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I felt proud to have that most sagacious of beings with his back to the wall. I stared at him suspiciously and accusingly.

"Have you finished?"

"Yes."

"Very well," said he at length, "now let me speak. In my sleep, you heard me murmur '
barricades mysterieuses’
if I have understood you correctly."

"Exactly."

"Well, as you know, that is more or less a translation of
arcanae obices."

"Indeed. And I want to know once and for all how you knew..."

"Be quiet, be quiet, that is not the point."

"But you..."

"Trust me just this one last time. What I am about to tell you will make you change your mind."

"Signor Atto, I cannot follow these mysteries any longer, and be­sides..."

"You need follow nothing. We are there already. The secret of the
arcanae obices
lies here between us, and perhaps it is more yours than mine."

"What do you mean?"

"That you have seen it, or better, heard it more often than I."

"Pardon me?"

"The
secretum vitae
which protects against the plague is in that music."

This time, it was I who needed time to get used to the shocking news. In the marvellous
rondeau
which had so fascinated me, lay the centre of the mystery of Kircher and Fouquet, of the Sun King and Maria Teresa.

Atto gave me time to blush, a helpless prey to surprise, and to stammer defencelessly: "But I thought... it is not possible."

"That is what I too said to myself initially, but if you think about the matter, you will understand. Just follow my reasoning: have I not told you that Corbetta, Devize's master, was expert at encrypting messages into his music?"

"Yes, that is true."

"Good. And Devize himself told you that the
rondeau
'Les Barri­cades Mysterieuses' was composed by Corbetta and that, before he died, he presented it to Queen Maria Teresa."

"That, too, is true."

"Well, the dedication of the
rondeau
, which you saw with your own eyes, is '
à  Mademoiselle'
: the wife of Lauzun. Lauzun was in prison with Fouquet; and Fouquet had received the secret of the plague from Kircher. Now Fouquet, when he was still Superintendent, must have commissioned Corbetta to encrypt in music the
secretum vitae
(or
arcanae obices
or mysterious barricades, if you prefer) which brings salvation from the pestilence."

"But you told me that Kircher too knew how to encrypt messages in music."

"Certainly. Indeed, I do not exclude the possibility that Kircher may have passed on to Fouquet the
secretum vitae
already encrypted in a musical score. It is, however, probable that such music was still at a rather rough, preparatory stage. Do you remember what Devize told you? Corbetta created the
rondeau
, rearranging it on the basis of an earlier melody. I am sure he was referring to Kircher. Not only that: Devize himself, playing it again and again on his guitar, may have so perfected its performance that it became quite impossible to suspect that so sublime a harmony might conceal a message in ciphers. In­credible, is it not? I myself find it difficult to believe."

"And it is in the form of a
rondeau
that the Superintendent must jealously have conserved the
secretum vitae."

"Yes, that music somehow survived all the misadventures which befell my friend Nicolas."

"Until in Pinerol..."

"... he confided it to Lauzun. But do you know what I think about this? That it was Lauzun himself who wrote the dedication '
à
Mademoiselle
'. He will have given it to his wife to pass on to Queen Maria Teresa."

"Yet Devize told me that the score was a gift from Corbetta to the Queen."

"A tall story, and one of no importance. A way of complicating a simple tale for you: the truth is that, after Corbetta, and before Maria Teresa came into possession of that
rondeau
, it passed through the hands of Fouquet, Lauzun and Mademoiselle."

"One thing does not make sense to me, Signor Atto: did you not suspect that Lauzun was imprisoned at Pinerol near to the Superintendent in order to extract the secret from him?"

"Perhaps Lauzun served two masters. Instead of spying on and betraying Fouquet, he may have preferred to talk openly to him— also because the Squirrel was most perspicacious. Thus, Lauzun will have helped him to win his own freedom from the King in exchange for the
secretum morbi.
But, and this would do him honour, he will have avoided revealing to His Most Christian Majesty the fact that Fouquet also possessed the
secretum vitae
, in other words, the
rondeau.
On the contrary, he and Mademoiselle will have availed themselves of the opportunity to revenge themselves on the King and to place the precious antidote to the plague in the hands of His Majesty's enemies: beginning, and it pains me greatly to say this, with his wife Maria Teresa, may the Lord keep her in His Glory."

I remained deep in thought, going over in my mind all the notions which Atto had set before me.

"There is truly something strange in that music," I observed, drawing all the threads of my memory together. "It is as though it... came and went, always the same, yet always different. I cannot ex­plain this well, but it brings to mind what Kircher wrote about the pestilence: the distemper moves away, then returns; and in the end, it dies just when it has reached its paroxysm. It is as though... that music spoke of this."

"Indeed? So much the better. That there is in this music some­thing mysterious and indefinable, I too, had thought, ever since I first heard it."

In the heat of our discussion, I had completely forgotten the rea­son for my calling upon Abbot Melani: to obtain an explanation of those words which he had pronounced in his sleep. Yet again, how­ever, Atto would not let me speak.

"Listen to me. Two unresolved problems remain: first of all, to whom could the antidote of the
secretum vitae
against the
secretum morbi,
and thus against His Most Christian Majesty, be useful? Secondly: whatever is Dulcibeni plotting? How is it that he was travelling with Devize and Fouquet before my poor friend,"—and here, Atto's voice again broke un­der the weight of emotion—"came to die at your hostelry?"

I was about to remind him that he had also to discover to whom or to what Fouquet's strange death was attributable, and what had be­come of my little pearls, when the abbot, paternally cupping my chin in the palm of his hand, continued: "Now I ask you, if I had known at what door to knock in order to find the
arcanae obices
mentioned by Kircher, would I have wasted all this time just for the pleasure of your company?"

"Well, perhaps not."

"Certainly
not: I would have set my sights directly upon Devize and the secret of his
rondeau.
Perhaps I would have succeeded without too much difficulty: it is possible that Devize himself does not know what is embedded in the
rondeau
of the 'Barricades Mysterieuses'. And we could forget about Corbetta, Lauzun, Mademoiselle and all that hor­ribly complicated tale."At that precise moment, our eyes met.

"No, my boy. I must admit it, you are most precious to me, but I do not intend to deceive you in order to obtain your services. Now, however, Abbot Melani must ask you to make one last sacrifice. Will you still obey me?"

I was spared a reply by the echo of a scream: I had no difficulty in identifying the voice of Cristofano.

I left Abbot Melani and ran directly to Bedfordi's chamber.

"Triumph! Wonder! Victory!" the doctor kept repeating, his face purple with emotion, his hand on his heart and his back against the wall to prevent himself from falling.

The young Englishman, Eduardus Bedfordi, was sitting on the edge of his bed, coughing noisily.

"Could I have a drink of water?" he asked in a hoarse voice, as though he had awoken from a long sleep.

A quarter of an hour later, all the lodgers were gathered around the stunned Devize, before Bedfordi's door. Jubilant and breathless at the happy surprise, the inhabitants of the Donzello had all flowed like a little torrent into the corridor on the first floor, and now they were bombarding one another with exclamations of amazement and questions to which they did not even expect an answer. They dared not yet approach Cristofano and the newly revived Englishman: the doctor had meanwhile regained his self-control and was meticulously examining his patient. His response was not long in coming: "He is well. He is very well, by Jove! I'd say that he has never been better!" exclaimed Cristofano, allowing himself to give way to an outburst of liberating laughter, which spread to all the others.

Unlike Signor Pellegrino, my master, Bedfordi had immediately recovered his normal consciousness. He asked what had happened and why he was bandaged everywhere and suffering such pain in all his members: the excision of the tokens and the incisions for bleed­ing him had played havoc with his young body.

He remembered nothing; and to every question that was put to him, by Brenozzi in the first place, he would react with bewilder­ment, opening his eyes wide and wearily shaking his head.

Looking more closely, I saw that not all were in the same humour. The rejoicing of Padre Robleda, Brenozzi, Stilone Priaso and my

Cloridia (who regaled me with a lovely smile) were in contrast to the absorbed silence of Devize and Dulcibeni's waxen pallor. I observed Abbot Melani, lost in thought, ask something of Cristofano. He then withdrew and returned up the stairs.

It was only then that, in the general turmoil, Bedfordi at last un­derstood that he had had the plague and had for days on end been given up for lost.

"But then, the vision..." he exclaimed.

"What vision?" came a chorus of questions.

"Well... I think that I have been in hell."

Thus he related that, of his illness, he remembered only having suddenly experienced a long, long fall downwards, and the fire. After who knows how long, no less a personage than Lucifer stopped be­fore him. The Devil, with green skin, moustaches and a goatee on his chin (just like those of Cristofano, he pointed out) had planted one of his red hot talons, from which leapt tongues of fire, in his throat, and had tried to tear out his soul. Not succeeding in this, Lucifer had brandished his pitchfork and transfixed him with it again and again, almost draining him of all his blood. Then the foul beast had clutched his poor, exhausted body and thrown him into boiling pitch; and here Bedfordi swore that this had all seemed horribly real to him and that he would never have believed that one could suffer such pain. And in that pitch, the young man had remained for who knows how long, contorted by suffering, and he had begged God for forgiveness for all his sins and his little faith and had implored the Most High to rescue him from that infernal Hades. Then, darkness.

We all listened in religious silence; but now the guests' voices were competing for who should shout "Miracle!" the loudest. Padre Robleda, who throughout the narration had been continuously mak­ing the sign of the cross, stepped forward prudently from the group and, deeply affected, signed the air in blessing; whereupon some knelt and crossed themselves in turn.

Only the physician's countenance had darkened. He knew well, as did I, whence Bedfordi's vision came: it was none other than the delirious memory of the cruel therapies to which Cristofano had sub­jected him as he lay prostrate in the clutches of the pestilence. The diabolical claw which tried to tear out his soul was in reality the im­perial musk with which Cristofano had induced vomiting; the cruel pitchfork of Lucifer, we recognised without difficulty as the harness which the physician had employed when bleeding his patient; lastly, the boiling pitch was none other than the cauldron over which we had placed Bedfordi for his steam bath.

Bedfordi was hungry, but, at the same time, he said he was suf­fering from a strong sensation of burning in the stomach. Cristofano then commanded me to warm him a little of the good broth of stock­dove which had already been prepared. This would both nourish him and pacify his bowels. At this juncture, however, the Englishman fell asleep.

We resolved then to let him rest and all descended together to the chambers on the ground floor. Oddly enough, no one was trou­bled by the fact that he had left his own apartment; nor did Cristo­fano remember to scold them all and make them return to their own chambers. The plague seemed to have gone; so, by tacit accord, our seclusion was at an end; and no one so much as mentioned it.

The guests of the Donzello seemed also to be suffering the pangs of great hunger; wherefore, I descended to the cellars, determined to cook something tasty and rich with which to celebrate. While with my head down almost to the ground among the boxes of snow I searched among kids' heads and feet, sweetbreads, legs of mutton and chick­en, a multitude of thoughts passed through my mind. Bedfordi was cured. How was that possible? Devize had played for him, as recom­mended by Padre Robleda: was the Jesuit's theory about the mag­netism of music then true? It was indeed true that the Englishman seemed to have awoken only after "Les Barricades Mysterieuses"... But was that
rondeau
not supposed to be a mere cipher concealing the
secretum vitae?
That had at least been Abbot Melani's assumption. Now, however, the melody itself had perhaps proved to be the agent of the cure... No, I really could make no sense of the whole matter. I must speak of this with Abbot Melani as soon as possible.