'And even less time is needed for these little ones,' said Romauli, utterly unruffled, jumping lightly up and tiptoeing as he invited Melani to lean over and look into a damp, shady corner behind the bench, between the trunk of a palm and a little wall.
'But these flowers are… black!' exclaimed Atto.
He was right: the petals of a group of carnations, hidden in this little cranny (where I had often noticed the Master Florist busying himself of late) were as black as anything I had ever seen.
'I made them grow there so that they should not be overmuch in evidence, said Romauli.
'How did you do it?' I asked. 'In nature, there are no black flowers.'
'Oh, that is a bagatelle for one versed in the secrets of the art. You take the scaly fruit of the alder, which must first be dry on the tree, reduce it to a very fine powder, and incorporate it in a little sheep's manure, tempered with wine vinegar. You must add salt to correct the astringency of the vinegar and the whole thing will grow soft. Thereupon, you incorporate the roots of the young carnation, and there you have it.'
Atto and I, although bored by the Master Florist's explanations, were both astounded by the amiable and ingenious perversion whereby he obtained floral miracles. Not even to me, his faithful helper, had he revealed the existence of the black carnations. Who knows, I wondered to myself, how many such prodigies he had sown in the flower beds of the Villa Spada. He did in fact confide to us that he had just planted an entire bed with lilies the petals of which were painted with the names of the spouses (SPADA and ROCCI) in letters golden and silver; another, with roses medicated with the rarest of oriental essences, and a third with tulips from bulbs soaked in colours (cerulean, saffron, carmine and suchlike), thus tinted with striations of myriad hues, almost as though a rainbow had come down to earth; yet another, with monstrous plants, born of heterogeneous seeds planted in the same ball of manure, as well as parsley with its leaves infolded in the form of cylinders, obtained by pounding the seeds in a mortar and squashing their meatus, and a thousand other wonders of his art.
'I cannot wait for the moment,' he concluded, 'when Cardinal Spada brings the guests to take a look at my little productions.'
'Ah, good. But I still do not see why you no longer wish to speak of the Tetrachion, and I am beginning to wonder whether I may not be wasting your time,' said Atto, his tone betraying his real meaning, namely that he was wasting his own time; having said which, he rose from the bench with a decided air.
I too looked around me in confusion. Was the Master Florist having second thoughts?
'Yet, we are getting there,' he replied. 'The gardens of the Escorial are withering miserably, as I had occasion to mention last time we spoke.'
' The gardens of the Escorial, did you say?' Atto asked with a slight start.
'Many, who are wrongly informed, maintain that those Spanish gardens, which were once so splendid, have no future, because of the climate, which has become icier in winter and more arid in summer. I have read much about those unfortunate gardens, you know. They need only a Master Florist and they would be saved. I have never been in Spain, nor indeed have I ever set foot outside Rome. 1 do, however, love to make comparisons with the gardens ofVersailles, which I know to be quite hardy, despite the damp, unhealthy air of the region, and with the many-coloured flower beds of Schonbrunn, which, I have read, were only recently reclaimed from the harsh conditions of the Vienna woods.'
Abbot Melani turned and looked at me with hatred in his eyes, while the Master Florist carried on with one of his gardening tasks.
'And I,' I tried in a whisper to justify myself, 'when I told him that you were worried because death was hovering over the Escorial, thought he might not have understood…'
'So that is what you said to him. What a refined metaphor, eh?' hissed Atto.
'I have the solution for saving those gardens,' continued Romauli, without realising a thing, 'and it is indeed fortunate that you should be here, given your deep interest in the matter, as I have learned from your protege.'
'Yes, but what about the Tetrachion?' I stammered, still hoping to learn something useful from the Master Florist.
'Precisely. But let us take this step by step. It is a delicate matter,' announced Tranquillo Romauli. 'Think of anemones. If one wants them to be double, one must select the seeds from flowers which are not early- or late- blooming; they must have suffered neither from heat nor from cold, and thus will produce completely perfect seeds.'
'Double flowers, did you say?' I asked, beginning to imagine, and to fear, what he was getting at.
'But of course, from a single carnation will come a double one, if a seedling of the former is planted in excellent soil within the thirty days beginning on the 15th of August, Feast of the Assumption of the Virgin Mother of God, in a warm place that is well protected from the extremes of the summer. From a double carnation will come a quadruple one if one takes two or three seeds of the double species and, having enclosed them in wax, or in a feather that is wider at the base than at the tip, placed them in the ground. That is what I have done, you see.'
Lovingly, he pointed to a few flowers with rather bizarre characteristics: they were carnations of the purest white, with four flowers on the same stem, which bent almost in an arc under their sweet-smelling load.
'Here is my secret recipe for saving the Escorial. These flowers can resist every variation in temperature and climate; I invented them. These are my tetrachion carnations.'
'Do you mean…' stammered Atto, blanching and stepping back a little, 'that your Tetrachion is… this plant?'
'Yes, indeed it is, Signor Abbot Melani,' said Romauli, rather surprised by Atto's evident disappointment. 'They are so noble, these quadruple inflorescences, that I wished to give them an unusual name: tetrachion, from the ancient Greek ' tetra' meaning 'four'. But perhaps you do not share my opinion and my hopes for the Escorial. If that is so, I beg you to tell me at once, lest I bore you any longer; perhaps you might have preferred to visit my elaboratory of flower essences. I myself can take you there. You will come and visit me one of these days, will you not?'
The conversation with Tranquillo Romauli had cast us into the deepest gloom.
'A bane on you and your wife!' Abbot Melani began, the moment that we left him. 'She promised us heaven knows what information through her supposed network of women, and here we are with a fistful of dead flies.'
I lowered my head and said nothing; Atto was right. In fact, I was beginning to suspect that, after having risked my life to serve Abbot Melani, Cloridia might secretly have changed her mind about the assistance she had at first promised me and decided to provide me with little or no further news, in case such information might spur me to undertake perilous courses of action. Obviously, I said nothing to the Abbot about my suspicions.
'Clearly, the Master Florist has nothing to do with the women's password,' I retorted; 'yet he did give us one useful piece of information: Tetrachion means quadruple.'
'But tell me, what the Devil has that to do with Capitor's dish?' cried Melani, hammering each syllable and laughing hysterically.
'Nothing whatever, Signor Atto, as far as I can see. But, as I said, at least we know now what the word means.'
'I certainly did not need your Master Florist to know that 'tetra ' means 'four' in Greek,' the Abbot rejoined angrily.
'Yet you did not know that Tetrachion means simply 'quadruple'.. ' I hazarded.
'I had simply forgotten, at my age. Unlike Buvat, I am not a librarian,' Atto corrected me.
'Perhaps there was something quadruple in Capitor's dish.'
'As I told you, it represented Neptune and Amphitrite driving a chariot through the waves.'
'Are you quite sure that there was nothing else?'
'That is all I saw, unless you regard me as completely senile,' protested Atto. 'However, we shall know for sure the moment that we find Capitor's three gifts. And you know well where we must look.'
So, at a tired, funereal pace, we moved yet again towards Elpidio Benedetti's arcane Vessel. I then recalled that I had something urgent to ask Abbot Melani: whoever was that Countess of Soissons, who had sown trouble between Maria and the King? Was she in fact the Countess of S., the mysterious poisoner to whom the Connestabilessa had so reticently referred?
I was suddenly overcome by a bout of acute resentment for the Abbot: he still had made no mention to me of the Spanish succession, yet the Connestabilessa's letters spoke of nothing else. Atto spoke to me of another Spain,
