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conversed with her as though his mistresses had never existed.

Apart from her spiritual devotions, the distractions which Maria Teresa permitted herself were few and harmless. In her retinue, she kept a half-dozen jesters whom she called Little Boy, Little Heart and Little Son, and a mass of small dogs whom she treated with a besotted, excessive affection. On her promenades, she had a separate carriage assigned to all that absurd company. Often the dwarves and little dogs ate at Maria Teresa's table, and to have them always near her, she was prepared to spend huge sums of money.

'But did you not say that she was a frugal and charitable lady?' I asked, taken aback.

'Yes, but this was the price of loneliness.'

From eight to ten o'clock in the evening, Maria Teresa would play at cards, waiting for the King to take her to dinner. When the Queen played, princesses and duchesses would sit around her in a semicircle, while behind her stood the lesser nobility, panting and perspiring. The Queen's favourite game was hombre, but she was too ingenuous and always lost. Sometimes the Princess d'Elbeuf would make a sacrifice and allow herself to lose against the Sovereign: a sad and embarrassing spectacle. Until the end, the Queen felt more alone every day, as she herself confided to her few intimate friends. And before she died, she engraved all her suffering in a single phrase: 'The King feels for me only now that I am about to leave him.'

This narration, which had made me feel such great pity, was now making me impatient: I had hoped to obtain very different information from mouth of the musician. While continuing to massage Devize's back, I glanced at the table a few paces away from us. Distractedly, I had placed a few of my medicinal jars on some pages of music. I begged Devize's pardon for this but he gave a violent start and jumped up to check on the pages, in case they had been stained. He found a little oil-stain on one of them and became rather angry.

'You are no prentice, you are a beast! You have ruined my master's rondeau.'

I was horrified. I had soiled the marvellous rondeau which I so loved. I offered to spread a fine dry powder on the leaf wherewith to absorb the oil; meanwhile, Devize cursed and heaped insults upon me. With trembling hand, I strove to restore to its pristine state that page of music on which were traced the sounds which had so delighted me. It was then that I noticed an inscription at the top: 'a Mademoiselle'.

'Is that a dedication of love?' I asked, stammering, showing how embarrassed I still was by what had occurred.

'But who would love Mademoiselle?… The only woman in the world more lonely and sad than the Queen herself.'

'Who is Mademoiselle?'

'Oh, a poor woman, a cousin of His Majesty. She had sided with the rebels during the Fronde, and she paid dearly for that: just think of it, Mademoiselle had fired the cannons of the Bastille against the King's troops.'

'And was she sent to the scaffold?'

'Worse: she was condemned to remain forever a spinster,' laughed Devize. 'The King prevented her from marrying. Mazarin said: 'Those cannon killed her husband.'

'The King has no pity even for his relatives,' I commented.

'Indeed. When Maria Teresa died, last July, do you know what His Majesty said? 'This is the first displeasure she has given me.' And nothing else.'

Devize continued talking, but now I was no longer listening to him. One word was pulsing in my head: July.

'Did you say that the Queen died in July?' I asked, brusquely interrupting him.

'What did you say? Ah yes, on the 30th of July, after an illness.'

I asked no more. I had finished cleaning the page, rapidly removing the powder from both sides of the sheet and returning it to its cover. I took my leave and left the chamber almost panting with agitation. Closing the door, I leaned on the wall to reflect.

A sovereign, the Queen of France, had died of an illness in the last week of July: exactly in accordance with the prediction of the astrological almanack.

It was as though I had received a warning through the mouth of Devize: a piece of news (of which only I, a poor prentice, had remained unaware) had provided yet another confirmation of the infallibility of the astrological gazette and the ineluctability of fate's writing in the stars.

Cristofano had assured me that astrology was not necessarily contrary to the Faith, and was indeed of the greatest utility for medicine. Yet, in that moment there came to me the memory of the unfathomable reasoning of Stilone Priaso, the strange story of Campanella and the tragic destiny of Father Morandi. I prayed heaven to send me a sign that might free me from fear and show me the way.

It was then that I again heard the notes of the wonderful rondeau arising from the deep tones of the theorbo: Devize had begun playing again. I joined my hands in prayer and remained motionless, with my eyes closed, torn between hope and fear, until the music came to an end.

I dragged myself back into my chamber and there collapsed onto the bed, my soul emptied of all willpower and all vigour, tormented by events in which I could discern neither meaning nor order. Giving way to torpor, I hummed the sweet melody which I had just heard, almost as though it could confer on me the favour of a secret key wherewith to decipher the labyrinth of my sufferings.

I was awoken by some noise from the Via dell'Orso. I had drowsed for only a few minutes: now my first thought went again to the almanack, mixed, however, with a bitter-sweet concert of desire and privation, the first cause of which I had no difficulty in discerning. To find peace and relief, I knew that I had only to knock at a door.

For several days now, I had left Cloridia's meals before her door, only knocking to signal their serving. Since then, only Cristofano had had access to her apartment. Now, however, the conversation with Devize had opened up the wound of my distance from her.

What did it matter now that she had offended me with her venial request? With the pestilence circulating among us, she could be dead within a day or two; so I thought to myself with a pang in my heart. Pride, in extreme circumstances, is the worst of counsellors. There would surely be no lack of pretexts for me to visit her again: I had much to tell her and no less to ask.

'But I know nothing about astrology, that I have already told you,' said Cloridia defensively when I showed her the almanack and explained to her how precise its predictions had turned out to be. 'I know how to read dreams, numbers and the lines of the hand. For the stars, you must go to someone else.'

I returned to my bedchamber thoroughly confused. That, however, was not so serious. Only one thing mattered: the blind god with little wings had again pierced my breast with his darts. It did not matter that I might never entertain any hope with Cloridia. It did not matter that she was aware of my passion and might laugh at it. I was still fortunate: I could see her and converse with her as and when I wished to, at least for as long as the quarantine lasted. This was a unique opportunity for a poor prentice like me; priceless moments which I would certainly remember for the remainder of my grey days. Again, I promised myself that I would return to visit her as soon as possible.

In my chamber, I found a little refreshment which Cristofano had left for me. A prey to love's drunkenness, I sipped the glass of wine almost as though it were the purest nectar of Eros, and swallowed a piece of bread and cheese as though it were the finest manna, sprinkled upon my head by the tender Aphrodite.

Replete, and with the dissipation of the soft aura which the encounter with Cloridia had left in my soul, I resumed my meditations upon my colloquy with Devize: I had succeeded in obtaining nothing from him about the death of Superintendent Fouquet. Abbot Melani was right: Devize and Dulcibeni would not speak easily about that strange affair. I had however succeeded in not arousing the suspicions of the young musician. On the contrary: with my ingenuous questions, and the damage which I had clumsily done to his score, I had imprinted in his mind the indelible image of an uncouth and stupid servant.

I went to visit my master, whose condition I found to be slightly improved. Cristofano was present, having just fed him. Pellegrino began to speak with a certain fluency and seemed sufficiently to understand what was said to him. Of course, he was far from enjoying perfect health, and still slept through most of the day, but, concluded Cristofano, it was not unreasonable to expect that he would soon be able to walk normally.

After spending some time with Pellegrino and the doctor, I returned to my chamber and at last allowed myself to enjoy sleep worthy of the name. I slumbered for hours, and when I descended to the kitchen, it was already dinner time. I hastened to cook for the guests, preparing a few slices of lemon with sugar, to stimulate the