flanked him on either side in Austria and in Spain, and above all to the hated Emperor Leopold, where would he have unleashed the plague? Why, in Vienna; the answer astounded me with its simplicity.
Was that not the decisive battle for the fate of Christianity? And was I not aware, ever since I had overheard the conversation between Brenozzi and Stilone Priaso, that the Most Christian King was secretly playing on the side of the Turks in order to catch the Empire in the teeth of an infernal trap set between East and West?
Nor was that all. Was it not true that there had for months been an outbreak of the plague in Vienna, which had spread apprehension amongst all the heroic, beleaguered warriors? And was it not also true that the infection had died out, or had been mysteriously tamed by some arcane invisible agent, thus saving the city and all Western Europe?
Although deeply immersed in such meditations, I myself found it difficult to accept the logical conclusions to which they gave rise: the plague in Vienna had been unleashed by agents of Louis XIV or by anonymous cut-throats in their employ, thus putting into effect the occult science of the secretum morbi. That was why the Turks had not moved for days and days, despite the fact that Vienna was in their grasp: they were awaiting the dreaded effects of the infection sent by their secret ally, the French sovereign.
The infamous sabotage had, however, encountered no less powerful adverse forces: the emissaries of Maria Teresa had arrived in Vienna in time to dispel the threat, activating the secretum vitae and thus overcoming the infection. How this was done, I would never know. What is, however, certain is that the vain hesitations of the Turkish army were to cost Kara Mustapha his head.
This summary, so overcrowded with events, risked seeming too fanciful, indeed almost fantastical. Did not all the interweaving of the affairs of Kircher and Fouquet, Maria Teresa and Louis XIV Lauzun and Mademoiselle, Corbetta and Devize also smack of folly? Yet, I had spent entire nights in Atto Melani's company reconstructing, piece by piece, in a sort of divine madness, all that senseless intrigue, which had become more real for me than the life which continued outside the walls of the Donzello.
My imagination was peopled by the shadowy agents of the Sun King, intent upon spreading the pestilence throughout poor Vienna when the city was already in extremis, on the other side, the defenders, the shadow- players of Maria Teresa. All of them were investigating secret formulae concealed in the pentagrams of Kircher and Corbetta, agitating retorts and alembics and other obscure instruments (like those seen on Dulcibeni's island) and reciting incomprehensible hermetic phrases in some abandoned cloister. Thereafter, some would have poisoned-and others cleansed-waters, orchards, streets. In the invisible struggle between the secretum morbi and the secretum vitae the vital principle had in the end triumphed: the same one which had enthralled my heart and my mind as I listened to the rondeau played on Devize's guitar.
From the latter, of course, I would not be able to draw so much as a syllable. Yet his role was almost completely clear, and so were the images which it conjured up in my mind: Devize receives from the Queen the original copy of the 'Barricades Mysterieuses'; he is then ordered to go to Italy-to Naples-there to seek out an aged traveller with a double identity… In Naples, he finds Fouquet, already in Dulcibeni's company. Perhaps he shows the old Superintendent the rondeau which, years before, he had placed in the trusted hands of Lauzun for delivery to the Queen. But Fouquet is blind; he will have taken those sheets of paper in his bony hands, caressed and recognised them. Devize will then have played the rondeau, and the old man's last uncertainties will have vanished amidst tears of emotion: the Queen has succeeded; the secretum vitae is in good hands, Europe will not succumb to the madness of a single sovereign. And she, before taking her leave of this earth, has, by the hand of Devize, obtained this last reassurance.
Devize and Dulcibeni, by common accord, decide to bring their protege to Rome where, in the shadow of the Pope, the threatening emissaries of the Sun King are hampered in their movements. Of course, Dulcibeni has other designs… And, still in Rome, while playing his 'Barricades Mysterieuses' for us, Devize knows that Maria Teresa has sent to Vienna the enigmatic quintessence of those notes, to bar the way to the plague which threatens to result in a Turkish triumph.
Now, of all this, Devize would never breathe a word. His devotion to Maria Teresa, if genuine, would surely not have been exhausted with the Sovereign's death. Moreover, the consequences of being identified as a plotter against the Sun King would certainly be lethal. Here again, I applied the rule which Atto Melani had taught me, thus relieving Devize of so perilous a task. I, a humble apprentice to whom no one accorded the least importance, would speak in his place, only a few, well-turned phrases. Not by his speech would I judge him, but by his silence.
A favourable opportunity was soon to arise. He had called me late in the afternoon, requesting a further light meal. I brought him a modest basket with a little salami and a few slices of bread, which he devoured voraciously. No sooner had he set to than I took my leave and made for the door.
'By the way,' said I carelessly, 'I hear, Sir, that Vienna is indebted to Queen Maria Teresa for having been spared by the plague.'
Devize grew pale.
'Mmm,' he mumbled in alarm, with his mouth full, rising to look for a sip of water.
'Oh, has it gone down the wrong way? Do have something to drink,' said I, handing him a little jug which I had brought with me but had not placed near to him.
As he drank, he screwed up his eyes in puzzlement.
'Do you want to know who told me that? Well, you will be aware that, since his unfortunate accident, Signor Pompeo Dulcibeni has suffered greatly from fevers, and during one such crisis he spoke at great length when I happened to be present.'
This was a great lie, but Devize swallowed it as eagerly as the water which he had just gulped down.
'And what… what else did he say?' he stammered, wiping his mouth and chin with his sleeve and endeavouring to remain calm.
'Oh, so many things which I have not perhaps even understood. The fever, you know… If I am not mistaken, he did mention a certain Fooky, or something of the sort and, I think, a certain Lozen,' said I, deliberately distorting the names. 'He spoke of a fortress, of the plague, of a secret of the pestilence or something like that, then, of an antidote, of Queen Maria Teresa, of the Turks, and even of a plot. In other words, he was delirious, you know how that happens. At the time, Doctor Cristofano was worried, but now poor Signor Dulcibeni is no longer in danger and has only to worry about his back and his legs, which…'
'Cristofano? Did he hear too?'
'Yes, but you know how it is when a physician is at work: he hears yet he does not hear. I also spoke of this to Abbot Melani, and he…'
'You did what?' roared Devize.
'I told him that Dulcibeni was sick and feverish and that he was raving.'
'And did you tell him… everything?' he asked, overcome by terror.
'How am I to remember, Signor Devize?' I replied, politely piqued. 'I only know that Signor Pompeo Dulcibeni was so far gone as no longer to be much with us, and Abbot Melani shared my concern on that account. And now, Sir, if you will excuse me,' said I, slipping through the door and taking my leave.
Besides checking upon Devize's knowledge, I had allowed myself to take a little revenge on him. The panic which had seized the guitarist could not have been more eloquent; not only did he know what I and Atto knew but- as expected-he had been one of those most deeply involved. That was why I chuckled at the dreadful suspicion which I had sown in his mind: that Dulcibeni's delirious outburst (which had, of course, never happened) might, through me, have reached the ears, not only of Cristofano but of Abbot Melani. And, that if Atto so desired, he could denounce Devize as a traitor to the King of France.
My spirit was still oppressed by all the scornful treatment which the guitarist had always heaped upon me. Thanks to a few well-chosen lies, tonight I would at last enjoy the rich sleep of a gentleman, while his lot would be the troubled sleep of the outcast.
I must confess there was still one person with whom I would and should have liked to share that extreme intellectual solace, but those times had passed. I could no longer ignore the fact that, since his confrontation with Dulcibeni on the wall of the Colosseum, all was changed between Atto Melani and myself.
Certainly, he had unmasked Dulcibeni's criminal and blasphemous plot. Yet, at the moment of truth, I had seen him vacillate-and not on his legs, like his adversary. He had climbed the Colosseum as an accuser, he came down accused.
I had been stunned by his indecision in responding to Dulcibeni's allusions to the death of Fouquet. I had known him to hesitate before, but always only for fear of obscure, impending dangers. When he faced Dulcibeni,
