him. One can never be too prudent.'
We sat beside the bed. Speaking under his breath, Melani again asked after Bedfordi. He seemed very worried. The horrendous prospect of the pest-house was becoming ever more tangible. We reviewed, and rejected, the possibility of escaping through the underground galleries. Sooner or later, we would be recaptured.
Disconsolate, I tried to think about something else. So it was that I remembered that Bedfordi's chamber had still to be cleaned of the sick man's filth. I signalled to Atto that he could find me in the Englishman's chamber, next door, and went there to fulfil my unpleasant task. When I returned, I found Atto blissfully dozing in his chair. He slept with folded arms and his legs stretched out onto the chair which I had left vacant. I leaned over Cristofano. He was sleeping heavily and his face seemed already to have recovered a little colour.
Somewhat reassured, I had just squatted on a corner of the bed when I heard a sound of muttering. It was Atto. Uncomfortably installed on two chairs, his sleep was agitated. His hanging head oscillated rhythmically. With his fists folded against his chest he tugged at the lace of his cuffs, while his insistent moaning reminded one of an angry little boy facing a parent's reproof.
I listened intently: with his breathing troubled and uncertain, almost as though he were on the point of sobbing, Atto was speaking in French.
'Les barricades, les barricades..? he moaned softly in his sleep.
I recalled that Atto, when he was barely twenty, had fled Paris during the tumults of the Fronde with the royal family and his master, Le Seigneur Luigi Rossi. Now he babbled of barricades: perhaps in his sleep he was reliving the rebellion of those days.
I wondered whether I should not awaken him and free him from those ugly memories. Carefully, I got out of bed and brought my face close to his. I studied it. This was the first time that I was able to scrutinise Atto from so near, without coming under his vigilant and censorious eye. I was moved by the abbot's countenance, puffed up and stained by sleep: the cheeks, smooth and just beginning to sag, were redolent of the eunuch's solitude and melancholy. An ancient sea of suffering in the midst of which the proud and wayward dimple strove still, like one shipwrecked, to keep afloat, demanding the reverence and respect due to a diplomatic representative of His Most Christian Majesty. I felt my heart tighten, but was suddenly torn from my reverie.
‘Barricades… mysterieuses, mysterieuses. Barricades. Mysterieuses. Les barricades.. Abbot Melani suddenly murmured in his sleep.
He was raving. Inexplicably, however, those words troubled me. Whatever could those barricades be in the mind of Abbot Melani? Barricades mysterieuses. Mysterious. What did those two words remind me of? It was as though the concept was not new to me…
Just then, Atto gave signs of waking. He no longer seemed in the least weighed down by suffering, as he had only moments before. On the contrary, upon seeing me, his face broadened at once into a smile and he chanted:
Chi giace nel sonno non speri mai Fama.
Chi dorme codardo e degno che mora…
'Thus Le Seigneur Luigi, my master, would have upbraided me,' he jested, stretching and scratching himself here and there. 'Have I missed anything? How is our physician?' he then asked, seeing me so pensive.
'There is nothing new, Signor Atto.'
He who lies sleeping
lays no claim to Fame
He who cravenly sleeps
is worthy of death.
'I feel that I owe you an apology, my boy,' said he, a moment later.
'What for, Signor Atto?'
'Well, perhaps I should not have teased you as I did, when we were in my chamber this afternoon; concerning Cloridia, I mean.'
I replied that no apologies were necessary; in reality, I was as surprised as I was pleased by Abbot Melani's admission. With a more amiable disposition, I then recounted all that Cloridia had explained to me, dwelling especially upon the magical and surprising science of numbers, in which the destiny of each one of us is concealed. I then proceeded to tell him of the investigative powers of the ardent rod.
'I understand. The ardent rod is (how should I put it?) an unusual and fascinating subject,' commented Atto, 'in which Cloridia is surely well versed.'
'Oh, you see, she was washing her hair and called for me to help comb it out,' said I, ignoring Atto's subtle irony.
O biondi tesori inanellati, chiome divine, cori, labirinti dorati…
He exclaimed to me, singing sotto voce. I blushed, at first in anger and shame, but then was at once overcome by the beauty of that aria, now utterly devoid of any accent of scorn.
… tra i vostri splendori
M’e dolce smarrire la vitae morire…
I let the melody transport me to thoughts of love: I lulled myself in the image of Cloridia's blonde and curly tresses, and I remembered her sweet voice. In my heart, I began to wonder whatever had brought Cloridia to the Donzello. It had been the ardent rod, that much she had told me. She had then added that the rod is moved by 'antipathy' and by 'sympathy'. Which, then, had it been for her? Had she come to the inn following the trail of someone who had done her a grave wrong and upon whom she may perhaps have wished to take revenge? Or (oh, delicious thought!) had Cloridia come, guided * O blonde treasures / Rings curled upon rings, / Divine tresses, choirs, / Golden labyrinths!.. Amidst your splendours / It is sweet to me to lose / My life, and die… by that magnetism which leads us to find love and to which, it seems, the rod is rather sensitive? I began to daydream that perhaps it was so…
Su tutto allacciate, legate, legate gioir e tormento!..*
Atto's song, in tribute to the golden tresses of my courtesan of the honey-coloured skin, was in counterpoint to my thoughts.
Moreover, I continued in my musings upon love, those moments of… relaxation: had not Cloridia graciously bestowed them upon me, without ever a mention of money, (unlike that painful previous episode when I had consulted her concerning dreams)?
While I was thus engrossed, and Atto was so caught up in the vortex of song as no longer to hold back the flood of his voice, Cristofano opened his eyes.
He looked at the abbot with narrowed eyes, without however interrupting him. After a moment of silence, he even thanked him for having helped him. I heaved a sigh of relief. From his expression and his colouring, the doctor seemed to have recovered. His diction, again fluent and normal, soon reassured me as to the state of his health. This had been a mere passing crisis.
'Your voice is still splendid, Signor Abbot Melani,' commented the physician, as he rose and adjusted his clothing. 'Although it was somewhat imprudent on your part to allow the other guests on this floor to hear you. Let us hope that Dulcibeni and Devize do not wonder what you were doing singing in my chamber.'
After once again thanking Abbot Melani for his attentive assistance, Cristofano moved in my company towards the room next door, in order to visit poor Bedfordi, whilst Atto returned to his own chamber on the second floor.
Bedfordi lay immobile as ever. The doctor shook his head: 'I fear that it is time to inform the other guests of this unfortunate young man's plight. If he should die, we must avoid panic breaking out in the hostelry.'
We agreed that we should first warn Padre Robleda, so that he could administer Extreme Unction. I avoided mentioning to Cristofano that once, when requested by me, Robleda had refused to administer the
All put up and tied,
Tied, tying together
Joy and torment!.. holy oil to the young Englishman, treating him as a Protestant, who was thus excommunicated.
