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vitae, to cure it.'

'That means: a pestiferous malefice, and the antidote thereto.'

'Precisely so.'

'But then, how does it work?'

'I do not know. Indeed, Kircher did not really explain it. He insisted greatly, as far as I could understand from what I was able to read, on a single point. There is in the final stages of the pestilence something unexpected, mysterious, foreign to medical doctrine: after reaching its maximum strength, the disease senescit ab abrupto, or suddenly begins to come to an end.'

'I do not understand, it is all strange,' I commented. 'Why did Kircher not publish his findings?'

'Perhaps he feared that someone might make improper use of them. It would take little to steal so precious a thing, once the manuscript was handed over to the printers. Now, can you imagine the disaster for the whole world if such secrets were to fall into the wrong hands?' 'He must, then, have greatly esteemed Fouquet to confide such a thing to him alone.'

'I can tell you that one needed speak only once with the Squirrel to be won over by him. Kircher added, however, that the secretum vitae is hidden by arcanae obices.

'Arcanae obices? That means 'mysterious obstacles'. But what does it refer to?

'I have not the least idea. Perhaps it is part of the jargon of the alchemists, the spagyrists or the necromancers. Kircher knew religions, rituals, superstitions and devilries from all the world over. Or perhaps arcanae obices is a coded expression which Fouquet could decipher after reading the letter.'

'But Fouquet could not receive the letter,' I objected, 'while he was in prison at Pinerol.'

'That is a correct observation. Yet someone must have delivered it to him, since we found it among Dulcibeni's effects. So the decision to allow him to have it was taken by whoever controlled all his correspondence…'

I fell silent, not daring to draw the appropriate conclusions.

'… that is, His Majesty the King of France,' said Atto, swallowing, as though he were frightened by his own words.

'But then,' I hesitated, 'the secretum pestis…'

'Was what the King wanted from Fouquet.'

That, I thought, was all that we needed. Scarcely had Atto named him and it was as though the Most Christian King, First-Born and Most Dearly Beloved Son of the Church, had somehow entered the hostelry in a freezing, angry gust, and was about to sweep away all that remained of poor Fouquet within the walls of the Donzello.

'Arcanae obices, arcanae obices' Melani chanted to himself, with his fingers drumming on his knees.

'Signor Atto,' I interrupted him, 'do you believe that, in the end, Fouquet revealed the secretum pestis to the King?'

'Arcanae… What did you say? I do not know, I really do not know.'

'Perhaps Fouquet left prison because he had confessed,' I proposed.

'Indeed, had he escaped, the news would have spread at once. I believe that matters must have gone otherwise: when Fouquet was arrested, there were found on him letters from a mysterious prelate which spoke of the secret of the pestilence. Those letters must have been kept by Colbert. If, when I entered the Coluber's study, more time had been given me, I should probably have discovered those too.'

'And then?'

'And then began the trial of Fouquet. And now we know why the King and Colbert used every means to prevent Fouquet from being condemned to no more than exile: they wanted him in prison so that they could extort from him the secretum pestis. Moreover, not having understood who the mysterious ecclesiastic might be, they could turn only to Fouquet. Now, if they had understood that it was Kircher…'

'Of what use would the secret of the pestilence have been to them?'

It was all too clear, said Atto, growing fervent: control of the pestilence would have enabled Louis XIV to settle accounts once and for all with his enemies. The dream of using the plague for military purposes was, he said, centuries old. Already Thucydides told how the Athenians, when their city was decimated by the disease, suspected their enemies of the Peloponnesian League of having provoked the visitation by poisoning their wells. In more recent times, the Turks had tried (with scant success) to use the contagion to overcome besieged cities by catapulting infected bodies over the ramparts.

Fouquet held the secret weapon which the Most Christian King would have been more than delighted to use to bring to heel Spain and the Empire and to crush William of Orange and Holland.

His imprisonment had, then, been so rigorous only in order to convince Fouquet to talk, and to be quite sure that he would not pass the secret to one of his many friends. That was why he was forbidden to write. But Fouquet did not yield.

'Why ever should he have done so?' Abbot Melani asked himself rhetorically. 'Keeping the secret to himself was his sole guarantee of remaining alive!'

Perhaps the Superintendent had for years simply denied that he really knew how to disseminate the pestilence; or perhaps he had put up a series of half-truths in order to gain time and to obtain less cruel conditions of imprisonment.

'But then, why was he freed?' I asked.

'The letter from Kircher, by now utterly delirious, had reached Paris and Fouquet could therefore no longer deny all knowledge, thus endangering his own life and that of his family. Perhaps in the end Fouquet did give in and promise the King the Secretum pestis in exchange for his own freedom. After that, however, he did not respect his agreement. That is why, then… Colbert's spies set their sights on him.'

'Might not the contrary have been the case?' I asked.

'What do you mean to say?'

'Perhaps it was the King who did not respect the agreement.'

'Enough of that. I will not permit you to opine that His Majesty…'

Atto never finished his sentence, caught up in a sudden vortex of who knows what thoughts. I understood that his pride could not bear to hear my hypothesis: that the King might have promised the Superintendent his freedom, while intending to eliminate him immediately afterwards. That had not happened solely because, as I began fervidly to imagine, Fouquet had somehow foreseen the move and succeeded in boldly avoiding the ambush. But perhaps my fantasy was getting the better of me. I studied the abbot's face: his eyes staring straight in front of him, he was following the same reasoning as me, of that I was sure.

'One thing, however, is certain,' said he suddenly.

'And what might that be?'

'In Fouquet's flight and in the secretum pestis, other persons are involved: many others. Lauzun, first and foremost, who was surely sent to Pinerol in order to loosen Fouquet's tongue, perhaps against the promise that he would soon return to Mademoiselle, his wealthy little wife. Then, there is Devize, who accompanied Fouquet here to the Donzello. Perhaps Corbetta, Devize's master, is also part of the picture, for, like his pupil, he was utterly devoted to poor Queen Maria Teresa, as well as being an expert in cryptography. Do not forget that the secretum vitae has been somehow concealed in arcanae obices. Bear in mind also that Devize has been lying from the start: do you remember his lies about the theatres in Venice? Last, but not least, we have Dulcibeni, Fouquet's confidant, in whose undergarments lay hidden the letter which speaks of the secretum pestis. He is but a merchant, yet when he speaks of the pestilence, one would think he was Paracelsus.'

He stopped to draw breath. His mouth was dry.

'Do you think that Dulcibeni knows the secretum pestis?'

'That is possible. Now, however, it is late, and we should be terminating our discussion.'

'All this story strikes me as absurd,' said I, trying to calm him. 'Do you not fear making too many suppositions?'

'I have already told you. If you would understand matters of state, you must take a different view of facts from that which you employ in the ordinary way. What counts is not what you think, but how. No one knows everything, not even the King. And, when you do not know, you must learn to suppose, and to suppose truths which may at first sight appear to be utterly absurd: you will then discover without fail that it is all dramatically true.'

Ashen-faced, he went out, scanning the corridor to the left and the right, as though someone might be lying