Secretum

by Rita Monaldi;Francesco Sorti

  Abbot Melani was somewhat clumsily playing the part of the good paterfamilias. He sat in an armchair, massaging his arm. Hardly had I finished my conversation with Cloridia than he had succeeded in getting Buvat to trace me and bring me to him. The apartment was again in good order.

  "I have spoken with Sfasciamonti," he went on. "He told me everything. You have been magnificent."

  I remained silent for a few seconds. Then I exploded:

  "Is that all?" I asked in a loud voice.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I said: is that all you have to tell me? After risking my life for your trafficking. 'You've been magnificent!' And there's an end to the story, is that how you see it?" I added, almost screaming.

  He jumped up and tried to place a hand over my mouth.

  "What the Devil has got into you? You could be overheard. .."

  "Then kindly stop treating me like an idiot. I am a family man now. I have no intention of risking my life for a handful of coin!"

  Atto was circling me anxiously. My voice continued to resound through the chamber and it could be heard outside.

  "A handful of coin? What ingratitude! I thought you were satisfied with our arrangement."

  "That arrangement made no provision for my death!" I replied, yet again at the top of my voice.

  "Very well, very well, but now do speak quietly, I beg of you," said he in tones that suggested capitulation. "To all problems there is a solution."

  He sat down and waved me to a chair in front of his one, almost as though acknowledging my status as that of a belligerent of equal strength, at last invited to the negotiating table.

  So it was that, having entered Atto's lodgings with the firm intention of freeing myself from his service, I left after bringing about the opposite. As was his wont when discussing pecuniary matters, especially when it was he who must disburse, he was curt, exact and to the point, with just a trace of restrained bitterness in his voice. The terms of the new agreement were as follows: in carrying out Atto's instructions, or in favouring his interests, or finally in carrying out all the operations necessary for the purpose of completing the memoir for which he had paid me in advance, I was to do everything possible, without however at any time exposing myself to danger, whether mortal or of particular gravity. The term of this undertaking was obviously to coincide with Atto's departure from the Villa Spada or otherwise at some previous time, to be fixed according to his imprescriptible decision. .

  This ambiguous and complicated form of words meant, when all was said and done, that I was to place myself with even greater alacrity at the service of Abbot Melani, if necessary, even in difficult or dangerous situations: if possible, without paying with my life. The term "if possible" weighed down on my shoulders like a millstone.

  The other part of the deal was no small matter, and Atto was all too well aware of that.

  "Not just money, houses. Property. Lands. Farms. I shall make over your daughters' dowry. A rich dowry. And, when I say rich, I am not exaggerating. In a few years they will be of an age to marry. I do not want them to find themselves in difficulties," said he, affecting a generosity which I had, however, extorted from him. "I have a number of properties in the Grand Duchy of Tuscany: all valuable estates yielding excellent returns. At the end of the festivities of your master Cardinal Spada we shall go together to a notary and there we shall make over the deeds to a number of properties, or perhaps the income from them - we shall see what is most convenient. You will need to do nothing: your two little girls will become the assignees of the dowry and I hope that this will suffice to find a good husband for them. Even in these matters, you know, what counts most is help from the Lord."

  He made me stand up and embraced me vigorously, as though to seal who knows what fraternal sentiment.

  I let him. I was too concerned with weighing up in my mind the implications of that agreement: I could guarantee my daughters, the offspring of a humble labourer and a midwife, a sure and dignified future, even a life of ease. I had accepted in a hurry, out of unpreparedness and, above all, for fear of losing a unique opportunity. A thousand unknowns flocked on the cord joining heart and intellect, croaking their doubts: what if something (illness, death, sudden departure) were to prevent Atto from honouring his undertaking? And, above all, what if he had deceived me? I did not, however, accord much credence to this last possibility. If he had wanted to trick me, he would surely not have paid in advance for the writing of the memoir, as he had, however, done; and in cash.

  In any case, I asked him: "Excuse me, Signor Atto, but. . . would it not be better to put something in writing?"

  He let his wrists fall from the arms of his chair, as though exhausted by a titanic effort.

  "Poor boy, you are still so ingenuous. Do you think that if someone intended to cheat you, a contract of this kind would be of any help to you in a court of law or that it might perhaps even help you to obtain your funds?"

  "I really. . ." I hesitated, ignorant as I was about matters of law.

  "Come, come, my boy!" Melani rebuked me. "Learn to live and think as a man of the world! And learn to look better into the eyes of those with whom you are dealing, because 'tis from your intuition about the person that your success or failure will come. Otherwise, every deal will be an enigma to you and every contract a confused mess."

  He fell meaningfully silent, scandalised by my proposal of a written contract yet pitying my scant knowledge of worldly affairs.

  "However," he added, "I understand you."

  He took pen and paper and put all that he had just promised in writing.

  He handed it to me. Melani undertook to constitute on behalf of each of my daughters a marital dowry with rents and property to be drawn up before a notary of the Capitol, but which, he now promised, would be substantial.

  "Will that do?" he asked coldly.

  "Yes, indeed, I think, yes; Signor Atto, I must thank you. . ."

  "Please, please. . ." he gestured as though to brush off my words and at once changed the subject. "What was I saying to you? Ah yes, Sfasciamonti described all yesterday's events to me in detail. Just one question: what exactly did the cerretano say to you on that terrace?"

  "Something like 'tiyootootay'. . . No, now I remember. He said, 'Teeyooteelie'," I replied, with a great effort of memory.

  "You have really been splendid."

  "Thank you, Signor Atto. A pity that all that 'splendour' - to use your words - has got us nowhere."

  "What do you mean?"

  "We have nothing but the remains of a microscope. No telescope, no relic, no papers."

  "Nothing, you say? Now we know about the German."

  "Well, about him we really do not know a thing, not even whether he really exists," I objected.

  "Oh, you have not laboured in vain. I agree with Sfasciamonti that we are following up an important clue. There is someone here in Rome, this German, who collects optical instruments and relics. Not only that: this character has links with the cerretani. Now we know who to look for. As for the question of the secret language of the cerretani, that really does not trouble me at all. If we cannot manage to decipher it, we shall find ways of making them speak our language! Heh!"

  It was unusual to see Atto so blindly trusting. I had the suspicion that all that optimism served mainly to appease me and not to lose my services.

  "Sfasciamonti says that no one knows where he is to be found," I objected.

  "These persons of the criminal underworld can always be traced. Perhaps one need only know the right name. The German, however, is but a nickname," he replied.

  That observation brought to mind the strange name which Gloridia had mentioned to me and which, she thought, might also be useful to Atto.

  "Signor Atto, have you ever heard tell of the Tetrachion?"

  At that moment, there came a knock on the door. It was Sfasciamonti who entered quickly and without even waiting for an answer. His face too bore the marks of that horrible sleepless and ove
r-eventful night.

  "I have news. I have been to the Governor's palace," he began. "No one knows anything about the telescope. I do, however, have news about the mackeroskopp."

  Sfasciamonti had shown the remains of the optical instrument to a number of colleagues who had quickly retraced it to a burglary committed a few days previously. The apparatus belonged to a learned Dutchman who had been robbed of all the effects he had left in his chamber at an inn near the Piazza di Spagna.

  "There too, they opened the door with a key. No breaking and entering. No idea as to who did it."

  "Interesting," observed Atto. "This is our thief's favourite method."

  "Today there's the wedding," the catchpoll continued, "so I shall not be able to get away. We must wait until evening. I'd like to put some questions to a couple of wretches. Let us then meet tonight after the nuptial banquet. You, my boy, will come with me."

  I looked at Atto, hesitating.

  "No," he said, guessing that I had some hesitation about running yet more risks, "the matter concerns me personally. . . therefore I too shall come."

  I had been caught out: in point of fact, Cloridia would have wished me to stop going out at night on behalf of Melani. Atto had offered to come, but in my company! And if an old man like him took this upon himself, I bethought myself with some embarrassment, why could not I do likewise?

  The catchpoll explained the objective to us.

  "Interesting. . . Most interesting," commented Atto at the end.

  "Who told you? Speak! From whom did you learn this?"

  The attack came the moment we were alone. He grabbed me by the collar and hurled me against the wall. His was the modest strength of an old man, yet surprise, the respect which I nevertheless felt for him, and which caused me to hesitate, as well as fatigue from the night before, all prevented me from facing up to him as I ought.

  "Tell me!" he screamed in my face one last time.

  Then he looked behind him out of the corner of his eyes, towards the door of the chamber, fearing that he might have been overheard. He relaxed his grip, while I myself, whose sole reaction had been to grasp those almost skeletal wrists to prevent him from strangling me, broke free.

  "But what has got into you?" I protested.

  "You must tell me who spoke to you of the Tetrachion," said he in a firm, icy voice, as though he were reclaiming possession of something that belonged to him.

  I therefore told him that a chambermaid at the Spanish Embassy had made some obscure connection between the incident which had befallen Atto and the death of the bookbinder and the coming of the Tetrachion, who was said to be no less than the legitimate heir to the Spanish throne. When I referred to the illness of the Catholic King, and to the fact that he was on the point of dying childless, I had to make a considerable effort to avoid betraying the fact that I had learned all this from Maria's letters.

  "Well, well, I see that you know the main things about the Spanish succession. Obviously, you have taken up reading gazettes once more," he commented.

  "Er, yes, Signor Atto. My wife does, however, hope to have further details in the next few days," I concluded, hoping that he had calmed down.

  "Of that, I have no doubt. Don't imagine that you are going to get away with this so lightly," he said acidly.

  I was incredulous. After all the services which I had rendered him, Atto was treating me like the most sordid of traitors.

  "Anyway," I burst out at last, "who or what the deuce is this Tetrachion?"

  "That is not the problem."

  "Then, what is?"

  "The problem is: where is he?"

  He opened the door and went out, beckoning me to follow him.

  "Things could not go on like that forever," he began.

  We were approaching the gate of the Villa Spada, in the midst of a chaotic and excited multitude of workmen, seamstresses, porters and lackeys.

  He had decided to respond to my questions with facts, and was heading for an unknown destination; but with words too, taking up again the thread of the narration which he had interrupted the day before.

  Gradually, as the King reached manhood, Atto narrated, Mazarin's position was becoming more delicate with every passing day. He knew that he would not be able to keep his sovereign forever in a state of blissful, nebulous ignorance of matters of state and the facts of life. After being the absolute master, what place would the Cardinal occupy under a young, vigorous monarch in full possession of his powers? Mazarin thought anxiously of this again and again during long journeys by carriage, while distractedly receiving postulants, in every single free moment that work left him and last of all, in bed, as he awaited sleep and his most pressing thoughts performed their last furious dance. Meanwhile, despite the Queen Mother's complaints about Maria, he raised not a finger to separate the young King from his niece...

  "The King saw this and took it in, interpreting this silence as consent. And of one thing you may be certain: the Cardinal absolutely did not want to see his niece in the humiliating role of royal mistress when Louis took himself a wife!"

  "In other words, Louis had the illusion that the Cardinal would let him marry her," I conjectured.

  "'Twas more than an illusion. Once the King even went so far as to call Maria 'my Queen' in the presence of others. The whole court, led by the Queen Mother, cried scandal. Louis's sole response, however, was to acquire from the Queen of England a splendid necklace of huge pearls which was, moreover, one of the English crown jewels: it was to be his betrothal gift to Maria. Was it not, moreover, true that, a year previously, the hand of Maria's younger sister Ortensia had been requested by the English King Charles II? The negotiations failed later, but only because the British sovereign wanted, in addition to a dowry in money, the fief of Dunkirk, which Mazarin did not feel able to yield. So Louis's hopes were not by any means groundless."

  At court, meanwhile, the couple's every sigh was spied upon and reported to Anne of Austria. A mordant comment by Maria, a word out of turn or her all-too-spontaneous laughter, all were at once transformed by courtiers' gossip into a caprice or insolence inviting loud censure. A passing glance by the young King at some damsel was enough to make the courtiers exult against Maria Mancini.

  Very soon, an expedition was organised: everyone was off to Lyons, for the presentation to the King of a young maiden, Margaret of Savoy, a possible candidate for Louis's hand. He obeyed, but he took Maria with him and carefully avoided any contact with the Queen Mother. Every evening during the journey, instead of having dinner, the King performed in a ballet, having partaken of an abundant afternoon meal, so as to avoid dining with his mother. Then he would play at cards with Maria.

  We had, I saw, left the Villa Spada and we were making our way towards the San Pancrazio Gate.

  At the meeting with Margaret of Savoy, Atto continued, Louis was as cold as a mannequin. He had eyes and ears only for Maria. They were inseparable. During stages on the journey, he at first followed her carriage on horseback then acted as her coachman; in the end, he fell into the habit of joining her as a passenger. On moonlit nights, Louis would walk up and down until late under the windows of Mazarin's niece. When he attended some play, he would want her by his side, on a specially made platform. Those who accompanied them on their walks were by now accustomed to staying behind and leaving the lovelorn pair alone, a few yards ahead of them, so as not to disturb them. By now, they spoke of nothing else at court. The Cardinal and the Queen Mother, however, said nothing and let it be.

  The whole court was stupefied by the disrespectful behaviour of the young King. The negotiations soon broke down and poor Margaret wept at the disgrace. Then came the surprise: a secret envoy arrived from Madrid. The Spanish King offered Louis the hand of his daughter Maria Teresa, Infanta of Spain.

  "It seems almost as though you kept a diary of those days," I ventured, dissimulating my curiosity, for I was aware of Atto's aptitude for gathering information which he would then put to various quite unforeseeab
le uses.

  "A diary, a diary!" he replied with some annoyance, "I was on an official diplomatic mission, in the retinue of Cardinal Mazarin, the purpose of which was to conclude with Spain the Peace of the Pyrenees; I registered every single detail with my eyes and ears, that's all there is to it. This was part of my duties."

  Once the court had returned to Paris from Lyons, in February 1659, Louis's first thought was to celebrate the failure of the meeting with Margaret of Savoy.

  "At the gathering, you could see festive costumes echancres after the fashion of the peasants of Bressannes, a small town through which the royal progress had passed on its way to Lyons, with manchettes and collerettes en toile ecrue, a la verite un peu plus fine," said Atto, showing off with a delighted and malicious little smile, in a mixture of French and Italian. "Mademoiselle and Monsieur were attired en toile d'argent with pink passepoils, tabliers et pieces de corsage in black velvet and gold and silver dentelles; while their black velvet hats bore pink, white and fire-coloured plumes and Mademoiselle's neck was covered with rows of pearls too numerous to be counted, and bestrewn with diamonds.