'We must give the impression that all goes perfectly with us. If nothing changes, I shall not examine you-not unless you so request. Should there be other cases of ill health, I shall have to do so for the sake of us all. Warn me if ever you feel unwell, even if it seems to be a mere trifle. For the time being, however, it will do no good to worry, for this man,' said he, pointing at the inert body of Signor di Mourai, 'did not die of the plague.'
'What, then, did he die of?' asked Abbot Melani.
'Not of plague, I repeat.'
'And how do you know, Doctor?' responded the abbot, distrustfully.
'We are still in summer and it is quite hot. If this were plague, it would be of the summer variety, which is caused by the corruption of natural heat and provokes fevers and headaches. In such cases, the cadavers at once become black and hot, and present tokens that are also black and putrescent. But this man has not the shadow of a token, or an abscess, a botch, a swelling or whatever you might wish to call it; neither under the armpits, nor behind the ears, nor in the groin. There was no rise in temperature, nor burning. And, from what his companions have told me, he seemed quite well until within hours of his death. That, as far as I am concerned, is sufficient to rule out contagion with the plague.'
'Then it is another illness,' replied Melani.
'I repeat: in order to understand that, it would be necessary to have recourse to anatomy: to open up the body and examine it from the inside; in other words, as the chirurgeons do in Holland. On the face of it, I could diagnose an acute attack of putrid fevers, which shows no signs until it is too late for any remedy. Yet I can find no sign of putrefaction on the body or bad odours other than those of death or old age. I might perhaps suppose it to be the malady of mazzuco, or modoro, as the Spaniards call it: that causes an aposteme, which is to say, an abscess within the brain, and is thus invisible. And once that is present, death must ensue. If, on the other hand, the illness is at the stage of its initial symptoms, it can be easily remedied. Had I been informed of it even a few days ago, I might perhaps have been able to save him. It would have sufficed to bleed one of the two veins under the tongue, to administer in his beverage an infinitesimal quantity of oil of vitriol, and to anoint stomach and head with holy oil. But, as far as we can see, old Mourai showed no signs of being unwell. Besides…'
'Besides?' urged Melani.
'Mazzuco certainly does not cause a swelling of the tongue,' concluded the chirurgeon with a telling grimace. Perhaps it is… something very like poison.'
Poison. While the physician returned to his chamber, each of us contemplated the corpse in silence. For the first time, the Jesuit made the sign of the cross. Master Pellegrino renewed his imprecations, cursing the misfortune of having a dead man in his hostelry and, what is more, one who had perhaps been poisoned. And who would have the courage to hear what his wife would have to say, on her return?
Talk then spread among the guests about the most notorious cases of poisoning, real or presumed: prominent among these were sovereigns of former times: Charles the Bald, for example, or Lothar, the King of the Franks and his son Louis; or, approaching modern times, th e acqua tofana laced with arsenic, or the Spanish fly, both employed by the Borgias for their abominable crimes, as well as by the Valois and the Guises in their conspiracies. A shameful trembling ran through the group, for poison and fear are born of the same parents. Someone recalled how Henry of Navarre, before he became King Henry IV of France, was wont himself to go down to the banks of the Seine to draw the water which he drank at his meals, fearing that he might fall victim to toxic potions. Did not John of Austria die from wearing poisoned boots? Stilone Priaso recalled how Catherine de' Medici had poisoned Jeanne d Albret, the mother of Henry IV using perfumed gloves and collars, and how she had attempted to repeat the exercise by offering her own son a marvellous book on hunting, the pages of which were a little gummed together, so that he, licking his fingers to turn them, would imbibe the fatal Italian poison with which they were impregnated.
Such murderous preparations had, asserted another guest, been the province of perfumers and astrologers. And someone dusted off the tale of how Saint-Barthelemy, the servant of the ill-famed Prior of Cluny, had killed the Cardinal of Lorraine by paying him in poisoned gold coin. Henry of Luxembourg died-O subtle blasphemy! — of poison concealed in the consecrated host with which he took Communion.
Now, Stilone Priaso began to parley closely with one guest after another, admitting that so many fantastic things had always been said about poets and those who practised the art of fine writing; but he was only a poet, and born for poetry, may God pardon his immodesty!
They then all turned to me and began again to belabour me with questions about the broth which I had served Signor di Mourai that morning. I had to repeat several times that absolutely no one but myself had been near the dish. Only with difficulty were they at last convinced, and they then ceased paying attention to me.
I noticed all of a sudden that the only one to have left the company was Abbot Melani. It was late now, and I resolved to go down to the kitchen in order to wash up.
In the corridor, I almost collided with the young Englishman, Signor di Bedfordi, who struck me as being rather agitated; perhaps because, having transferred his effects to a new chamber, he had not been present for the chirurgeon's diagnosis. This guest was dragging himself along slowly and seemed unusually afflicted. When I stopped in front of him, he gave a start.
'It is I, Signor Bedfordi,' I reassured him.
He looked dumbly, lost in his daydreams, at the lamp I bore in my hand. For the first time, he had abandoned his usual phlegmatic pose, which gave away his affected and haughty nature, one that caused him to be repelled (and he often gave me proof thereof) by my servant's simplicity. Born of an Italian mother, Bedfordi had no difficulty expressing himself in our language. On the contrary, his eloquence, in the conversations that accompanied their meals, was much appreciated by the other guests.
His silence that evening therefore struck me all the more. I explained to him that, in the doctor's opinion, there was no cause for anxiety, since this was certainly not a case of plague. It was, however, suspected that Mourai might have ingested a poison.
He stared at me, with his mouth hanging half open, and answered not a word. He retreated several paces, then turned round and returned to his chamber, where I heard him lock himself in.
Night the First
Between the 11th and12th September, 1683
'Forget it, my boy.'
This time it was my turn to be startled. I found myself facing Abbot Melani, who had come down from the second floor.
'I am hungry. Kindly accompany me to the kitchen.'
'If you please, Sir, first I should tell Master Pellegrino. He has forbidden me to draw on provisions outside regular luncheon and supper hours.'
'Never fear, your Master Pellegrino is now hard at it with Madam Bottle.'
'And Doctor Cristofano's orders?'
'Those were not orders, but prudent advice; which I regard as superfluous.'
He preceded me downstairs, where the dining chamber and the kitchen were situated. In the latter, to satisfy his request, I found a little bread and cheese and a beaker of red wine. We sat down at the work table where I and my master usually ate.
'Tell me, where do you come from?' he asked me, as he began to partake of his refreshment.
Flattered by his curiosity, I recounted briefly the story of my miserable life. At a few months of age, I had been abandoned and left outside a convent near Perugia. The nuns had then entrusted me to a pious woman who lived in the neighbourhood. When I grew up, I was brought to Rome, where I was placed in the service of that woman's brother, the parish priest of Santa Maria in Posterula, the little church not far from the hostelry. After employing me on a number of minor tasks, the priest recommended me to Signor Pellegrino, before he himself was transferred outside Rome.
'So now you are an apprentice,' said the abbot.
'Yes, but I hope not forever.'
