those who recommend cats' brains with bats' dejections, seasoned in red leather, or who stuff a fig with pigeon's droppings and coral dust. Believe me, for nocturnal visions, all these remedies are very, very stimulating…'
Suddenly, she took my hands between hers and looked at me in amusement: I still had not succeeded in tying the knot. My fingers, clumsily entangled with the ribbon, were icy; hers were boiling. The little ribbon fell into her corsage and disappeared. Someone would have to retrieve it.
'In sum,' she resumed, squeezing my hands and fixing me in her gaze, 'it is important to have clear, certain, lasting, true dreams, and where there's a will there's a way. If you dream that you are not married, that may perhaps mean the exact opposite, in other words, that you soon will be. Or perhaps it means you are not, and that is that. Have you understood?'
'But in my case, is it not possible to understand whether the appearance of the dream is true, or the contrary?' I asked in a very small voice and with my cheeks burning.
'Of course it is possible.'
'And why will you not tell me, then?' I implored, involuntarily lowering my gaze to the perfumed cleft which had swallowed up the ribbon.
'Simple, my dear: because you have not paid.'
She ceased smiling, pushed my hands brusquely away from her bosom, retrieved the little ribbon and tied it around her neck in a flash, as though she had never needed help.
I went down the stairs with as sad a soul as a human soul can be, cursing the whole world, which was so incapable of bending to meet my desires, and wishing myself in hell for having been so inept an interpreter of that world. I being miserably impoverished, the dreams which I had confided to Cloridia had fallen naked and defenceless into the lap of a courtesan: how could I have so lost touch with reality? How could I have imagined, dolt that I was, that I could win her favours without paying royally for them? And how could I hope, simpleton that I was, that she might, liberaliter, open her mind, and what is more, to me rather than to others a thousand times more talented and more deserving and admirable? And should I not also have been suspicious of her request, on the occasion of both her consultations concerning dreams, that I should lie down on her bed, while she sat on a chair by the bedhead, close to my shoulders? Such an incomprehensible and dubious request should have reminded me of the sadly mercenary nature of our brief encounters.
Because of my sad thoughts, it was a pleasant accident to encounter Abbot Atto Melani before my door at the foot of the stairs, already impatient at having been kept briefly waiting. The latter risked betraying our appointment to Cristofano when, on my arrival, he was unable to hold back a resounding sneeze.
Night the Fourth
Between the 14th and 15th September, 1683
This time we traversed the series of galleries under the Donzello more swiftly and more safely. I had brought with me Pellegrino's broken fishing rod, but Abbot Melani was opposed to inspecting the ceiling of the tunnels, as we had done when we had discovered the trapdoor to the upper cavity. We were, he reminded me, due at an important meeting; and in view of the circumstances of that encounter, there could be no question of delay. He then noticed my surly face and remembered that he had seen me descending from Gloridia's little tower. An amused smile played on his lips and he intoned:
Speranza, al tuo pallore so che non speripiu.
E pur non lasci tu di lusingarmi il core…*
I had no desire to be entertained and decided to silence Atto by putting to him the question which had been on my mind ever since I had overheard Brenozzi. The abbot stopped abruptly.
'Am I an abbot? But what kind of question is that?'
I begged his pardon and said that never would I have wished to put such inappropriate queries to him, but Signor Angiolo Brenozzi had spoken at great length with Stilone Priaso from his window and in the course of that conversation, many things had been recounted and many considerations touched upon, amongst which, the conduct of the Most Christian King in his dealings with the Sublime Porte and the Holy See; and among the many words exchanged, the Venetian had expressed the opinion that Melani was no more an abbot than Count Donhoff. * Hope, from your pallor /I know you hope no more. / And yet you do not cease / From flattering my heart…
'Count Donhoff… How clever of him!' hissed Atto Melani sardonically, hastening at once to explain. 'Obviously, you have no idea who Donhoff is. It should suffice for your purposes to know that he is the Diplomatic Resident of Poland in Rome, and that during these months of war with the Turks, he has been very, very busy. To give you an idea, the money which Innocent XI is sending to Poland for the war against the Turks also passes through his hands.'
'And what would that have to do with you?'
'It is no more than a low and offensive insinuation. Count Jan Kazimierz Donhoff is indeed not an abbot: he is a Commander of the Order of the Holy Spirit, Bishop of Cesena and Cardinal with the title of San Giovanni a Porta Latina. I, on the other hand, am Abbot of Beaubec with letters patent from His Majesty Louis XIY confirmed by the Royal Council. What Brenozzi means is that I am an abbot only by the will of the King of France, and not the Pope. And how did they come to this question of abbots?' he asked, as we moved on once more.
I gave him a brief account of the conversation between the pair: how Brenozzi had represented the growing power of the King of France and how the Sovereign intended to ally himself with the Sublime Porte in order to put the Emperor in difficulties and to have a free hand to pursue and consolidate his conquests, and how such designs had made him an enemy of the Pontiff.
'Interesting,' commented Melani. 'Our glass-blower detests the French Crown and, judging by his hostile remarks, his feelings for yours truly can scarcely be sympathetic. I shall do well to bear that in mind.'
Then he looked at me with narrowed eyes, showing clear signs of annoyance. He knew that he owed me an explanation concerning his abbot's title.
'Do you know what the Right of Regalia is?'
'No, Signor Atto.'
'It is the right to appoint bishops and abbots and to have title to their property.'
'Therefore it is one of the Pope's rights.'
'No, no… One moment!' broke in Atto. 'Listen carefully, for this is one of those things which will serve you well in the future, when you are a gazetteer. The question is a sensitive one: who owns church property, when it is on French soil? The Pope or the King? Remember: this concerns not only the right to appoint bishops and to grant ecclesiastical benefices and prebends, but the material ownership of convents, abbeys and land.'
'Indeed… it is hard to tell.'
'I know. In point of fact the pontiffs and the kings of France have been squabbling over this for the past four hundred years or so because, obviously, no king will voluntarily cede a piece of his kingdom to a pope.'
'And has the issue been resolved?'
'Yes, but the peace was broken with the arrival of this pope, Innocent XI. In the last century, the jurists finally came to the conclusion that the right of regalia belonged to the King of France. And, for a long time, no one queried that decision. Now, however, two French bishops (note the coincidence: both Jansenists) have reopened the matter with Innocent XI immediately extending his support to them. Thus, the dispute has resumed.'
'In other words, were it not for Our Lord the Pope, there would be no discussion whatsoever concerning the question of regalia.'
'Of course not. Only he could have hatched the idea of so clumsily disturbing relations between the Holy See and the Firstborn Son of the Church.'
'If I understand correctly, you, Signor Atto, were appointed abbot by the King of France and not by the Pope,' I concluded, scarcely concealing my surprise.
He replied with a mumbled assent, stepping up his pace.
I gained the distinct impression that Atto Melani did not desire to wish the matter any further. I, however, had at last rid myself of a doubt, which had taken hold when I was in the kitchen, listening to Cristofano, Stilone Priaso and Devize recount Atto's obscure past to one another. That doubt had deepened when we examined the
