero where, before I went to Naples, I attended a marvellous concert."

"Were you intending to stay long here in Rome?"

"It scarcely matters now what I may have intended. We do not even know whether we shall leave here alive," said he, resuming his playing with a passage which, he said, came from a chaconne by Maestro Lully himself.

Hardly had I left the kitchen where, after my conversation with Devize I had closed myself in to prepare luncheon, when I ran into Brenozzi, the Venetian glass-blower. I advised him that, if he wished for a warm meal, it was ready. But he, without uttering a word, grasped my arm and dragged me down the stairs that led to the cellar. When I tried to protest, he closed my mouth with his hand. We stopped half­way down the stairs and he started at once: "Calm down and listen to me. Do not be afraid, you must only tell me certain things."

He whispered in a strangled voice, without allowing me to open my mouth. He wanted to know the comments of the other guests on the death of Signor di Mourai, and whether it was thought that there was a danger of yet another death by poisoning or some other cause, and if anyone in particular feared such an eventuality, and if others, on the contrary, feared no such thing, and how long the quarantine might last, if it might be more than the twenty days ordered by the Magistrate, and whether I suspected that any of the guests might be in possession of poisons, or even so much as thought that use had really been made of such substances; and lastly, whether any one of those present was proving inexplicably tranquil despite the quaran­tine that had just been imposed on the inn.

"Signore, I really..."

"The Turks? Have they spoken of the Turks? And of the pesti­lence in Vienna?"

"But I know nothing, I..."

"Now listen once and for all, and answer me," he continued, im­patiently squeezing his rod. "Marguerites: does that mean anything to you?"

"I beg your pardon, Sir?"

"Daisies, marguerites."

"If you wish, Sir, I do have dried ones in the cellar for preparing infusions. Do you feel unwell?"

He snorted and raised his eyes to heaven.

"Forget all that I have said to you. My one command is this: if anyone should ask you, you know nothing about me, understood?" and he squeezed both my hands until they hurt.

I stood there looking at him, speechless.

"Understood?" he repeated impatiently. "What is wrong, is that not enough for you?"

I did not comprehend the meaning of his last question and began to fear that he was out of his mind. I broke free of his grip and rushed up the stairs, while my tormentor tried to hold me back. I emerged into semi-darkness, while Devize's guitar began again to play that splendid and disquieting melody which I had already heard. Rather than tarry, however, I rushed up to the first floor. My fists were still tight with the tension provoked by the glass-blower's assault, and that is why it was only then that I became aware of something in my hand. I opened it and saw three little pearls of admirable lustre.

I put these in my pocket and headed for the chamber in which Signor di Mourai had died. There, I found three of our guests engaged in the saddest of tasks. Cristofano was carrying the corpse of the de­ceased, wrapped in a white cloth which served as a shroud, and beneath which one could sense the deathly rigour of his members. The physician was assisted by Signor Pellegrino and, in the absence of younger volunteers, by Dulcibeni and Atto Melani. The abbot wore no periwig, neither was his face powdered. I was astonished to see him wearing secular apparel—taffeta breeches and a muslin cravat—which seemed excessively elegant for so sombre an occasion. The only remaining sign of his rank was a pair of fiery red stockings.

The poor body was placed on a large oblong basket, lined with rags and blankets. On top of it was placed the bundle containing his few effects, collected by Dulcibeni.

"Did he possess nothing else?" asked Abbot Melani, noticing that the gentleman from Fermo had packed only a few of the dead man's clothes.

Cristofano replied that it was only obligatory to hand over clothing. Other effects could remain in the hands of Dulcibeni, who could deliver them to any surviving relatives. Then the three lowered the corpse with a thick rope through the window down to the street, where the
Societas Orationis et Mortis
awaited their sad consignment.

"What will they do with the body, Signor Cristofano?" I asked the physician. "Is it true that they will burn it?"

"That is not our business. It is not possible to bury him," he added, drawing breath.

We heard a slight tinkling. Cristofano reached down to the ground. "Did you drop something?... but what have you in your hand?" he asked.

From my half-open hand one of the pearls, with which I had been nervously playing, had fallen to the floor. The doctor picked it up and studied it.

"Really splendid. Where did you get it?"

"Oh, these were deposited by a customer," I lied, showing him the other two.

My master, in the meantime, left the apartment. He seemed tired. Atto, too, departed in the direction of his own apartment.

"That is bad. One should never allow oneself to be parted from pearls, least of all in our predicament."

"Why?"

"Among their numerous and occult virtues, they preserve one from poison."

"How is that possible?" I asked, growing pale.

"Because they are
siccae
and
frigidae
to the second degree," replied Cristofano, "and, if well preserved in a vase and not perforated,
habent detergentem facultatem,
and can exercise a cleansing action in the pres­ence of fevers and putrefaction. They purge and clarify the blood— indeed, they limit menstruation—and, according to Avicenna, they cure the
corpum crassatum,
palpitations and cardiac syncope."

While Cristofano was displaying his medical learning, I felt unable to comprehend: what obscure signal did Brenozzi's gift hide? I knew that I must absolutely speak of this with Abbot Melani, and I sought to take my leave of the chirurgeon.

"Interesting," added Cristofano, examining the pearls and turn­ing them attentively with his fingertips. "The form of these pearls indicates that they were fished before the full moon and in evening waters."

"And what does that mean?"

"That they cure the false imaginings of the soul and cogitations. Dissolved in vinegar, they are a sure remedy for
omni imbecillitate et animideliquio,
above all, for apparent death."

At last Cristofano returned the pearls to me and I was able to leave him. I ran straight up the stairs to Abbot Melani's apartment.

Atto's chamber was on the second floor, just above that which the old Mourai had shared with Dulcibeni. These were the largest and brightest apartments in the entire hostelry: each had three windows, two of which faced onto the Via dell'Orso and one onto the corner of the alleyway. In the days of Signora Luigia, important personages had lodged there with their retinue. There was also an identical room on the third and last floor, under the eaves, where Signora Luigia had lived. Here, despite Cristofano's prohibition, my master and I con­tinued to cohabit, although temporarily: this being a privilege that I would surely lose on the return of Signor Pellegrino's wife, when I would again be relegated to sleeping in the kitchen.

I was struck by the variety of books and maps of all sorts which the abbot had brought with him. Atto Melani was a lover of the an­tiquities and beauties of Rome, judging, at least, by the titles of some of the volumes which I glimpsed, carefully arranged on a shelf, and with which I was later to acquaint myself in quite another manner: