had heard that Christian doctrine had from the very beginning condemned castration. But fortune would have it that right here in Rome the services of castrati were highly valued and sought after. Everyone knew that the Vatican Chapel was accustomed to employ castrati on a regular basis, and I had sometimes heard the older inhabitants of my quarter comment jestingly on a snatch of song from a washerwoman with the words: 'You sing like Rosini,' or, 'You are better than Folignato.' They were alluding to the castrati who, decades before, had entranced the ears of Pope Clement VIII. Even more often, one heard mention of Loreto Vittori, whose voice had, I knew, the power to bewitch all who heard it. So much so that Pope Urban VIII had appointed him a Knight of the Militia of Christ. Little did it matter that, on several occasions, the Holy See had threatened with excommunication those who practised emasculation. And even less did it matter that the feminine charms of the castrati should perturb spectators. From the chatter and jokes of my contemporaries, I had learned that one need walk only a few dozen paces from the hostelry to find the shop of a complaisant barber who was ever ready to perform the horrendous mutilation, so long as the reward was adequate and the secret well guarded.
'Why wonder?' said Melani, calling me back from my silent reflections. 'One should not be surprised that a Queen should prefer my voice to that-may God forgive me-of a mere canterina. In Paris, I was often accompanied by an Italian singer, a certain Leonora Baroni, who did try so very hard. Today, no one remembers her. Mark my words, young man: if women are not today permitted to sing in public, as Saint Paul so rightly willed it, that is certainly not a matter of chance.'
He raised his glass as though for a toast, and solemnly recited:
Toi qui sais mieux que aucun le succes que jadis les pieces de musique eurent dedans Paris, que dis-tu de Pardeur dont la cour echaujfee frondoit en ce temps-la les grands concerts d'Orphee, les passages d'Atto et de Leonora, et le dechainement qu'on a pour l’Opera?'
I remained silent, allowing myself no more than a questioning glance.
'Jean de la Fontaine,' said he, emphatically. The greatest poet in France.'
'And, if I heard well, he wrote about you!'
'Yes. And another poet, a Tuscan this time, said that the singing of Atto Melani could be used as a remedy against a viper's bite.'
'Another poet?'
'Francesco Redi, the greatest man of letters and science in all
Tuscany. Such were the muses on whose lips my name travelled, my boy.'
'Do you still appear before the French royal family?'
'Once youth has vanished, the voice is the first of the body's virtues to become unreliable. As a young man, however, I sang in the courts of all Europe, and thus had occasion to make the acquaintance of many princes. Nowadays, they are pleased to ask me for advice, when they must take important decisions.'
'You are then… a counsellor abbot?'
'Yes, let us say that.'
'You must often be at court, in Paris.'
'The court is now at Versailles, my boy. As for myself, that is a long story.'
And, frowning, he added: 'Have you ever heard of Monsieur de Fouquet?'
The name was, I replied, utterly unknown to me.
He poured himself another glass of wine and fell silent. His silence caused me no embarrassment. We remained thus awhile, without proffering a word, lulled by a spark of reciprocal sympathy.
Atto Melani was still dressed as he had been that morning: with his abbot's periwig, hood and grey-mauve soutane. Age (and his did not show) had enveloped him with a fine layer of fat which softened a rather hooked nose and severe features. The white powder on his face, which changed to carmine on his prominent cheeks, spoke of a perennial conflict of instincts; his broad, wrinkled forehead and arched eyebrows suggested a cold and haughty nature. Yet that was only a pose: it was contradicted by the mocking fold in his fine, contracted lips and in his slightly receding, but fleshy, chin, in the midst of which sat an impertinent dimple.
Melani cleared his throat. He drank a last draught and kept the wine in his mouth, letting it smack between his tongue and his palate.
'We shall make a pact,' said he all of a sudden. 'You need to know everything. You have not travelled, you have experienced nothing, seen nothing. You are perspicacious; one remarks certain qualities immediately. But without a helping hand at the outset, you will never arrive anywhere. Well, in the twenty days of claustration that lie before us, I can give you all that you need. You, in exchange, will help me.'
I was astounded. 'In what way?'
'What the deuce, to find out who poisoned Monsieur de Mourai!' answered the abbot, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, and he gazed at me the while with a little half-smile.
'Are you certain that this was poisoning?'
'Absolutely,' exclaimed he, standing up and moving around in search of something to else to eat. 'The poor old man must have swallowed something lethal. You heard the physician, did you not?'
'And what does it matter to you?'
'If we do not stop the assassin in time, he will soon strike down other victims here.'
Fear dried my throat at once, and any remaining appetite abandoned my poor stomach.
'By the way,' asked Atto Melani, 'are you quite sure of what you told Cristofano about the broth which you prepared and served up to Mourai? Is there nothing else that I should know?'
I repeated to him that I had never taken my eyes off the pan, and I had personally administered the broth, sip by sip, to the gentleman. Any outside intervention must therefore be ruled out.
'Do you know if he took anything earlier?'
'I would say not. When I arrived, he had just risen and Dulcibeni had already gone out.'
'And afterwards?'
'No, I think not. After serving him the broth, I prepared the basin for his foot bath. When I left him, he was dozing.'
'That means only one thing,' he concluded.
'Namely?'
'That you killed him.'
He smiled at me. He was jesting.
'I shall serve you in all things,' I found myself promising him, with my cheeks on fire, torn between emotion at the challenge which I faced and fear of the danger.
'Bravo. For a start, you could tell me all that you know about the other guests, and whether, in the last few days, you have noticed anything unusual. Have you heard any bizarre conversation? Has anyone been long absent? Have letters been delivered or dispatched?'
I responded that I knew very little, apart from the fact that Brenozzi, Bedfordi and Stilone Priaso had lodged at the Donzello at the time of the late Signora Luigia. I then mentioned, not without some hesitancy, that it seemed to me that Padre Robleda, the Jesuit, had gone at night to Cloridia's apartments. The abbot simply guffawed.
'My boy, from now on, you will keep your eyes open. Above all, you will watch the two travelling companions of old Mourai, the French musician Robert Devize, and Pompeo Dulcibeni, the Marchigiano.'
He saw that I had lowered my eyes, and continued: 'I know what you are thinking: you want to be a gazetteer, not a spy. Know then that the two trades are not so different from one another.'
'But shall I need to know all that you mentioned a moment ago? About the Quietists, the Gallican Articles, and…'
'That is the wrong question. Some gazetteers have gone far, yet know little: only really important things.'
'And what are those?'
'Things which they will never write. But we shall speak of that tomorrow. Now let us go and sleep.'
While we were climbing the stairs, I glanced in silence at the abbot's white face by the light of the lantern: here was my new master, and I savoured all the excitement of the situation. True, all had come to pass so very suddenly, yet I was vaguely aware that Melani was imbued with a similar secret pleasure at having me for a disciple. At least for as long as the quarantine lasted.
The abbot turned towards me before we took leave of each other, and smiled. Then he disappeared down the second-floor corridor, without a word.
