explained to be King Charles II of England; the Venetian, who thus showed himself to have an appreciable knowledge of the English language, explained that he thought Bedfordi had very recently traversed the United Dutch Provinces.
'And why did he go to Holland?' I asked.
'That I do not know,' replied Brenozzi, silencing me while he again listened to the sick man's maunderings.
'You really do know the English language well,' observed the physician.
'A distant cousin of mine, who was born in London, often writes to me about family matters. I myself am quick to learn and to memorise and I have travelled much on several kinds of business. Look, he seems to feel better.'
The sick man's delirium seemed to have abated and Cristofano invited us with a nod of the head to remove to the corridor. There, we found most of the other lodgers waiting, anxious for news.
Cristofano spoke without mincing his words. The progress of the distemper was, he said, such as to make him doubt his own art. First, the far from clear circumstances of Monsieur de Mourai's death, then the accident which had befallen Signor Pellegrino, who was still reduced to a most piteous state, and now the obvious case of infection which had struck down Bedfordi: all this had discomfited the Tuscan doctor, who, faced with such a conjunction of ill-fortune, admitted that he did not know how to confront the situation. For several interminable moments, we looked at one another, pale and frightened.
Some gave way to desperate lamentations; others took refuge in their apartments. Some laid siege to the physician, hoping thus to assuage their own fears; some fell to the ground with their face in their hands. Cristofano himself hastened back to his own chamber, where he locked himself in, begging to be left awhile alone, in order to consult some books and to review our circumstances. His withdrawal did, however, seem more like an attempt to take shelter than to organise retaliatory action. Our enforced imprisonment had cast off the mask of comedy and donned that of tragedy.
Pale as death, Abbot Melani had assisted at the scene of collective desperation. But, more than anyone else, I was now a prey to authentic despair. Signor Pellegrino, I thought between sobs, had made the hostelry into his tomb and my own, as well as that of our guests. And already I imagined the scenes of distress that would ensue with his wife's arrival, when she discovered with her own eyes the cruel work of death in the apartments of the Donzello. The abbot found me slumped on the floor in the corridor outside Cristofano's chamber, where I had fallen to sobbing, hiding my tear-soaked face. Stroking my head, he murmured a plaintive song:
Piango, prego e sospiro, E nulla alfin mi giova…*
He waited for me to calm down, seeking gently to console me; but then, seeing the uselessness of those first attempts, he lifted me bodily to my feet and set me down energetically with my shoulders to the wall.
'I do not want to listen to you,' I protested.
I repeated the doctor's words, to which I added that within a matter of days, perhaps only hours, we would all surely collapse in atrocious agony, like Bedfordi. Abbot Melani grasped me forcefully, dragging me up the stairs and into his apartment. Nothing, however, * I weep, I pray and sigh / and in the end, nothing cheers me. could calm me, so that the abbot had in the end to hit me hard with the back of his hand, which had the effect of arresting my sobs. For a few moments, I was peaceful.
Atto put a brotherly arm around my shoulders and tried with patient words to persuade me not to give in to despair. What mattered above all was that we should repeat the cleverly staged scene whereby we had hidden Pellegrino's illness from the men of the Bargello. To reveal the presence of one infected with the pestilence-and this time a real case-would certainly lead to closer and more frequent inspections; we would perhaps be deported to an improvised pest-house in a less populous quarter, perhaps the San Borromeo island where the hospital for the sick had been set up during the great visitation some thirty years before. We two could always attempt the escape route under the ground which we had discovered only the night before. To evade one's pursuers would always be difficult-that he did not conceal-but it would remain a practicable solution, if our plight should worsen. When I had almost recovered my calm, the abbot went over the situation, point by point: if Mourai had been poisoned, and if Pellegrino's presumed buboes were only the spotted fever or, even better, two simple bruises, the one and only certain case of the plague was Bedfordi.
Someone knocked at Atto's door: Cristofano was calling everyone to a meeting in the chambers on the ground floor. He said that he had an urgent announcement to make to us. In the hall, we found all the guests gathered at the foot of the stairs; although, after the latest events, they maintained a prudent distance from one another. Devize, in an alcove, sweetened the grave moment with the notes of his splendid and disquieting rondeau.
'Perhaps the young Englishman has expired?' ventured Brenozzi, without leaving off from plucking at his celery.
The physician shook his head and invited us to take our seats. Cristofano's frown stifled the last note under the musician's fingers.
I went into the kitchen, where I began to busy myself around the pots and pans and the stove, in order to prepare the next meal.
When all were seated, the doctor opened his bag and took out a handkerchief, with which he carefully wiped the perspiration from his brow (as was his wont before making a speech) and, finally, cleared his throat.
'Most honourable gentlemen, I beg your pardon for having deserted your company a while ago. It was, however, necessary for me to reflect upon our present plight, and I have concluded,' he declared, while all fell silent, '… and I have concluded…' repeated Cristofano, with one hand making a ball of his handkerchief, 'that if we do not wish to die, we must bury ourselves alive.'
The time had come, he explained, for us to cease once and for all wandering around the Donzello as though all was well. No longer would we be able to converse amiably with one another, in despite of the recommendations which he had been imparting to us for several days now. Hitherto, destiny had been all too kind to us, and the misadventures which had befallen Monsieur de Mourai and Pellegrino had proven to have no connection with any infection; but now, matters had taken a turn for the worse, and the plague, which had previously been evoked misleadingly, had truly struck at the Donzello. There was no point in counting how many minutes this or that guest had spent in the company of poor Bedfordi: that would serve only to nourish suspicion. Our one remaining hope of salvation was voluntary segregation, each in his own apartment, so as to avoid inhaling others' humours or coming into contact with the clothing of other guests, etc. etc. We were all to anoint and massage our bodies regularly with purifying oils and balsams which the physician would prepare, and we were to meet only on the occasion of the men-at-arms' roll-calls, the next of which was due on the morrow.
'Lord Jesus,' baulked Padre Robleda, 'are we to await death crouching on a corner of the floor, next to our own dejecta? If I may be permitted,' he continued, softening his tone, 'I have heard tell that my honourable brother Don Guzman de Zamora carried out a remarkable work of preservation for himself and his fellow Jesuit missionaries during the Plague of Perpignan in the Kingdom of Catalonia with a remedium that was quite pleasant to the palate: excellent white wine to be consumed freely, in which had been dissolved one drachm of couperose and half a drachm of Dictamnus albus. He had everyone anointed with Oil of Scorpions and made them all eat well. And none fell ill. Would it not be advisable to try that, before immuring ourselves alive?'
Abbot Melani, whose inquiries would be severely hampered by such seclusion, nodded vigorously in support of Robleda's words: 'I too know that white wine of the best quality is regarded as an excellent ingredient against the plague and putrid fevers,' said he, forcefully, 'and even better are spirits and Malmsey wine. In Pistoia, we have the renowned water which Master Anselmo Ricci adopted with great success to preserve the Pistoiesi from the infection. My father told me and my brothers that all the bishops who had succeeded one another in the pastoral administration consumed this liberally, and not only as a cure. The recipe consisted of five pounds of spirits aromatised with medicinal herbs, to be laid down in the cathedral for twenty-four hours in a hermetically sealed jar. After that, six pounds of the best Malmsey were added. This gave an excellent liquor of which Monsignor the Bishop of Pistoia drank two ounces every morning, with one ounce of honey.'
The Jesuit clicked his tongue meaningfully, while Cristofano shook his head sceptically and endeavoured in vain to resume speaking.
'It seems to me undeniable that such remedies gladden the spirits,' warned Dulcibeni, 'but I doubt whether they can produce other, more important effects. I, too, know of a delicious electuary formulated by Ludovico Giglio of Cremona during the pestilence in Lom- bardy. It consisted of an excellent condiment of which four drachms were
