become of the cavaliers of old? There they are, all herded together by the Most Christian King and his usurer Colbert in a single palace, squandering their inheritance on balls and hunting parties, instead of defending the fiefs of their glorious ancestors.'
'But thus Louis XIV put an end to plotting,' protested Cristofano. 'The King his grandfather died by an assassin's dagger, his father died of poison and he himself as a child was threatened by the nobles in the Fronde revolt!'
'It is true. Thus, however, he has taken possession of their riches. And he has not understood that the nobility, who once were spread throughout France, may well have threatened the Sovereign but were also his best protection.'
'What do you mean?'
'Every sovereign can control his kingdom only if he has a vassal in each province. The Most Christian King has done the opposite: he has united the aristocracy in a single body. And a body has only one neck. When the day comes that the people want to cut through it, a single blow will suffice.'
'Come, come! That can surely never happen,' said Cristofano forcefully. 'The people of Paris will never behead the nobles. And the King…'
Dulcibeni ranted on without listening to the doctor: 'History,' he almost screamed, causing me to give a start, 'will have no pity for those crowned jackals, sated with human blood and infanticide; evil oppressors of a people of slaves, whom they have sent to the slaughter every time that their homicidal fury has been unleashed by whatever their low, incestuous passion lusted after.'
Every single syllable he pronounced with inflamed rage, his lips livid and contracted, and his nose all covered in powder from his many inhalations.
Cristofano gave up attempting to answer him: we seemed to be witnessing the outburst of a deranged mind. Besides, the physician had almost completed his painful duty and silently arranged pieces of fine gauze between the buttocks of the Marchigiano who, with a great sigh, let himself collapse exhausted on his side. And thus he remained, sans culotte, until we had left the room.
No sooner had I informed him of Dulcibeni's lengthy harangue than Atto had no more doubts: 'Padre Robleda was right: if he is not a Jansenist, no one is.'
'And why are you so sure?'
'For two reasons: first, the Jansenists detest the Jesuits; and in that respect I think that Dulcibeni's discourse against the Society of Jesus could hardly have been plainer: the Jesuits are spies, traitors, papal favourites, and so on: the usual propaganda against the Order of Saint Ignatius.'
'Do you mean that it is untrue?'
'On the contrary, it is all perfectly true, but only the Jansenists have the courage to say so publicly. Our Dulcibeni is indeed afraid of nothing: he is all the more unafraid in that the only Jesuit in the vicinity is that coward Robleda.'
'And the Jansenists?'
'The Jansenists say that the Church of the origins was purer, like the torrents near a spring. They hold that several truths of the gospel are no longer as evident as they once were. To return to the Church of the origins, one must submit to the severest of trials, penances, humiliations and renunciations; and while bearing all this, one must place oneself in the merciful hands of God, forever renouncing the world and sacrificing oneself to divine love.'
'Padre Robleda told me that the Jansenists like to remain in solitude…'
'Correct. They tend towards asceticism, severe and chastened customs: you will have noticed how Dulcibeni boils with indignation whenever Cloridia approaches…' sniggered the abbot. 'It goes without saying that the Jansenists utterly detest the Jesuits, who permit themselves every freedom of conscience and action. I know that in Naples there is an important circle of followers of Jansenius.'
'So that is why Dulcibeni settled there.'
'Perhaps. It is a pity that since the very beginning, for a number of theological reasons which I shall not now attempt to explain to you, the Jansenists have been accused of heresy.'
'Yes, I know. Dulcibeni could be a heretic.'
'Forget that. It is not what matters. Let us move on to the second motive for reflection.'
'Namely?'
'All that hatred for princes and sovereigns. It is… how could I put it? It is all too Jansenist a sentiment. The obsession with kings who commit incest, marry harlots, beget bastard children; and the nobles who betray their elevated destiny and grow soft. These are themes which lead to rebellion, to disorder and turbulence.'
'And so?'
'Nothing. It seems curious to me; where do those words come from? And above all, where can they lead? We know much about him, but at the same time, we know too little.'
'Perhaps such ideas have something to do with the business about three to dine, the brothers and the farm.'
'Do you mean the strange expressions which we heard in Tiracorda's house? Perhaps. We shall see tonight.'
Night the Seventh
Between the 17th and 18th September, 1683
From Doctor Tiracorda's cabinet, tremulous candlelight filtered, while Dulcibeni sat down and laid on the table a bottle full of a greenish liquid. The doctor banged down on the board the goblets which had on the last occasion remained empty, because of the breaking of the bottle.
Atto and I crouched in the shadows of the next room, as we had done the night before. Our incursion into the house of Tiracorda had proved more difficult than expected: for a long while, one of the housemaids tidied up the kitchen, so that we were unable to leave the stables. Once the maid had ascended to the first floor, we tarried no little time in order to be quite certain that no one was moving from room to room any longer. While we were still waiting, Dulcibeni at last knocked at the door; the master of the house welcomed him and led him up to the study on the first floor, where we were now eavesdropping upon the pair.
We had missed the beginning of the conversation, and the two were once again testing one another with incomprehensible phrases. Tiracorda sipped placidly at the greenish beverage.
'Then I shall repeat,' said the doctor. 'A white field, a black seed, five sowers and two directing them. It is ab-so-lute-ly clear.'
'It is no use, no use…' said Dulcibeni, defensively.
At that moment, by my side Atto Melani gave a slight start and I saw that he was silently cursing.
'Then, I shall tell you,' said Tiracorda. 'Writing.'
'Writing?'
'But of course! The white field is the paper, the seed is the ink, the five sowers are the fingers of the hand and the two who direct the work are the eyes. Not bad, eh? Ha ha ha ha ha! Haaaaaa ha ha ha ha!'
The old Archiater once again gave himself up to ribald laughter.
'Remarkable,' was Dulcibeni's sole comment.
At that moment, I too understood: enigmas. Tiracorda and Dulcibeni were amusing themselves with riddles. Even the mysterious phrases which we had overheard last night were certainly part of that same innocent entertainment. I looked at Atto and his countenance mirrored my own disappointment: once more we had been racking our brains for nothing. Dulcibeni, however, seemed to appreciate this pastime far less than his companion, and tried to change the subject as he had done during our previous visit.
'Bravo, Giovanni, bravo,' said he, again filling the glasses. 'But tell me now, how was he today?'
'Oh, nothing new. And did you sleep well?'
'For as long as I was able to,' said Dulcibeni gravely.
'I understand, I understand,' said Tiracorda, draining his glass and promptly refilling it. 'You are so troubled,' continued the physician. 'But there are still a couple of things which you have not told me. Excuse me for dwelling
