Imprimatur

to read the secret formula which protects against the pestilence,' I insisted.

'Forget it. We could spend centuries here, studying those pages without finding a single syllable. There remains to us only what we

As the geometer who tries all ways he can

To square the circle, yet cannot,

By thinking, find out the principle involved,

So was I, when faced with that new sight.

— Dante Paradiso. (Translator's note.)

have seen and heard today: simply upon hearing it, that rondeau protects against the plague. That should suffice for us. In what manner it brings this about, it is not, however, given to us to understand: ''High fantasy here lost its power',' intoned the abbot, again quoting the poet, his countryman, and concluding: 'That madman Athanasius Kircher was a great man of science and of the Faith, and with his rondeau, he gave us a great lesson in humility. Never forget that, my boy.'

Resting on my couch, I awaited sleep, wearied by the hurricane of revelations and surprises. I was a prey to endless cogitations and stirrings of the soul. Only at the close of my conversation with Atto had I understood the double and inextricable magic of that rondeau, it was no accident if the 'Barricades Mysterieuses' bore that name; and there was indeed no sense in deciphering them. Like Kircher, Abbot Melani had taught me a noble lesson: the profession of humility by a man in whom neither pride nor mistrust were in any way lacking. I mused vaguely for a long time yet upon the mystery of the 'Barricades', while striving in vain to hum its touching melody.

I had also been touched by the paternal tone in which Atto had called me 'my boy'. I was lulled by that thought, so much so that only when I was on the point of falling asleep did I recollect that, for all his fine words and reassurances, he had not yet explained to me how come he had, the day before, pronounced the words ' barricades mysterieuses', in his sleep.

I spent I know not how many hours resting in my little chamber. On my awakening, a sovereign silence reigned over the Donzello. The hostelry, once the uproar had died down, seemed to have fallen into lethargy: I pricked up my ears, yet I could hear neither Devize's playing nor Brenozzi's importunate ramblings. Nor had Cristofano come to look for me.

It was still early to prepare supper, yet I resolved to descend to the kitchen: as I had already done at luncheon, only even more so, I desired adequately to celebrate the good news of Bedfordi's recovery and the return to the Donzello of the hope of freedom. I would prepare tasty little redwings, or thrushes, fresh as could be. On the stairs, I met Cristofano, whom I asked for news of the Englishman.

'He is well, very well,' said he, contentedly. 'He is only in pain… er… because of the cutting of the tokens,' he added, with a hint of embarrassment.

'I had in mind to cook redwings for dinner. Do you think that would also be suitable for Bedfordi?'

The doctor smacked his lips: 'More than suitable: the flesh of thrushes is excellent in savour, both substantial and nutritious, easily digested and good also for convalescents and for all those whose constitution is debilitated. They are now at their best. In winter, however, they arrive from the mountains of Spoleto and Terni, and are very fat, for they have during that season fed on myrtle and juniper berries. When they have eaten myrtle berries, they are, moreover, excellent for curing dysentery. But if you really do intend to cook them,' said he with a touch of hungry impatience, 'you would do well to make haste: the preparation takes time.'

Once on the ground floor, I found that the other guests had descended and were all present, some engaged in conversation, some playing cards, others wandering freely. No one seemed willing to return to those chambers in which they had all feared they might die of the pestilence.

My Cloridia came to me with festive mien: 'We are alive again!' she exclaimed happily. 'Only Pompeo Dulcibeni is missing, it seems to me,' and she looked at me questioningly.

At once, I felt dejected: here, once again, Cloridia was showing her interest in the elderly gentleman from the Marches.

'In truth, Abbot Melani is absent, too,' said I, turning my back on her ostentatiously and rushing down to the cellars in order to choose all that I would be needing.

The dinner that followed was the most delicious since that of the cows' teats and-pardon my immodesty-was deservedly received with great and general applause. As I had already seen my master do, I prepared the redwings with the freest and most honest invention. Some, I prepared rolled in breadcrumbs and lightly fried in minced bacon with slices of ham, then covered with broccoli tips cooked in good fat and flavoured with lemon; others, I roasted, after lighting a good blaze, interspersed with sausages and slices of oranges and lemons; or I boiled them with salted stuffing, covered with small fennel or lettuce leaves bound with egg, serving them in nets as roulades or bunched with herbs, and a sauce of spiced mostacciolo cake.

Then, when cooking them, I made many alio spiedo (on skewers), incrosta (in pastry), or interlarded with slices of bacon and bay leaves, anointed with good oil and sprinkled with breadcrumbs. Nor did I fail to cook the redwings as Pellegrino best knew how to: stuffed with bacon and ham slices, sprinkled with cloves and served in a royal sauce; and finally, served in roulades, netted or in marrow leaves. Some other, rather bigger, birds I parboiled, then halved and fried. The whole dish I served with fried green vegetables, simply lacquered with sugar and lemon juice, without cinnamon.

By the time I completed my cooking, I was surrounded by the guests' joyous faces, as they hastened to serve themselves and to share the various dishes. Cloridia, to my surprise, served me my own portion; I had arranged for her a generous serving which I had not omitted to garnish deliciously with parsley and a slice of lemon. My blush was of the deepest crimson, but she did not give me time to breathe a word and with a smile joined the others at table.

In the meanwhile, Abbot Melani, too, had come downstairs. Dulcibeni, however, was not to be seen. I went to knock on his door and ask him whether he wished to dine. Even had I wished to obtain from him some indication of his future intentions, I would have had no means of doing so. He said from behind the door that he was not at all hungry, nor did he desire to talk with anyone. Rather than raise his suspicions, I did not insist. As I was leaving, I heard a by now familiar sound within, a sort of rapid, whistling sniff. Dulcibeni was again at his snuffbox.

Night the Ninth

Between the 19th and 20th September, 1683

'Urgentitious, perditious and sacrilegious,' assured Ugonio, in a voice shaking unaccustomedly with excitement.

'Sacrilegious, what do you mean by that?' asked Abbot Melani.

'Gfrrrlubh,' explained Ciacconio, devoutly crossing himself.

'Whene'er he verbalises a sacral mutter, or one that how or whensoever implacates a holy ecclesiasticon, or holy saintliness, or one eminentitious-for by fulfilling one's obligations the Christian's jubilations are increased- Ciacconio duefully denominates him with condescending, lucent and remanent respectuosity.'

Atto and I looked at one another in perplexity. The corpisantari seemed unusually agitated and were trying to explain something to us concerning a personage of the Curia, or something of the sort, for whom they appeared to feel no little reverential fear.

Anxious to know the outcome of Ciacconio's incursion into the house of Tiracorda, Atto and I had found them in the Archives, busy as ever with their disgusting pile of bones and filth. According the dignity of language to Ciacconio's grunts, Ugonio had at once put us on guard: in the house of Dulcibeni's physician friend, something dangerous was about to take place, which it was urgent to circumvent and which concerned a high-ranking personage, perhaps a prelate, whose identity was, however, as yet unclear.

'First of all, tell me: how did you gain entry to Tiracorda's house?'

'Gfrrrlubh,' replied Ciacconio with a sly smile.

'He entrified via the chimblypipe,' explained Ugonio.