Secretum

by Rita Monaldi;Francesco Sorti

  It was then that, breaking off the pointless exercise of eyes and muscles, intent upon the search for the hidden papers, I had a flash of inspiration: specifically, a reminiscence from seventeen years before, a distant yet still vivid memory of how Atto and I had, by night, retraced the key to the mystery which had wound us in its coils. This had consisted of papers, and these we had found in a place to which instinct and logic (as well as good taste) had hitherto failed to lead us: within a pair of soiled drawers.

  "You have underestimated me, Abbot Melani," I murmured to myself as, for the second time, I opened the basket of dirty clothes and groped, no longer among but inside them. "How very imprudent of you, Signor Atto, said I with a self-satisfied grin when, feeling inside a pair of Holland drawers, I felt crumpling beneath my fingers a bundle of papers. I grasped the drawers; the lining was not sewn but attached to the main body of the item of apparel by a series of minuscule hooklets. Once I had unfastened the latter, I could reach into the space between the two layers of stuff. This I did, and found my fingertips touching a wide, flat object. I extracted it. It was a parchment envelope, tied with a ribbon. It was well designed, in such a way as to contain a number of papers, and only those; in other words, it was as flat as a pancake. In silent triumph, I turned it over in my hands.

  Not much time remained to me. Atto was certainly keen to explore the villa and to meet the other guests who, like him, had arrived early for the wedding. It would, however, take only some necessity on his part to return to his apartment for the Abbot to surprise me. I was spying upon a spy: I must move swiftly.

  I undid the bow. Before opening it I noted on the cover, written near the bottom in a minuscule hand, an inscription so tiny that it seemed destined only to be to be found by an eye already aware of its existence:

  Spanish succession - Maria

  I opened the envelope. A set of letters, all addressed to Melani, but all unsigned. The agitated, irregular calligraphy which appeared before my eyes seemed incapable of repressing any emotion. The lines were not, so to speak, confined by the margins of the page; the additions which the writer's hand had inserted into a number of sentences curled their way into the following lines. Moreover, this writing belonged without any possible doubt to a feminine hand. It seemed clearly to be that of the mysterious Maria: the name which I had overheard Atto sighing.

  What the Spanish succession might be, I was soon to learn in great detail from those letters. The first letter, which seemed to be deliberately imprecise, so as to betray neither the identity of the writer nor morsels of news that might be too pleasing to unfriendly eyes, began, as I recall, as follows:

  My dearest Friend,

  Here I am, already in the environs of Rome. Things are moving fast. I learned during a halt something of which you will already be apprised: a few days ago the Spanish Ambassador, the Duke of Uzeda, obtained a double audience with the Pope. On the day after he had attended the Holy Father in order to thank him for conferring a Cardinal's hat on his compatriot Monsignor Borgia, Uzeda received by special courier an urgent dispatch from Madrid, which induced the Duke to request yet another audience with His Holiness. He delivered a letterfrom the King of Spain, containing an entreaty: El Rey requests a mediation by Innocent XII on the question of the Succession!

  On the same day, our mutual friend the Secretary of State Cardinal Fabrizio Spada was seen to visit the Duke of Uzeda at the Spanish Embassy in Piazza di Spagna. The affair must have reached a turning point.

  Since I was not in the habit of reading gazettes, the question of the Spanish succession was not at all familiar to me. The mysterious correspondent, however, seemed very well informed.

  I imagine that all Rome must be chattering about it. Our young Catholic King of Spain, Carlos II, is dying without heirs. El Rey is departing, my friend, ever more evanescent are the traces of his brief and dolorous sojourn on this earth; but no one knows to whom his immense kingdom will pass.

  I remembered that Spain included Castile, Aragon, the overseas possessions and colonies, as well as Naples and Sicily: a multitude of territories.

  Shall we, ev 'ry one of us, be equal to the onerous task that awaits us? O, Silvio, Silvio! who in thine early years hast found the fates propitious, I tell thee, too early wit has ignorance for fruit.

  I was utterly astonished. Why in the letter was Atto called by the name of Silvio? And whatever could those expressions signify which seemed to accuse Abbot Melani of ignorance and immaturity of mind?

  The letter then came to an end on a no less cryptic note:

  Tell Lidio that with respect to that whereon he questions me, I have no answer to give. He knows why.

  I continued reading. Attached to the letter was a precise summary in the form of an appendix:

  A Conspectus Of The Present State Of Affairs

  It contained a mixture of information and, in sum, detailed the troubled progress of the Spanish succession in recent times.

  Spain is in decline and no one thinks of the Catholic King with the same just terror as when the mind turns to the Most Christian King of France, Louis the Fourteenth, First-born Son of the Church. Yet the Sovereign of Spain by the Grace of God is King of Castile, of Aragon, of Toledo, Galicia, Seville, Granada, Cordoba, Nursia, Jaen, of the Algharbs of Algeciras, Gibraltar, the Canary Isles, the Indies, and of the Islands and Terra Firma of the Mare Oceanum, of the North, of the South, of the Philippines and of whatsoever other islands or Lands have been or may yet be discovered. And, through the Crown of Aragon, the Heir will succeed to the Throne of Valencia, Catalonia, Naples, Sicily, Majorca, Minorca and Sardinia; without counting the State of Milan, the Duchies of Brabant, of Limburg, Luxembourg, Guilderland, Flanders and all the other Territories which in the Nether Lands belong or may belong to El Rey. He who sits on the Throne of Spain will truly be the Master of the World.

  The King of Spain, or El Rey, as he was called by the mysterious epistler, was dying without direct heirs and this was what rendered so difficult the problem of determining who was to inherit all those enormous possessions scattered across the whole world, which made of the Spanish crown the globe's greatest kingdom. Until not long ago, as I learned from the remainder of the letter, there had in fact been an heir designated for the succession to the Spanish throne: this was the young Prince Elector of Bavaria, Joseph Ferdinand, who was in terms of blood relationships without a doubt best entitled to succeed to the throne of Spain. Yet, little over a year before, Joseph Ferdinand had suddenly died: a death so unexpected and so weighed down with consequences that a suspicion of poisoning at once spread through the courts of Europe.

  There now remained two possibilities: the dying Sovereign of Spain, Charles II, could name as his heir a nephew of the French Sovereign, Louis XIV or a subject of the Emperor of Austria, Leopold I. Both solutions, however, were beset with risks and uncertainties. In the first case, France, which was the most feared military power in Europe, would also become the greatest monarchy in Europe and in the world, uniting de facto with its own overseas possessions those of the crown of Spain. In the second case, if Charles were to nominate a subject of Vienna, this would signify the rebirth of that empire which only the glorious Charles V had been able to unite under his sway: from Vienna to Madrid, from Milan to Sicily, from Naples to the distant Americas.

  This second hypothesis was the more probable of the two, for Charles II was a Habsburg like Leopold of Austria.

  Hitherto, the letter went on to explain, France had succeeded in maintaining equilibrium with its enemies (meaning, all the other states of Europe). The peace with Spain was indeed long-standing; and with England and Holland a pact had been agreed for the future partition of the enormous Spanish possessions, seeing that it had long been realised that Charles II was in no condition to have children. When, however, the partition pact had been made public, about a month previously, the Spaniards became furious: the King of Spain could not accept that the other states should be preparing to divide his kingdom among themse
lves as the centurions divided the raiment of Our Lord on the cross.

  The report therefore concluded:

  If El Rey dies now, there is a risk that the situation may become explosive. The pact of partition has become too difficult to implement. On the other hand, France cannot accept encirclement by the Empire. Nor can the others, from the Emperor Leopold I to the King of England and the Dutch heretic William of Orange, allow her to swallow Spain in a mouthful.

  The next letter was written in another hand; it was Atto's reply, for which I had searched so hard. As I expected, it was not yet sealed, pending Buvat's preparation of a copy for the Abbot's archives:

  Most Clement Madame,

  As you well know, in these months, the Ambassadors of all the Powers and their Sovereign Lords are losing their heads utterly because of the Spanish Succession. All ears and all eyes are constantly on the lookout, hungry for news and for secrets to seize from the other Powers. All gravitates around the Ambassadors of Spain, France and the Empire; or Penelope and her two Suitors. All three Kingdoms await the opinion of the Pope concerning the Succession: France or the Empire? What will be the advice of His Holiness to the Catholic King? Will he choose the Duke of Anjou or the Archduke Charles?

  All was now clear to me: in Rome would be decided the fate of the Spanish Empire. Evidently, all three powers were prepared to accept the judgement of the Holy Father. The noblewoman's letter had, in fact, spoken of mediation by the Pontiff, not of an opinion.

  Here in Rome, the air is pregnant with a thousand turmoils. All this is further complicated by the fact that, as you know, all three Ambassadors of the great Powers, namely Spain, France and the Empire, are new to these parts. Count Leopold Joseph von Lamberg, Ambassador of His Caesarean Majesty Leopold I of Habsburg, Holy Roman Emperor, arrived here some six months ago.

  The Duke of Uzeda, a sharp-witted Spaniard, has been in post for about a year.

  The same is true of the French diplomatic representative, Louis Grimaldi, Duke of Valentinois and Prince of Monaco, a great polemicist, who does more harm than good and has already argued with half Rome over stupid questions of etiquette. So much so that His Majesty has been obliged to pull his ears and remind him above all to cultivate fruitful relations with the nation whose guest he is.

  That one can do little for France. Fortunately, the Most Christian King need not count only on him.

  But let us change the subject to ourselves. I hope that you are now in perfect health and will ever continue so to be. Alas, I cannot say the same of myself. Today, upon my arrival at the Villa Spada, a bizarre incident befell me: I was stabbed in the right arm by a stranger.

  And here the Abbot, in truth exaggerating a little, dwelt at some length upon the blood which had stained his white shirt and the operations of the chirurgeon which he had borne heroically, and so on and so forth, rising to a paroxystic crescendo. . .

  Ah, cruel stilet which pierced my tender side. . . Alas I'm tired! This painful wound makes me so weak I can't support me longer. The wound still stabs at me, and that most grievously.

  Did Atto wish to impress this Maria? The tone of the letter seemed to conceal a seductive intent.

  Abbot Melani went on to write that, despite the fact that the sergeant of the villa was certain that it had been only a beggar, he, Atto, feared that he had not been a mere accidental victim but rather the target of an attempt on his life organised by the opposing faction; for which reason he intended to request a private audience with Ambassador Lamberg as soon as he - who was also among the guests at the wedding of Cardinal Fabrizio's nephew - arrived at Villa Spada.

  However, dear Friend, let us cure the wound and not the offence, for vengeance ne'er did heal a wound.

  These revelations surprised me. I had noticed Atto's scepticism when I spoke to him of my conversation with Sfasciamonti; now, however, I discovered that Atto had very specific suspicions. Why had he not mentioned this to me? He could not fail to trust Buvat; he entrusted him with copying all his letters. Perhaps he did not trust me? This last supposition was however no less improbable: had he not paid me to be his chronicler? Nevertheless, I bethought myself, with Abbot Melani one could never be sure of anything. . .

  The letter ended in honeyed tones, which I could scarce have imagined on the lips or pen of Atto Melani:

  You cannot know how bitter was the Dolour inflicted on me by the Knowledge that you will tarry e'en longer at the Gates of Rome.

  Ah, cruel one! If thou hast shot at me, 'twas thine own Mark, and proper for thine Arrow. The Letter, which gave the deadly Wound, obeyed the sure direction of your lovely Eye.

  My Arm has once more begun to bleed and 'twill bleed on until it has the Joy and Honour to support Yours. Haste you then to the Villa Spada and to me, my most beloved Friend, or you will have me on your Conscience.

  After the intolerably cloying sirop of those lines, I read a postil:

  Even now, then, is Lidio's Felicity Nothing to you?

  Here, once again, was that Lidio. I did not even ask myself who this stranger with the curious name might be. I was most unlikely to learn that unless I could first discover the identity of Abbot Melani's mysterious correspondent.

  So, I summed up, this Maria was also expected at the Villa Spada. And she was late; that explained the frown on the face of Abbot Melani when he read her letter. I reflected that she must be a noblewoman of a certain age, given that Atto spoke to her as to an old friend. In the two letters, moreover, he made no mention of her family; it seemed indeed that she was travelling alone. She must truly be a personage of great importance, as well as of high rank, thought I, if they had dared invite her to the wedding unaccompanied: ancient and single noblewomen, whether or not they be widowed, generally enclose themselves in the isolation of prayer, when not indeed in cloister. They withdraw from society and no one dares disturb them save for pious works. This lady seemed, what is more, to be of a truly singular temperament to have accepted the invitation!

  1 felt deeply curious to know her or at least to know who she might be. I glanced rapidly at the other letters in the bundle; they were hers, and they spoke of events in Spain. She must be Spanish; or perhaps an Italian (for she wrote my language so beautifully) who dwelt there or at any rate possessed great interests in that country. In all the epistles, the secret of the writer's identity was, alas, well preserved. I must therefore resign myself to awaiting her arrival at the villa, who knows when; either that, or discreetly interrogate Buvat.

  I put off reading these letters to another day; I had profited unduly from the Abbot and his secretary's absence. I durst not risk discovery one moment longer.

  As I had intended to do before my incursion into the Abbot's apartment, I returned downstairs in order to obtain something for supper and then to present myself to the Major-Domo.

  I returned the keys to the Abbot's chambers to their proper place and was about to enter the kitchens when I saw the coachman who served Cardinal Fabrizio at the Apostolic Palace emerging all breathless and red in the face. I asked a Venetian milkmaid who frequented the villa and was on the point of leaving whether by any chance something had happened.

  "No, 'tis nothing. 'Tis only Cardinal Spada who is always in a furious rush these days, for it seems there's much afoot at the Apostolic Palace. And it must be something really important to give him such a headache, that it must. His Eminency is always in such ill humour and the coachman is almost going out of his mind, what with carting the master back an' forth from a cardinal to an ambassador and then back again for some business about a papal bull or I know not what, and having to put up with his state of nerves."

  I was dumbstruck. The power of women! This modest milkmaid had needed only the few minutes of her regular visit to the villa's kitchens to understand what it would have taken me a whole day, and much good fortune, to get wind of. I had come to realise this when my Cloridia became one of the most respected and sought-after midwives for Rome's noble matrons (and their maids): with all the news tha
t she brought back home every day I could easily have filled a gazette.

  "Ah, and please give my regards to the Signora your wife and a kiss to the little ones," added the milkmaid, as though she had been reading my thoughts. "You know, my sister's confinement has been going perfectly since la Cloridia brought that old goat of a brother-in-law of mine to reason. She's a really fine woman, your wife, you know."