Standing around here will get us nowhere. And there's much work to be done.'
Our goal was the charger. Judging by the picture depicting Capitor's three presents, which we had found at the Vessel two days before, this must be a rather bulky object. It was made of gold, exquisitely wrought and magnificent in appearance. It would have been in Benedetti's interest to show it for all to see in some fine room; however, seeing the state of abandonment of the Vessel, it was not unlikely that someone had put it in a safe place to preserve it from being stolen.
'We found the picture on the second floor,' said Atto. 'We shall begin there.'
This was the floor with the four apartments with a bath chamber and a little shared salon. Our search could not have been more thorough. We inspected beds, wardrobes, dressers and little rooms, all to no effect.
In the process of checking every possible nook and cranny, we had to rummage through each of the four little libraries with which the four apartments were equipped. Climbing onto a chair, I began to look behind every row of books, swallowing some of the dust which had gathered there over who knows how many years. This phase in the search brought me no luck either, apart from a single detail.
As I was inspecting the books in the fourth and last library, my eyes settled on the third shelf from the top. This was a long row of volumes which were all the same, with their spines engraved in gold
letters: HERODOTUS THE HISTORIES
On the first volume, under the title, I read:
Book I LYDIA AND PERSIA
Obviously, I knew the name and works of the famous Greek historian. But what struck me was the title: here was Lydia, the land of Croesus.
'I am going down to the first floor, there's nothing here,' called Atto, as he descended the stairs.
'I've still something to do up here, I'll join you in a moment,' I replied.
Indeed, I did have something to do. I climbed down from the chair on which I was perched and settled into an armchair. I opened the book to search for the passages containing the story of Croesus.
As I turned the pages, I offered up my silent thanks to the walls within which I sat. Once again, the Vessel had, through ways obscure and ineffable, perceived a request for explanations, a yearning for knowledge. This time, however, it had not replied with its inscriptions but had placed a book before my eyes.
The search was more successful than that for the dish. The passage which explained everything began at the twenty-seventh chapter.
The immensely wealthy Croesus, King of Lydia, received one day a visit from Solon, the Athenian sage. Croesus said to him: 'Stranger of Athens, we have heard much of thy wisdom and of thy travels through many lands, from love of knowledge and a wish to see the world. I am curious therefore to inquire of thee, whom, of all the men that thou hast seen, thou deemest the most happy?'
Croesus, who was extraordinarily wealthy, venerated and powerful, obviously thought that Solon would say that it was he, great Sovereign of the Lydians, who was the happiest of men. Instead, Solon spoke of someone unknown, a certain Tellos of Athens, who had had a prosperous life, many sons and grandsons, and had died in battle against his city's enemies. The second prize, he accorded to the Argive brothers, Cleobis and Biton, two athletes who took the yoke of their old mother's chariot on their shoulders for a good forty-five furlongs to the temple in which the festival of the goddess Hera was being celebrated. Upon reaching the temple, their mother prayed Hera to grant her sons the best fate a man could have. After banqueting and performing the sacred rites, Cleobis and Biton lay down to sleep in the temple and never again awoke: such was their end. The people, looking on them as among the best of men, caused statues of them to be made.
Croesus then broke in angrily, 'What, stranger of Athens, is my happiness, then, so utterly set at nought by thee, that thou dost not even put me on a level with common men?' Solon answered with these wise words:
I see that thou art wonderfully rich, and art the lord of many nations; but with respect to that whereon thou questionest me, I have no answer to give, until I hear that thou hast closed thy life happily. For assuredly he who possesses great store of riches is no nearer happiness than he who has what suffices for his daily needs, unless it so hap that luck attend upon him, and so he continue in the enjoyment of all his good things to the end of life.
… If he end his life well, he is of a truth the man of whom thou art in search, the man who may rightly be termed happy. Call him, however, until he die, not happy but fortunate…
… He who unites the greatest number of advantages, and retaining them to the day of his death, then dies peaceably, that man alone, sire, is, in my judgment, entitled to bear the name of 'happy'. But in every matter it behoves us to mark well the end: for oftentimes God gives men a gleam of happiness, and then plunges them into ruin.
'Boy, are you coming or not? Our work is only beginning!' Atto's voice called me back sharply to the present; the volume of Herodotus jumped in my hand.
I had read enough, I thought. Now I was beginning to understand.
If my reasoning was correct, the name Lidio must conceal no less than the Sun King in person, just as he was hidden behind the metaphor of Croesus in Albicastro's speech. Besides, had not Atto mentioned to me that Herodotus was among Louis and Maria's favourite authors?
Here was the secret I had sought in vain: the Connestabilessa and the King wrote to one another secretly, and Atto was their go-between!
Of course, they were no longer Maria and Louis, the ivory- skinned maiden and the timid youth of the apparitions at the Vessel; their writings were no longer murmurings of love. Nevertheless, the King of France still held the counsel of Maria Mancini in high esteem, so much so that he was prepared to run the risk of a clandestine correspondence in order to enjoy the benefit of her wit. I well remembered that in a post scriptum Atto had written to her:
You know what value he sets upon your judgement and your satisfaction.
Atto had in truth written in the same letter that he had something to deliver to the Connestabilessa: something which, he asserted, might cause her to change her opinion of Lidio. Whatever could that have been?
After the first moments of enthusiasm, however, doubts surfaced: the reference to Herodotus was obvious, but it was less evident that Lidio was the pseudonym for the Most Christian King. Of course, it was not perhaps an accident that Louis should have loved to read Herodotus together with his beloved. Besides, Albicastro had made an all-too-facile comparison between Croesus and the King of France. All in all, one could not completely rule out the possibility that, in Atto and Maria's correspondence, someone quite different might be hidden behind the disguise of the King of Lydia. What was more, I knew too little about Maria Mancini's life since her departure from Paris to be able to find out who this mysterious personage might be.
In other words, I still needed to confirm the identity of one of the personages. I already knew which one: Silvio.
Maria Mancini had written to Atto, sometimes calling him Silvio, and in those passages in her letters she sent him warnings, recommendations and even reproofs, the meaning of which remained thoroughly obscure to me.
And what, I asked myself, if these too were literary quotations, just like the Lidio referred to in Herodotus? I began to imagine that Silvio too might also be a character from some book, perhaps a messenger of love, even one drawn from mythology.
There, I said to myself, if only I could discover where that name, Silvio, came from, perhaps I might obtain a few more clues as to who Lidio might be or even, I hoped, definitive proof that the King and the Connestabilessa were still engaged in amorous conversations.
I soon grew discouraged; I had only one name: Silvio. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Where was I to begin my search? A hand fell heavily on my shoulder, dragging me from my reflections.
'Will you stop meditating with that book in your hand like Saint Ignatius? Come and help me.'
The Abbot, covered in dust and perspiration, had come to get me back to work.
'So far, I have found nothing. I mean to continue searching the first floor. Come and help me.'
'I am coming, Signor Atto, I am coming,' said I, climbing onto the chair and replacing the little volume of Herodotus.
My meditations would have to wait until later.
So we descended to the first floor, with its gallery of mirrors and its distorted perspective and, on either side, the little chapel, the bath chamber and the two little chambers dedicated, the one to the papacy and the other to France.
