I thanked him and promised that, should I need further clarification on the subject, I would certainly seek his advice.
A moment before taking my leave of the chaplain, I remembered a question over which I had been brooding a long time:
"Excuse me, Don Tibaldutio," said I with seeming nonchalance. "Have you ever heard tell of the Company of Saint Elizabeth?"
"But of course, everyone knows it," he answered, caught out by the ingenuousness of my question. "It is the one that gives money to the catchpolls. Why do you ask?"
"I saw them passing the other day and. . . Well, it was the first time I had ever seen them, that's all," said I, clumsily disguising the matter.
I simply could not see clearly into the doubt that was slowly gnawing away at my insides but had not yet reached my brain.
Thank heavens, the merry hunt turned out well and happily. After a few hours of lying in wait and laying ambuscades, the ladies and gentlemen had exhausted their lust for the chase and had returned to the great house, bearing almost empty baskets containing a meagre, pitiable haul (starlings, swallows, rooks, a few toads, two moles and even a bat) and with everyone falling about with laughter. In the end, once I had withdrawn all the cages with the bait, I could see that these were far more numerous than what had been caught.
Only a few minor incidents (all of them fortunately resolved by the prompt intervention of the servants, who had come running en masse) had momentarily disturbed the entertainment, causing poor Don Paschatio's heart to jump into his mouth. Prince Vaini, reckless as ever, had for a joke aimed his crossbow at the hat of Giovan Battista Marini, Bargello of the Campidoglio, whereupon the shot had gone off by accident. The arrow had narrowly missed Marini's cranium and had stuck into a nearby tree, taking his hat with it. Cardinal Spada, backed by his Major-Domo and a host of lackeys, had had to plead long and hard to avoid Vaini and his victim coming to blows. Challenges to fight a duel, several times uttered, had fortunately come to nothing.
In the meanwhile, Monsignor Borghese and Count Vidaschi, for want of nobler prey, had fired their arquebus at a large rook. The black (notoriously inedible) fowl had fallen to the ground, apparently badly wounded. When, however, the two aggressors had advanced to catch it, it had taken off, flying rather haphazardly among the other players and ending up perched on the fine, flowing tresses of Marchesa Grescenzi who exploded into screams of pain and panic. When at last the bird let go of her, the whole group took aim at it with arquebuses and crossbows. The poor creature, being wounded in one wing, could not gain height. When at last it landed on the ground, it was ingloriously finished off with a shovel.
The third incident was not the fruit of an excess of audacity, as in the case of Prince Vaini, but of total incompetence. Marchese Scipione Lancelotti Ginetti, who was notorious for his lack of wit, and even more so for his short-sightedness, shot a bolt from his crossbow at what he believed to be a bird perched on the topmost branch of a tall pine. The bolt struck a bough, causing it to shake violently. Out of the branches fell a whitish sphere which shattered on the ground.
"An egg," exclaimed the first.
"One does not shoot at nests, it is both pointless and cruel," exclaimed the other, turning to Marchese Lancelotti Ginetti.
Others gathered, all keen to stress the Marchese's error, at a time when the latter was pulling strings to be appointed Colonel of the Roman People (an ancient and noble office of the city's communal institutions), while many nourished the hope that he would fail in this. Moreover, any pretext was good for distracting attention from the hunt, which was yielding such meagre results. The Marchese tried to disculpate himself, claiming that he had been shooting at a big bird, while everyone was trying to hide their laughter, knowing full well that Lancellotti Ginetti could not see a yard beyond his own nose.
With their noses pointing skyward, many guests - all claiming themselves to be expert hunters - tried to understand to which bird the egg that had fallen to the ground might belong.
"Riparian swallow."
"Pheasant, in my view," proposed Monsignor Gozzadini, Secretary for His Holiness's Memorials.
"But, Excellency, on top of a tree. . ."
"Ah yes, that is true."
"A partridge," said another.
"A partridge? Too small."
"Excuse me, it must be a turtle dove, or at most a pigeon, that's quite clear."
"But even a white dove. .."
"Perhaps it is a jay," ventured Marchese Lancellotti Ginetti, who seemed to regard it as somehow dishonourable not to pronounce his opinion on the egg which he himself had brought down.
"Come, come, Marchese!" butted in Prince Vaini with his usual insolence. "Can you not see that the egg is white, while jays' eggs are speckled? Even the dogs in the street know that!"
The entire group ganged up on poor Lancellotti Ginetti, stressing the gravity of his mistake with a series of "Ah, yes!", "But what's got into his head?", "Utterly absurd" and so on and so forth, all accompanied by allusive little coughs and the clearing of throats.
Suddenly, the ear-splitting report of an arquebus was heard. Everyone, including Lancellotti Ginetti, immediately ducked to the ground to avoid any further shots.
Fortunately, there were no dead or wounded. A quick check revealed that none of the gentlemen present had an arquebus. Moving further afield, none of those handling one admitted to having fired in the previous few minutes. Some of those present still had goose pimples from the experience, and moved away to resume the beat.
This incident, which I had fortuitously witnessed as I was in the process of moving one of the cages to a better position, filled my soul with a dense cloud of disquiet. At point blank range, an arquebus shot could only kill.
Out of a sense of duty, I at once reported what had happened to Don Paschatio; his face was marked in equal measure by anguish and terror. The one thing not needed at the festivities which he was overseeing was a dead man, perhaps one high born. He began lamenting that this hunting party was most inappropriate at the present time when a conclave was imminent, with so much mutual detestation in the air. Someone might give in to the temptation to settle old accounts.
I had, however, cooled down after the initial shock. I had my suspicions; but I could not yet imagine whether there were any grounds for them, nor did I know whether it would be wise to investigate the matter. In any case, urgent business now occupied my mind, calling me to action.
The business of spying, to be quite precise.
Evening the Seventh
13th JULY, 1700
*
I found Atto in his lodgings. He had not taken part in the merry hunt: the hunt for Caesar Augustus had been quite enough for him, said he. In fact, he was too busy replying to the letter from the Connestabilessa. Now that he had accomplished that task, it was time for him to go down with Buvat for dinner in the gardens of the villa. I told him what I had learned from Don Tibaldutio: the cerretani even had a friend at Saint Peter's, whose name the chaplain had not, however, revealed.
"Ah yes? Very good, very good," he commented, "I shall ask Sfasciamonti to check up on this at once."
Half an hour later, after making sure that the Abbot and his secretary were at table, I again plunged my hands into his dirty linen and took out the little envelope of secret correspondence.
From my pocket, I drew the little book of The Faithful Shepherd which I had borrowed from the library at the Vessel: now I was ready to read Maria's letters in the light of those verses. As on the previous occasion, I could find in the folder neither the Connestabilessa's letter nor the reply which the Abbot must just have penned. I searched among Buvat's effects, hoping to find an interesting letter, as had happened during my previous inspection, but this time I found nothing.
I rummaged everywhere, to no avail. I grew worried. Perhaps Melani was beginning to harbour suspicions of my incursions. Alas, Atto must have taken the letter with him.
It only remained for me to read the third and last repor
t from Maria Mancini on the court of Spain, the only one which I had not yet read. Who knows, said I to myself, perhaps now that I had discovered the truth about the correspondence between Atto and Maria, now that I had got to the very heart of it, which had to do not with politics or spying, but with love, I might be able to retrace in those reports allusions and quotations which had at first escaped me. Glancing out of the window to make sure that Atto was a long way off and otherwise occupied, I opened the packet.
Attached to the report was a covering letter from Maria. It had been sent from Madrid two months before. The Connestabilessa was replying to a letter from Atto and confirming that she would be coming to Rome to attend the Spada-Rocci wedding.
My friend, I understand the point of view shared by Lidio and yourself, but I repeat my own opinion: it is all pointless. Moreover, what today may seem good will tomorrow turn out to be a disaster.
Nevertheless, I shall come. I shall do as Lidio desires. So we shall meet at the Villa Spada. This I promise you.
Here again was an allusion to Herodotus. She wrote of Lidio, in other words of Croesus, King of Lydia, the name by which, I had the day before discovered, Atto and Maria referred to the Most Christian King.
I collected my thoughts. So it had been Lidio, the Most Christian King in person, who had asked Maria to accept Cardinal Spada's invitation! And why should he have done that?
I read and reflected, until I had an intuition: the Sovereign wanted to convince Maria to return to France. That was what Abbot Melani's mission must be about. And the backdrop to all this was provided by the nuptials at Villa Spada.
The King of France was filled with nostalgia for the Connestabilessa. Had not Atto himself given me to understand this the day before, during our last visit to the Vessel? He had even revealed to me that Madame de Maintenon wanted the King to see Maria again now that she was old, in the hope of blotting out once and for all the memory which the King retained from the years of their youth.
I imagined that the Sovereign might, through Atto, be pulling strings to persuade Maria to meet him again; perhaps by accepting the official invitation to court which Madame de Maintenon was so keen on, or perhaps a secret meeting, far from inquiring eyes.
But the Connestabilessa, judging by the letter I had before me, had no intention of accepting. She considered that by now it was "all pointless", even that "what today may seem good will tomorrow turn out to be a disaster". She was probably referring to a possible meeting with the King; the joy of embracing once more would be followed by a bitter confrontation with the truth: the withering of bodies, the faded lineaments, the wilting of every charm.
Ah yes, I reasoned, the Connestabilessa would never show herself aged to the love of her whole life.
Anchored to these certainties, I continued the letter. I frowned: the Connestabilessa seemed suddenly to have changed the subject. She was speaking of Spanish affairs:
Have you heard of the jingle that is doing the rounds in Madrid? Charles V was Emperor, Philip II was King, Philip IV was but a man, Charles II is not even that.
My friend, how have we descended into such decay? The worms that infest the old trunk of the Monarchy are myriad but do not believe all you hear: many, far too many of them come from beyond the Pyrenees. Who inoculated in Spain's weary members the toxin of spies, plotters, artificial terror, misinformation, corruption? Who wants to see Spain voided from within, poisoned, intoxicated and made to rot like the walking cadaver of her King?
I am Italian by birth, I grew up in France and I chose Spain as my new fatherland; I can see when the shadows of the Great Jackals stretch over Madrid.
I left off reading; who were the Great Jackals? Probably the other European kingdoms. The report continued with a list of all the defeats of the past half century, starting with the bloody battle of Rocroy, when the Spanish forces who were winning ended up massacred by the French. The leader of the Spanish forces, Francisco de Melo, had thrown his victory to the winds, yet for this he received no sanction but a purse of twelve thousand ducats. How better, the Connestabilessa wondered, could one have fostered the decay and subversion of all values?
Since then, everything had fallen apart: the humiliations in
Flanders had been followed by the defeats at Balaguer, Elvas and Estremoz, the rout of Spain's armies at Lens and the shameful retreat from Castel Rodrigo. Then came the loss of Portugal after twenty-four long years of war and the uprising in Naples, put down only with the greatest of difficulty. (They had even proclaimed a republic). How could one be surprised by the continual military reversals when one knew that, to compensate for their lack of equipment, the Spanish armies had (as at the expedition against Fuentarrabia) been reduced to using antique arms from the collection of the Duke of Albuquerque, which had been rejected by the King himself a century before. How could one be surprised, knowing that Charles's father, Philip IY had for his most trusted counsellor a nun from an enclosed order who knew nothing of the world?
Passing from battles to diplomacy, matters became even worse: the Peace of Westphalia had humiliated Spain, while that of the Pyrenees had made her an object of ridicule in the eyes of all Europe.
Meanwhile, the members of the dynasty had been dying like flies: the first wife of Philip IX Isabella, had died at the age of forty-one, followed two years later by her first-born, Balthazar Charles; the little Prince Philip Prosper had died before reaching the age of five and Charles II's first wife had died of suspected poisoning when she was not yet thirty.
Now, at the end of this long Calvary, here in the capital we are reduced to utter chaos. The secret agents of both parties, all hired or held to ransom, circulate rumours of defeat, foment revolts, make every government hated by the people.
My friend, do you think they have not realised? The order is peremptory: let the Minister be corrupt, let the magistrate be arbitrary and let the priest sin.
The Grandees of the Kingdom have all been set at one another's throats, so that no joint action is any longer possible. Let every government be short-lived, so as to increase uncertainty. Let robber Ministers be dealt with clemently, or not at all, so as to convince honest citizens that Evilpays. Let the rulers tarry at ceremonies and festivities, indifferent to the fact that their country is falling to pieces. All hope must be lost: for the morrow, for justice, for humanity.
Only then, impelled by the powerful force of evil examples, will the plan of the Great Jackals come to fruition: the police will rob, the merchant will cheat, the soldier will desert, the honest mother will prostitute herself. Children will grow up without love and without illusions to sow disorder and unhappiness among future generations. Let Herod's test be renewed, may every seed of love die out; let madness flourish.
Every Spaniard's claim to rights, respect, dignity, must be destroyed. He must be convinced that his destiny matters to no one and that he can therefore count on no help. He must feel betrayed by everything and everyone, and he must hate.
In the face of his dismay, his hunger, his fear, Palace protocol must remain sumptuous, the privileges of the rich, shameless. Every day must, for Spaniards, bear the colours of disillusionment, the odour of betrayal, the bitter taste of rage; until, one morning, they will rise cursing their rulers, but with resignation. When that day comes, the time will be ripe.
The ruin or fortune of Kingdoms depends not upon finances, not upon armies, but on the soul of the people. Even the most sanguinary tyrant can in the long run do nothing against the hostility and mistrust of his fellow-countrymen. This is more powerful than cannons, swifter than cavalry, more indispensable than money, for true power (and every Minister knows this) proceeds from the Spirit, not the Flesh.
The people's scorn is a hot wind that no wall can stop. It will in the end dissolve the hardest stone, the most solid bastion, the sharpest sword.
That is why tyrants have since time immemorial yearned to crush the people, but not without first obtaining their assent.
For that purpose, however,
the lie is essential, the mother and sister of all despots. They invoke dangers which they themselves have secretly created, magnified by newspapers, and to which they claim to hold the solution. To achieve this, they will demand and be given full powers. And with those powers, they will reduce the people to desperation.
What will then happen? The Great Jackals will exult. Oh, how stupid they are! For this will also be their own end: all will fight one another, to divide the spoils of dead Spain. A great fratricidal struggle, a new Pelopponese war, after which there will no longer be any possibility of peace, only more wars, this war's daughters.
Not knowing Spain's political affairs, I could not understand to what the Connestabilessa was referring. I therefore passed on at once to reading the report itself and thus learned what had quite rightly given rise to so much discomfiture:
Observations
which may be of use in relation to
Spanish affairs
Secretum Page 69