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completely beyond the reach of Fouquet, who faced the added difficulty of almost always acting in wartime. And yet the debts which the Serpent left behind him were far greater than those for which Fouquet was arraigned for ruining the state, he who ruined himself for the state.'

'Did no one ever bring accusations to bear against Colbert?'

'There were several scandals: such as the one and only case of the forgery of money in France during the past several hundred years, and all of those involved were the Coluber' s men, including his nephew. Or the stripping and illicit trafficking of Burgundy's timber; or the criminal exploitation of the forests of Normandy; and these both involved the same henchman of Colbert, Berryer, who had materially falsified documents in the Fouquet trial. All devices to amass wealth for his family.'

'A fortunate life, then.'

'That, I would not say. He spent his existence pretending to be of the most exemplary integrity, accumulating a fortune which he was never able to enjoy. He suffered from envy that was boundless and could never be allayed. He had always to sweat blood and tears in order to come up with some paltry idea which was not to be thrown away. A victim of his own mania for power, he arrogated to himself control over every area of the country, spending a lifetime chained to his desk. He never enjoyed himself for one single hour, and despite that he was detested by the people. Every single day he suffered the terrible wrath of the Sovereign. He was mocked and despised for his ignorance. And it was a combination of these last two factors that eventually killed him.'

'What do you mean?'

The abbot laughed heartily: 'Do you know what brought Colbert to his deathbed?'

'A renal colic, you said.'

'Precisely. And do you know why? The King, furious at his latest blunder, summoned him and showered him with insults and contumely.'

'Was this some administrative error?'

'Far more. To emulate Fouquet's expertise, Colbert stuck his nose into the building of a new wing for the Chateau of Versailles, imposing his own opinions on the builders, who were unable to make him understand the risks incurred by his villainous intervention.'

'But how so? Fouquet had died in prison three years before, and Colbert was still obsessed with him?'

'For as long as the Superintendent remained alive, although entombed at Pinerol, Colbert lived in a state of constant terror that the King might one day return him to his post. Even when Fouquet was no more, the memory of his all-too-brilliant, genial, cultivated, well-loved and admired predecessor remained etched into the Coluber's soul. Colbert had many sons who were healthy and robust, and he enriched them all; he had immense power, while his adversary's family was dispersed far from the capital and condemned perpetually to struggle against creditors. Yet the Coluber' s thoughts could never be free of that one original defeat inflicted upon him by Mother Nature, who had so despised him as to refuse her own gifts and shower them prodigally upon his rival Fouquet.'

'How did the building work go at Versailles?'

'The new wing collapsed, and all the court laughed. The King flew into a rage with Colbert who, overcome by humiliation, suffered a most violent attack of the colic. After days of screaming in pain, the sickness brought him to his death throes.'

I was at a loss for words before the power of divine vengeance.

'You were truly a good friend of Superintendent Fouquet,' was the only phrase I was able to utter.

'I would have wished to be a better friend.'

We heard a door open and then close again on the first floor; then footfalls moved towards the stairs.

'Better leave the way open for science,' said Atto, alluding to the approach of Cristofano. 'But remember that we shall have work to do later.'

And he ran to take shelter on the stairway leading to the cellars, while the doctor passed, after which he moved swiftly upstairs.

Cristofano had come to ask me to prepare dinner, because the other guests were complaining.

'I thought I heard footsteps when I was coming downstairs. Has someone perhaps been here?'

'Absolutely not, you will have heard me: I was just getting ready to prepare the stove,' said I, pretending to busy myself with the pots and pans.

I would have liked to retain the doctor but he, reassured by my reply, returned directly to his apartment, begging me to serve dinner as soon as possible. Thank heavens, thought I, that he had decided to serve only two meals a day.

I set myself to preparing a soup of semolina with beans, garlic and cinnamon, with sugar on it, to which I added cheese, sweet-smelling herbs, a few little pancakes and half a pint of the watered-down wine.

While I was attending to my cooking, a thousand turbid thoughts rushed through my poor prentice's mind. In the first place came what Abbot Melani had just told me. I was shaken: here, I thought, are all the present and past troubles of the abbot: a man capable of deceit and dissimulation (and to some extent, who is not?) but not inclined to deny the past. His former familiarity with Superintendent Fouquet was the one mark that not even his juvenile flight to Rome and the humiliations that had followed could cancel out, and which even now made him uncertain of the King's favour. Yet he continued to defend his benefactor's memory. Perhaps he spoke so freely only with me, as I would certainly never be able to report his words to the French court.

I went over again in my memory what he had discovered among Colbert's papers. In all tranquillity, he had confided in me how he had purloined a number of confidential documents from the Coluber s study, forcing the devices which were designed to protect them. But this was no surprise, given the character of the man, as I had already learned both from others and from him in person. What had struck me was the mission which he had taken upon himself: to find in Rome his old friend and protector, Superintendent Fouquet. That could be no light matter for Abbot Melani, not only because the Superintendent had hitherto been believed dead, but also because it was precisely he who had, however involuntarily, involved Atto Melani in the scandal: and I seemed, according to the abbot, to be the one person privy to his secret mission, which only the sudden closure of the inn when we were placed in quarantine had, I thought, momentarily interrupted. Thus, when I had entered the gallery under the hostelry, I was in the company of a special agent of the King of France! I felt honoured that he should go to so much trouble to resolve the strange affairs which had taken place at the Donzello, including the theft of my little pearls. And indeed it was he who had insistently requested my help. By now, I would not have hesitated one moment to give the abbot copies of the keys to Dulcibeni and Devize's chambers, which only a day before I had refused. However, it was too late: because of Cristofano's instructions, the two would, like the other guests, remain closed in their apartments all the time, making any search of those apartments impossible. And the abbot had already explained how inopportune it would be to ask questions of them, which might raise their suspicions.

I was proud to share so many secrets, but all that was as nothing when compared with the tangle of sentiments provoked by my colloquy with Cloridia.

After bringing dinner to every guest in their chambers, I went first to see Bedfordi, then Pellegrino, where both Cristofano and I took care of feeding the patients. The Englishman was jabbering incomprehensible things. The doctor seemed worried. So much so that he went to Devize's chamber next door, explaining Bedfordi's condition to him and begging him to lay aside his guitar at least for the time being: the musician was, in fact, practising sonorously, rehearsing on his instrument a fine chaconne which was among his favourite pieces.

'I shall do better,' replied Devize laconically.

And, instead of leaving off from playing, he launched into the notes of his rondeau. Cristofano was about to protest, but the mysterious enchantment of that music enveloped him, lighting up his face, and, nodding benevolently, the physician went out of the door without making a sound.

A little later, whilst I was descending from Pellegrino's chamber, up under the eaves, I was called in a stage whisper from the second floor. It was Padre Robleda, whose room was near the stairs. Leaning out from his door, he asked me for news of the two patients.

'And the Englishman is no better?'

'I would say not,' I replied.

'And has the doctor nothing new to tell us?'

'Not really.'

Meanwhile, the last echo of Devize's rondeau reached us. Robleda, hearing those notes, permitted himself a languid sigh.

'Music is the voice of God,' said he, explaining himself.