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'And you?'

'Well, I was not in Paris and there was little that I could do. Now, however, it would be better if you left me. I can hear the other guests making their way downstairs for dinner and I do not wish to catch our thief's attention: he must think that no one is on guard.'

In the kitchen, seeing the late hour and the fact that the other guests had already been waiting for a long time, the best I could do was to serve up the remains of luncheon, with the addition of a few eggs and white endives. Truly, I was a mere prentice with no experience at the cooking stove: I could not compete with my master, and the guests were beginning to become aware of the fact.

During the meal, I noticed nothing unusual. Brenozzi, with his rosy cherub's face, continued to pluck at the parsnip between his thighs, gravely observed by the physician, who with one hand tugged at the black goatee on his chin. Stilone Priaso, with his bristling black owl-like frown, was more than ever given over to nervous fidgeting: rubbing the bridge of his nose, cleaning his fingertips, shaking an arm as though he wanted to bring his sleeve down, pulling his shirt away from his collar and smoothing his temples with the palms of his hands. Devize meanwhile ate as he was wont to: so noisily as almost to drown out the unstoppable loquacity which Bedfordi directed in vain at Dulcibeni, who grew ever more impenetrable, and at Padre Robleda, who nodded vacantly in the Englishman's direction. Abbot Melani consumed his meal in almost complete silence, only rarely looking up. He rose twice, seized by a great fit of sneezing, and brought a lace handkerchief to his nose.

When the meal was almost over and everyone was on the point of returning to their apartments, Stilone Priaso reminded the physician of his promise to enlighten us as to what hope we might entertain of escaping from the quarantine with our lives.

Cristofano needed no asking: 'You must, before all else, know that the prime cause of the pestilence's coming into the world is the divine will, and there exists no better remedy for it than prayer. For the rest, no one knows with any certainty how the distemper is propagated. I can affirm that many visitations certainly began with a sick man bringing the disease from an infected zone,' he answered. 'Here in Rome, for instance, during the last visitation, the infection was said to have arrived from Naples, borne by an unsuspecting fishmonger. But my father, who was Proveditor for Public Health in the great Plague of Prato in 1630 and who cared for many struck down by the pestilence, confided in me many years later that the nature of the disease is mysterious, nor had any of the ancient authors been able to penetrate its secret.'

'And he was right.'

The harsh voice of Pompeo Dulcibeni, the aged traveller who had accompanied Mourai, took us all by surprise.

He began to hold forth in subdued tones: 'A most learned man of the Church and of science has shown the way to proceed. But unfortunately, he was not listened to.'

'A man of the Church and of science. Let me guess: Father Athanasius Kircher, perhaps,' hazarded the doctor.

Dulcibeni did not reply, thus giving us to understand that the physician had guessed rightly. Then he recited: ' Aerem, acqiiam, terrain innumerabilibus insectis scatere, adeo certum est.''*

'He is saying that the earth, the air and water pullulate with minuscule beings invisible to the naked eye.'

'Now,' resumed Dulcibeni, 'these minuscule beings come from organisms in a state of putrefaction, but it has only been possible to observe them since the invention of the microscope, and so…'

'He is known to many, this German Jesuit,' interrupted Cristofano with a hint of scorn, 'whom Signor Dulcibeni is, it seems, quoting from memory.'

To me, Kircher's name meant nothing. But he must have been very well known: on hearing the name of Father Athanasius Kircher, the whole audience nodded its assent.

'Kircher's ideas, however,' continued Cristofano, 'have not yet supplanted those of the great authors, who, on the other hand…'

'Perhaps Kircher's ideas may to some extent be founded, but only sensation can provide a solid, trustworthy basis for our knowledge.'

This time, the interjection came from Signor Bedfordi, the young Englishman, who seemed freed from last night's terror and was again his usual bumptious self.

'The same cause,' he continued, 'may in different cases produce opposite effects. After all, does not the same hot water harden eggs and make meat tender?'

'I know perfectly well,' hissed Cristofano harshly, 'who it is that circulates these sophisms: Master Locke, and his colleague Sidenamio, who know all there is to be known about the senses and the intellect; but in London they claim to cure the sick without being physicians.'

'And so what? Their interest is in obtaining a cure,' rebutted Bedfordi, 'and not in attracting patients with their quacking, like certain physicians. Twenty years ago, when the pestilence in Naples was killing twenty thousand people in a day, Neapolitan chirurgeons and specialists came to London to sell their secret prophylaxis against the plague. Fine rubbish it was too: papers to hang around one's neck with the Jesuits' mark I.H.S. in a cross; or the famous parchment to be hung from the neck with the inscription:

At this point, the young Englishman, after arranging his red mane with some vanity and fixing his audience (except for me, to whom he paid no attention at all) with his glaucous, squinting eyes, stood up and leaned upon the wall, so that he could address us with greater ease.

The door posts of houses and the corners of streets were plastered over with doctors' bills inviting the people to buy 'the infallible preventive pills', ' matchless potions', ' royal-antidotes ' and 'the universal anti-Plague- Water'.

'And when they were not gulling the poor people with such-like quackeries,' continued Bedfordi, 'they sold potions based on mercury, which poisoned the blood and killed more surely than the plague itself.'

This last phrase of the Englishman worked on Cristofano like a fuse, leading to a violent renewal of the dispute between them.

At that moment, Father Robleda joined the discussion. At first, he had muttered unintelligible comments under his breath, but now Robleda sallied forth in defence of his fellow Jesuit. The reactions were not long in coming and an indecorous altercation broke out, in which each struggled to impose his views by the force of his vocal cords rather than by that of reason.

It was the first time in my poor apprentice's life that I had witnessed so learned a contest, and I was both somewhat shocked and disappointed by the quarrelsomeness of the participants.

It was, however, thus that I obtained my first information about the theories of the mysterious Kircher, which could but arouse one's curiosity. In the course of a half-century of tireless study, the learned Jesuit had poured forth his multiform doctrine in over thirty magnificent works on the most varied topics, including a treatise on the plague, Scrutinium physicomedicum contagiosae luis quaepestis dicitur, published some twenty-five years previously. The Jesuit scientist claimed that he had with his microscope made great discoveries, which would leave the reader incredulous (as indeed they did) and which proved the existence of tiny invisible beings which were, in his opinion, the cause of the pestiferous infection.

In Robleda's view, Father Kircher's science was the product of faculties worthy of a seer, and in any case inspired by the Most High. And (I found myself thinking) what if that strange Father Kircher really had discovered how to cure the plague? However, the atmosphere was so torrid that I dared not ask questions.

Throughout all this, Abbot Melani was as attentive as myself, indeed more so, to the information concerning Father Kircher. He kept rubbing his nose, in a vain attempt to suppress several resounding sneezes, and while he did not intervene again, his sharp little eyes darted from one to the other of those mouths full of the German Jesuit's name.

I, for my part, was at once terrorised by the looming danger of the plague and fascinated by these learned theories concerning the infection, of which I was hearing for the first time.

That was why my suspicions were not aroused (as indeed they should have been) by the fact that Dulcibeni was so conversant with Kircher's old and forgotten theory about the plague. Nor had I noticed how Atto pricked up his ears when he heard the name of Kircher.

After hours of argument, most of the guests-overcome at last by boredom-had gradually slipped away to their beds, leaving only the antagonists. And a little later we all retired to sleep, without any peace being in sight.