for 'Malachi'. We looked up the Second Book of Kings in the Bible of the corpisantari. And indeed, the title and text corresponded perfectly both with the scrap of paper and with the explanation of Ugonio and Ciacconio. Abbot Melani's face darkened.
'I have but one question: why did you not say so before?' he asked, and I could already imagine the reply which the corpisantari would utter in unison.
'We had not the honorarium to be bequested.'
'Gfrrrlubh,' confirmed Ciacconio.
So, Robleda had not stolen the keys and the little pearls, nor had he entered the underground galleries, he had not lost the loose page from the Bible, nor did he know anything of the Via dei Chiavari or Komarek. And even less of Signor di Mourai, that is Nicolas Fouquet. Or to put it more precisely, there was no reason to suspect him more than anyone else, and his long discourse concerning Saint Malachy had been purely coincidental. In other words, we were back to our starting point.
In compensation, we had discovered that gallery D led to a great and spacious dwelling, the owner of which was chief physician to the Pope. But another mystery had arisen that night. To the discovery of the Bible had been added our finding the phial of blood which someone had inadvertently (or perhaps deliberately) mislaid in the gallery leading to the house of Tiracorda.
'Do you think that the phial was lost by the thief?' I asked Abbot Melani.
At that moment, the abbot tripped on a stone protruding from the ground and fell heavily. We helped him to his feet, although he refused all assistance; he dusted himself down hurriedly, most put out by what had happened, and uttered many imprecations against the builders of the gallery, the plague, physicians, the quarantine and, finally, against the blameless corpisantari who, overwhelmed by so many unmerited insults, exchanged glances full of humiliation.
I was thus able, thanks to that apparently insignificant incident, to measure clearly the unexpected change which had, for some time, come over Abbot Melani. While, on the first days, his eyes had sparkled, now they were often lost in thought. His proud bearing had taken on a more cautious aspect, his once confident gestures had grown hesitant. His acute and perspicacious reasoning sometimes gave way to doubts and reticence. True, we had successfully penetrated the house of Tiracorda, exposing ourselves to the gravest risks. True, we had boldly explored new passages almost blindly, guided more by Ciacconio's nose than by our lanterns. Yet Abbot Melani's hand seemed from time to time to tremble slightly, while his eyes would close in a mute prayer for salvation.
This new state of mind, which for the time being surfaced just occasionally like a half-submerged wreck from the past, had become manifest only recently, indeed very recently. It was difficult to tell exactly when it had begun. It had, indeed, arisen from no particular event, but from occurrences both old and new, which were now settling awkwardly into one single form: a form which, however, remained undefined. Its substance was, however, black and bloody, like the fear which, I was now certain, troubled Abbot Melani's thoughts.
From gallery D, we had returned to gallery C, which we would doubtless need now to explore thoroughly. This time, however, leaving to our right branch E, which led to the Palace of the Chancery, we went straight on.
I noted the absorbed expression of Abbot Melani and above all his silence. I guessed that he must be meditating upon our discoveries, and therefore decided to question him with the curiosity which he himself had instilled in me only a few hours before.
'You said that Louis XIV never hated anyone more than Superintendent Fouquet.'
'Yes.'
'And that, supposing he had discovered that Fouquet had not died at Pinerol but was here in Rome, alive and free, his wrath would certainly have been unleashed anew.'
'Precisely.'
'But why such implacable rage?'
'That is nothing compared to the Sovereign's brooding fury at the time of the arrest and during the trial.'
'Was it not enough for the King that he had been dismissed?'
'You are not the only one to have asked such questions. And you must not be surprised, for no one has ever found an answer to that. Not even I. At least, not yet.'
The mystery of Louis XIV's hatred for Fouquet, explained Abbot Melani, was a matter of endless discussion in Paris.
'There are things which, for lack of time, I have not yet been able to tell you.'
I pretended to accept this excuse. But I now knew that, because of his new state of mind, Atto was prepared to confide in me many things which he had hitherto kept to himself. It was thus that he again evoked those terrible days in which the noose of the conspiracy tightened around the Superintendent's neck.
Colbert began to spin his web from the day when Cardinal Mazarin died. He knew that he must act under cover of the state's interests and the glory of the monarchy. He also knew that he did not have much time: he must act quickly while the King was still inexpert in financial matters. Louis was unaware of what had really been going on under the government of Mazarin, whose machinations escaped him. The only one with access to the Cardinal's papers was Colbert, the master of a thousand secrets. And, while he was already tampering with the documents and falsifying evidence, the Serpent lost no opportunity to instil in the Sovereign, like a subtle poison, mistrust for the Superintendent. In the meanwhile, he soothed the latter with pledges of loyalty. The plot was working perfectly: three months before the festivities at the Chateau de Vaux, the King was already meditating on how to bring down his Superintendent of Finances. There remained, however, a final obstacle: Fouquet, who still held the office of Procurator-General, enjoyed parliamentary immunity. The Coluber, adducing the pretext of the King's urgent need for money, persuaded the Squirrel to sell his office.
Poor Nicolas fell headlong into the trap: he earned one million four hundred thousand livres from the transaction and as soon as he received an advance of a million livres, donated it to the King.
'And when he received the money, the King said, 'He is putting his own hands in irons,' Atto remembered bitterly, brushing a little dirt from his sleeves and then examining his still soiled cuffs with disappointment.
'How horrible!' I could not restrain myself from exclaiming.
'Not as much as you think, my boy. The young King was tasting his power for the first time. He could do this only by imposing his royal prerogative, and therefore injustice. What proof of power would it have been to favour the best, those whose qualities already destined them for the highest honours? He is powerful who can elevate the mediocre and the cunning over the wise and the good, by his sole caprice subverting the natural course of events.'
'But did Fouquet suspect nothing?'
'That is a mystery. He was warned from several sides that something was being plotted behind his back. But he felt that his conscience was clear. I recall that he would respond with a smile, quoting the words of a predecessor: 'Superintendents are made to be hated.' Hated by kings, with their ever increasing demands for money for battles and ballets; and hated by the people, who have to pay the taxes.'
Fouquet, Atto continued, even realised that something important was to take place in Nantes, where he was soon to end up in irons, but he would not look reality in the face: he convinced himself that the King was about to arrest Colbert, not him. Once in Nantes, his friends persuaded him to take up lodgings in a house which had a secret underground passage. This was an ancient conduit leading to the beach, where a fully equipped boat was kept at the ready, to bear him to safety. In the days that followed, Fouquet saw that the streets surrounding the house were full of musketeers. He began to open his eyes, but told his family that he would never run away: 'I must run the risk: I cannot believe that the King means to ruin me.'
'That was a fatal error!' exclaimed Atto. 'The Superintendent knew only the politics of confidence. He could not see that those had had their day and been displaced by the crude politics of suspicion. Mazarin was dead, all was changed.'
'And how was France before the death of Mazarin?'
Abbot Melani sighed. 'How was it?… Ah, it was the good old France of Louis XIII: a world-how could I put it? — both more open and more mobile, in which speech and thought were free, and gay originality, bold attitudes and moral equilibrium seemed set to reign forever. So it appeared: in the circles of the Precieuses, Madame de Sevigne and her friend Madame de la Fayette, in the maxims of the Sieur de la Rochefoucauld and in the verses of Jean de la Fontaine. None could foresee the glacial, absolute domination of the new King.'
Six months were all the Serpent needed to ruin the Squirrel. After his arrest, Fouquet languished in gaol for
