He was leaning on a walking stick, a little shorter and more bent than I had left him. Seeming almost like some shade from another century, he wore an abbot's wig, hood and mauve-grey soutane, exactly as he had when first we met, little caring that this attire had long been outmoded.
Confronting my glazed and dumbstruck expression, he spoke with the most laconic and disarming naturalness: 'I am going to take a rest: I have only just arrived. We shall meet later. I shall have them call for you.'
Seeming almost spectral, he disappeared into the blazing midsummer light, moving in the direction of the great house.
I stood as though petrified. I do not know how long I remained thus immobile in the midst of the garden. My breast seemed like the cold white marble of Galatea, and only gradually did the breath of life return to warm it, when I was of a sudden unnerved by the bursting into my heart of that o'erflowing torrent of affection and pain which had for years seized me whenever I recalled Abbot Melani.
The letters which I had sent to Paris had been swallowed up by an abyss of black silence. Year after year, I had uselessly laid siege to the office for post from France, awaiting a reply. If only to put an end to anxiety, I would eventually have been resigned to receive some sadly final message, as I had imagined a thousand times over:
It is my sad duty to inform you of the death of Abbot Melani…
Instead, nothing; until now, when his unexpected reappearance had taken my breath away. I was incredulous; directly upon his arrival, the first action of the illustrious guest of the Rospigliosi, invited with all honours to the Villa Spada, had been to seek me out: me, a mere peasant bending over his mattock. The friendship and faith of Abbot Melani had overcome distances and years.
After finishing what I was doing in all haste, I hurried home on my mule. I could not wait to inform Cloridia! As I rode, I kept repeating to myself, 'Why should I be surprised?', tenderly realising that this impetuous and unexpected reappearance was utterly typical of the man. Such emotions, such a tightening of the heart-strings! As in a dream, I relived the turmoil of teachings and intellectual passions which Abbot Melani had revealed to me and the dangerous pursuit into which I had been plunged when I followed him…
Little by little, however, emotions and gratitude came to be attended by a doubt. How had Atto managed to trace me to the Villa Spada? It would have been logical for him to seek me at the Via dell'Orso, in the house which was formerly the Locanda del Donzello, the inn where I had served and in which we had met. Instead, Atto, who had clearly been invited by Cardinal Spada to his nephew's wedding, had come straight to me upon arriving, as though he well knew where to find me.
From whom could he have learned that? Certainly not from anyone at the Villa Spada; none there knew of our erstwhile frequentation, quite apart from the fact that my person was never the object of anyone's attention. Besides, we had no common acquaintances, only the adventure we had both lived through at the Donzello seventeen long years ago. Concerning that extraordinary episode, I had at first kept a concise diary, based on which I had drawn up a detailed memoir, of which I was, moreover, inordinately proud. I had even mentioned it to Atto in the last missive which I had sent him only a few months previously, in one final attempt to obtain tidings of him.
As I trotted across the fields, I gave free rein to memories, and for a few moments I relived in a daydream those distant and remarkable events: the plague, the poisonings, the manhunts in the underground galleries, the battle of Vienna, the conspiracies of the sovereigns of Europe…
How brilliantly, I thought, I had succeeded in telling it all in my memoir, so much so that I had at first taken pleasure in poring over it on sleepless nights. Nor was I perturbed by having once again before my eyes all the iniquitous deeds perpetrated by Atto: his transgressions, his failings and blasphemies. I need only to go to my writings to recover my spirits, even to feel positively merry, and then I was minded of the love of my Cloridia, which still Deo gratias accompanied me, and of the purity of work on the land and, lastly, of my fresh connection with the Villa Spada. Ah yes, the Villa Spada…
As though I had been attacked by a thousand scorpions, 1 spurred on my mule and hastened home. Now I understood only too well.
Cloridia was not at home. I rushed to the trunks in which I kept all my books. Feverishly I emptied them, rummaging at the bottom of each one: the memoir had disappeared.
'Thief, brigand, blackguard,' I growled under my breath. 'And I am a dolt, an imbecile, a gullible jackass.'
How foolish I had been to write to Atto about my memoir! Those pages contained too many secrets, too many proofs of the infidelities and betrayals of which Abbot Melani was capable. No sooner did he know of its existence — alas, only now did I realise this — than he unleashed some ruffian of his to purloin it. It must have been child's play to enter my unguarded house and search it.
I cursed Atto, I cursed myself and whoever he had sent to steal my beautiful memoir. Anyway, what else could I expect of Abbot Melani? I had but to turn my mind to all I knew of his turbid misdeeds.
Castrato singer and French spy: that already said all that was to be said about him. His career as a singer was long since over. In his youth, he had, however, been a famous soprano and had taken advantage of his concerts to spy on half the courts of Europe. Subterfuge, lies and deceit were his daily bread; ambushes, plots and assassinations, his travelling companions. He was capable of grasping a pipe and making it pass for a pistol, of hiding the truth from you without lying, of expressing and inspiring deep feelings out of pure calculation; he knew and practised the arts of stalking and theft.
His intellect, on the other hand, was both fulminating and penetrative. His knowledge of the affairs of state I recalled as reaching into the best-hid secrets of crowned heads and royal families. What was more, his keen and lively mind was capable of dissecting the human soul like a knife cutting through lard. His sparkling eyes gained him sympathy, nor had he ever the slightest difficulty in winning over those around him.
Alas, all his best qualities were at the service of the most sordid ends. If he enlightened you with some revelation, it was only in order to win your compliance. If he said he was on a mission, he certainly did not betray his base personal interests. If, lastly, he offered his friendship, I thought bitterly, it was with a view to extorting whatever favours he needed most.
The proof of all that? His indifference to old friends. He had left me without news for seventeen years. And now, as though nothing had happened, he was calling me urgently to his service…
'No, Signor Atto, I am no longer the young lad I was seventeen years ago.' Thus would I speak to him, looking him straight in the eyes. I'd show him that I was now a man well-versed in the business of life, no longer timid in the company of gentlemen, only deferential; capable of weighing up every occasion and discerning where my own interest lay. And if, because of my slight stature, everyone still called me a boy, I was and felt myself to be a very different person from the little prentice whom Atto had known so many years ago.
No, I could not accept Abbot Melani's conduct; and, above all, I could not tolerate the theft of my memoir.
I threw myself down on the bed, trying to rest and to part company with these and other sad cogitations and endlessly tormenting the sheets. Only then did I remember that Cloridia had told me that she would not be returning home; like every good midwife (as she had become after prolonged practice over the past few years) she would spend the last few days before the confinement at the home of the mother-to-be. With her had gone my two adored little ones, no longer so little: at ten and six years of age, already big girls, my daughters had become the full-time helpers of their mother (whom they adored) not only as pupils, to be instructed in this most important discipline, but as assistants ready to meet her every need, for instance by handing her oils and hot greases, towels, scissors and thread for cutting the umbilical cord; or in dexterously pulling forth the afterbirth and other such matters.
I dedicated a few thoughts to them: the little pair followed their mother like a shadow, their behaviour in public as sensible as it was vivacious 'twixt our four domestic walls. Their absence now made the house seem even emptier and sadder, and I was reminded of my melancholy infancy as a poor foundling.
Thus, favoured by solitude, grave thoughts had gained the upper hand. Insomnia wrapped me in its cold embrace and I knew how cold the connubial couch can be without the consolation of love.
After an hour or so, having missed my lunch for lack of appetite,
I resolved to return to the Villa Spada in order to pursue my duties. Such repose as I had taken, however brief, had had the desired effect: the insistent thoughts of Abbot Melani and his sudden return, of which I knew not whether it was most welcome or opportune for me, at long last left me. Abbot Melani had, I thought, emerged like
