parts, causing the putrefied intestines to issue forth from the anus, noticed that the fields and villages had been invaded by rats. They then questioned the seers and the priests who replied that the rats had devastated the earth and that, to placate the wrath of the God of Israel, they must offer Him an ex voto with a representation of the anus and of the rats. Apollo himself, a deity who caused the plague when wrathful and turned it away when placated, was known in Greece as Smintheus, or destroyer of mice and rats: and indeed, in the Iliad, it was Apollo Smintheus who destroyed with the pestilence the Achaeans besieging Troy. And Aesculapius, too, was represented during visitations of the plague, with a dead rat at his feet.'
'Then rats cause the plague!' I exclaimed, thinking with horror of the dead rodents which I had seen under the ground the night before.
'Calm down, my boy. I did not say that. What I have just told you are only ancient beliefs. Today we are fortunate enough to be living in 1683 and modern medical science has made immense progress. Vile rats do not cause the plague, which results, as I have already had occasion to explain, from the corruption of the natural humours and principally from the wrath of the Lord. It is, however, true that rats fall sick with the plague and die from it, just like men. But it suffices not to touch them, as Hippocrates said.'
'How does one recognise a rat with the plague?' I asked, fearing the reply.
'Personally, I have never seen one, but my father did: they suffer from convulsions, their eyes are red and swollen, they tremble and squeal in agony.'
'And how does one know that it is not another malady?'
'It is simple; they soon lose all their natural fluids and die, pirouetting and spitting blood. And, when dead, they become bloated and their whiskers remain rigid.'
I blanched. All the rats found in the galleries had a rivulet of blood flowing from their pointed muzzles. And Ciacconio had even taken one by the tail.
I was not afraid for myself, being immune to the distemper; but the discovery of those little carcasses meant perhaps that the plague was spreading through the city. Perhaps other houses and other inns had already been shut up and within them wretched unfortunates shared our anguish. Being in quarantine, we had no means of knowing. I therefore asked Cristofano whether, in his view, the pestilence had spread.
'Fear not. In the past few days I have several times requested information from the watchmen who mount the guard in front of the inn. They have told me that there are no other suspected cases in the city. And there is no reason not to believe that to be the case.'
As we descended the stairs, the doctor ordered me to rest for a few hours in the afternoon, obviously after anointing my chest with the magnolicore.
Cristofano had come to my room to warn me that he himself would see to the preparation of something quite simple and nutritious for luncheon. Now, however, he needed my assistance: he was concerned about some of the guests who, the evening before, after the dinner based on cows' teats had been beset by fits of heavy eructations.
As soon as we reached the kitchen, I saw, placed upon a little stove, a heavy glass bell equipped with a spout shaped like an alembic, in which oil was beginning to distil. Underneath, something was burning in a little pot, giving off a great stink of sulphur. Next to it, there stood a flask in an earthenware container which the physician grasped and began to tap delicately with his fingertips, producing a delicate ringing sound.
'Do you hear how perfectly it sounds? I shall use it for reducing to ash the oil of vitriol which I shall apply to the tokens of poor Bedfordi. And let us hope that this time they will mature and at last burst. Vitriol is rather corrosive, most bitter, of black humour, and unctuous; it greatly chills all intrinsic heat. Roman vitriol-of which I was fortunate enough to purchase a stock before our quarantine-is the best, because it is congealed with iron, while the German product is congealed with copper.'
I had understood very little, except that Bedfordi's condition had not improved. The physician continued: 'In order to help our guests' digestion, you will help me to prepare my angelical electuary, which by its attractive and non-modifying virtues, resolves and evacuates all indispositions of the stomach, heals ulcerated wounds, is a salve for the body and calms all altered humours. It is also good for catarrh and for toothache.'
He then handed me two brown felt bags. From one, he extracted a couple of flasks of wrought glass.
'They are very beautiful,' said I.
'For electuaries to be maintained in good condition according to the art of the herbalist, they must be stored in the finest glass, and for this purpose other flasks are worthless,' he explained proudly.
In one, Cristofano explained, was his quinte essence, mixed with electuary of fire of roses; in the other, red coral, saffron, cinnamon and the lapisphilosophorum Leonardi reduced to powder.
'Mix,' he ordered me, 'and administer two drachms to everyone. Go to it at once, for they must not partake of luncheon for at least another four hours.'
After preparing the angelic electuary and pouring it into a bottle, I did the rounds of all the apartments. I left Devize's for last, since he was the only one to whom I had not yet administered the remedies which preserve from the plague.
As I approached his door, with the bag full of Cristofano's little jars, I heard a most graceful interweaving of sounds, in which I had no difficulty in recognising that piece which I had so many times heard him play, and whose ineffable sweetness had invariably enchanted me. I knocked timidly and he quite willingly invited me to come in. I explained the purpose of my visit to him and he assented with a nod, while still playing. Without proffering a word, I sat down on the floor. Devize then put down his guitar and fingered the strings of an instrument which was both far bigger and far longer, with a wide fingerboard and many bass notes to be played unfretted. He broke off and explained to me that this was a theorbo, for which instrument he himself had composed many suites of dances with the most vigorous succession of preludes, allemandes, gavottes, courantes, sarabandes, minuets, gigues, passacaglias and chaconnes.
'Did you also compose that piece which you play so often? If only you knew how that enchants everyone here at the inn.'
'No, I did not compose that,' he replied with a distracted air. 'The Queen gave it to me to play for her.'
'So you know the Queen of France in person?'
'I knew her: Her Majesty Queen Maria Teresa is dead.'
'I am sorry, I…'
'I played for her often,' he continued without pausing, 'and even for the King, to whom I had occasion to teach some rudiments of the guitar. The King always loved…' His voice trailed off.
'Loved whom, the Queen?'
'No, the guitar,' replied Devize with a grimace.
'Ah yes, the King wanted to marry the niece of Mazarin,' I recited, regretting at once that I should thus have given away the fact that I had overheard his conversations with Stilone Priaso and Cristofano.
'I see that you know something,' said he, somewhat surprised. 'I imagine that you will have gleaned this from Abbot Melani.'
Although taken by surprise, I succeeded in neutralising Devize's suspicions: 'For heaven's sake, Sir… I have endeavoured to keep my distance from that strange individual, ever since…'-and here I pretended to be ashamed-'ever since, well…'
'I understand, I understand, you need say no more,' Devize interrupted me with a half-smile. 'I do not care for pederasts either…'
'Have you too had cause for indignation towards Melani?' I asked, mentally begging pardon for the ignominious calumny with which I was staining the honour of the abbot.
Devize laughed. 'Fortunately, no! He has never… um… bothered me. Indeed we never addressed a word to one another in Paris. It is said that Melani was an exceptional soprano in the days of Luigi Rossi, and of Cavalli… He sang for the Queen Mother, who loved melancholy voices. Now he sings no more: he uses his tongue for lies, alas, and betrayal,' said he acidly.
It could not have been clearer: Devize did not like Atto and knew of his fame as an intriguer. However, with the help of some necessary calumny about Abbot Melani, and by pretending to be even more of a rustic than was in fact the case, I was creating a certain complicity with the guitarist. With the help of a good massage, I would loosen his tongue even further, as with the other guests, and perhaps I would thus gain from him some intelligence concerning old Fouquet. The main thing, I thought, was that he should treat me as an ingenuous prentice, with no brain and no memory.
