'So, what then is the problem?' I interrupted, overcome by a yawn.
'It is that the English nobility, who follow the reformed religion, do not wish to have a Catholic king and are therefore plotting in favour of William, who is an ardent Protestant. Do lie down on my bed, boy,' added the abbot with a voice grown gentler, as he pointed to his couch.
'But then England might remain heretical forever!' I exclaimed, putting down Cristofano's bag and lying down without further ado, while Atto moved to the mirror.
'Right. So in England there are now two factions: one Protestant and Orangist and the other Catholic. Even if he will never admit it, our Bedfordi must belong to the former,' he explained, while the acute arching of one eyebrow, which I descried reflected in the mirror, betrayed the scant satisfaction which the abbot was obtaining from the examination of his own reflection.
'And how do you deduce that?' I asked, growing curious.
'From what I could gather, Bedfordi stayed awhile in Holland, a land of Calvinists.'
'In Holland there are also Catholics: I know this from our guests who have sojourned long there, and they are surely faithful to the Church of Rome…'
'Of course. But the United Provinces are also William's country. Some ten years ago, the Prince of Orange defeated the invading army of Louis XIV And now Holland is the stronghold of the Orangist conspirators,' retorted Atto as, with a snort of impatience, he pulled out a little brush and a small box and rouged his rather prominent cheeks.
'In other words, you think that Bedfordi went to Holland in order to conspire in favour of the Prince of Orange,' I commented, trying not to stare too hard at him.
'No, no, let us not exaggerate,' he replied, turning to me after taking one last satisfied look in the mirror. 'I believe that Bedfordi is simply one of those who would like to see William on the throne, also because-do not forget this-in England the heretics are very numerous. He will be one of many messengers moving back and forth across the English Channel, at the risk of being arrested sooner or later and imprisoned in the Tower of London…'
He paused, drew up a chair and sat down by the bedside.
'You see then that we are not far from the truth.'
'It is incredible,' I commented, while all sleepiness receded.
I was both intimidated and agitated by these marvellous and suggestive accounts. Remote and powerful conflicts between the reigning powers of Europe were materialising before my eyes, in this hostelry where I was but a poor apprentice.
'But who is this Prince William of Orange, Signor Atto?' I asked.
'Oh, a great soldier, overwhelmed with debts. That is all,' replied the abbot drily. 'For the rest, his life is absolutely flat and colourless, as are his person and his spirit.'
'A penniless prince?' I asked incredulously.
'Indeed. And if he were not always short of money, who knows what he might not have achieved?'
I remained pensive and silent.
'Of course, never, but never would I ever have suspected that Bedfordi might be a fugitive,' I resumed after a moment.
'We have another fugitive too. One who hails from a distant maritime city,' added Melani with a little smile, while his face, which had drawn gradually nearer and nearer, looked down on me.
'Brenozzi the Venetian?!' I exclaimed, raising my head from the bed with a start and involuntarily striking the snub nose of the abbot, who let out a groan. 'Precisely him, of course,' he confirmed, rising to his feet and massaging his nose.
'But how can you be so sure of that?'
'If you had listened to Brenozzi's words with greater perspicacity and, above all, if your awareness of worldly matters had been more extensive, you would certainly have noticed something unconvincing,' he replied in a vaguely vexed tone of voice.
'Well, he did say that a cousin…'
'A distant cousin born in London, from whom he learned English simply by corresponding: now, do you not find that explanation a trifle curious?'
And he reminded me of how the glass-blower had dragged me downstairs by force and almost shocked me out of my senses and then subjected me to a flood of questions concerning the Turkish siege and the infection which was perhaps overcoming the resistance of Vienna, after which he had babbled of marguerites.
Only, continued Atto, he was not speaking of daisies, but of one of the most precious treasures of the Most Serene Venetian Republic, which it was prepared to defend by all means and which was doubtless the cause of our Brenozzi's present troubles. The islands which lie at the heart of the Venetian lagoon guard a secret source of wealth which the Doges, who for centuries have been at the head of that Most Serene Republic, watch over jealously. In those isles are manufactures of glass and of decorated pearls, known in Latin as margaritae (or 'daisies'), and the art of manufacturing these depends upon secrets handed down for many generations, of which the Venetians are both proud and inordinately jealous.
'But then the daisies-the marguerites-which he mentioned and the little pearls which he put into my hand are one and the same thing,' I exclaimed confusedly. 'But how much could they be worth?'
'You cannot even imagine it. If you had travelled a tenth as much as I have, you would know that there clings to the trinkets of Murano the copious blood of the Venetians; and for these, it will perhaps flow until who knows when,' said Melani, seating himself at his desk.
Many master glass-blowers and their apprentices had, indeed, attempted to flee to Paris, London, Vienna and Amsterdam, but also to Rome or Genoa, where they sometimes found more generous masters and commerce with fewer competitors.
Such fugues were not however to the taste of the magistrates of the Council of the Ten of Venice, who had no intention of losing control of that art, which had brought so much money into the coffers of the Doges; and they had therefore placed the matter in the hands of the State Inquisitors, the special council responsible for ensuring that no secret should be propagated which might be prejudicial to the interests of the Most Serene Republic.
The Inquisitors were most skilful: violence was followed by promises and blandishments, damage to new workshops and threats to relatives remaining in Venice; everything possible to persuade the glass-blowers to return.
'And did the glass-blowers return?'
'You should rather be asking 'do they return?', for the drama continues to this day and I think that it is being played out even in this hostelry. For those unwilling to return, there is the skilful and secretive work of the assassin. To steel, which announces violent death, they often prefer poison. That is why our Brenozzi is so worried,' concluded Abbot Melani. 'The maker of margaritae, glass or mirrors who flees Venice finds himself in hell. He sees assassins and betrayal everywhere, he sleeps with one eye open, he keeps looking over his shoulder. And Brenozzi, too, has surely known the violence and the threats of the inquisitors.'
'And I, who ingenuously allowed myself to become so scared when Cristofano spoke to me of the powers of my little pearls,' I exclaimed, not without some shame. 'Only now do I understand why Brenozzi asked me, with such a nasty expression, whether those three pearls were enough. With those three little pearls, he wanted to buy my silence about our conversation.'
'Bravo, you have grasped the point.'
'Yet, do you not find it strange that there should be two fugitives present in this inn?' I asked, alluding to the presence of both Bedfordi and Brenozzi.
'Not so strange. In recent years, not a few have fled London, and no fewer, Venice. Your master is probably not the kind of person who tends to spy on his guests and nor, no doubt, was Signora Luigia Bonetti who kept the inn before him. Perhaps the Donzello is considered to be a 'discreet' hostelry where those fleeing from serious trouble can find refuge. The names of such places are often passed on by word of mouth from one exile to another. Remember: the world is full of people who want to flee their own past.'
I had in the meanwhile risen from where I was lying and, taking the necessary from my bag, I poured into a bowl a syrup which the physician had indicated to me for the abbot. I explained to him briefly what it was and Atto drank it without complaint. Then he rose to his feet and, singing to himself, began organising some papers on the table:
In questo duro esilio…*
