of the vexations which he had been compelled to suffer at the hands of his own envious chief librarian who would let him die of hunger rather than part with a penny? And had he not only moments earlier confessed to me that in Paris they would not let him publish so much as a single line, while in Italy he had found a literary refuge? I did not, however, point this out to him. A weakness common to all peoples, apart from the Italians, is national pride. And I had no interest in wounding that of Jean Buvat; on the contrary.
Our collation was now drawing to a close. I had succeeded in drawing nothing from Jean Buvat about Abbot Melani, indeed, the conversation had been diverted perilously close to my memoir; not that the Abbot did not deserve that I should denounce his theft to his scribe, only that this would surely have unleashed a whole series of questions about Atto from Buvat, nor did it seem in the least judicious to betray the misdeeds of his patron.
I therefore changed the subject, pointing out to Buvat — who, as I spoke, continued tirelessly poking around with his hand in the basket of provisions — that we had just eaten all the food we had brought with us and it remained for us only to pick some good fruit from the boughs of the plum tree whose shade we were enjoying. It was, for obvious reasons, Buvat who took upon himself the task of harvesting the fruit, whilst I looked to polishing the ripe plums with the jute and arranging them in our empty basket. The conversation having died away of its own accord, we swallowed a good basketful in religious silence, interrupted only by the parabolic curves described by the plum stones, laid bare by the labours of our jaws.
Perhaps it was the rhythmical patter of plum stones on the fresh grass under the trees, or perhaps the gentle rustling of the fronds caressed by the zephyrs of early summer, or yet the wild strawberries which — our bodies by now stretched out on the damp maternal bosom of the earth — we picked directly with our lips, or mayhap all these things together; anyway, I know not how it came to pass, but we fell asleep. And, almost in unison, hearing Buvat's snores and telling myself that I must shake him, for he had to go into town to recover his shoes, otherwise he would not return in time before evening, I heard another loud noise grow yet louder, drowning his snoring, and this noise was far nearer and more familiar: I too had dozed off and was blissfully snoring.
Evening the First
7th J ULY, 1700
The sun was setting when sounds awoke us. The park of the Villa Spada was now becoming animated by the strolling and conversations of the guests who wandered about admiring the scenic constructions which would, two days hence, provide a worthy setting for the Rocci-Spada wedding, and the echo of voices reached even into our little thicket.
'Eminence, permit me to kiss your hands.'
'My dearest Monsignor, what a pleasure to encounter you!' came the reply.
'And what pleasure is mine, Eminence!' said a third voice.
'You too, here?' resumed the second speaker. 'My dearest, most esteemed Marchese, I am almost speechless for joy. But wait, you have not given me time to salute the Marchesa!'
'Eminence, I too would kiss your hands,' echoed a feminine voice.
As I would later be able to tell without a moment's hesitation (having seen them time and time again during those festive days), those who were thus exchanging compliments were the Cardinal Durazzo, Bishop of Faenza, whence he had just arrived, Monsignor Grimaldi, President of the Victualling Board, and the Marchese and Marchesa Serlupi.
'How went your journey, Eminence?'
'Eh, eh, 'twas somewhat fatiguing, what with the heat. I leave you to imagine. But as God willed it, we did arrive. I came only out of the love I bear the Secretary of State, let that be clear. I am no longer of an age for such entertainments. Too hot for an old man like me.'
'Indeed yes, it is so hot,' assented the Monsignor condescendingly
'One seems almost to be in Spain, where they tell me 'tis so very torrid that it feels almost like fire,' said the Marchese Serlupi.
'Oh no, in Spain one is very well indeed, I retain the most excellent memory of that land. A splendid memory, of that I can assure you. Oh! Excuse me, I have just seen an old friend. Marchesa, my compliments!'
I saw Cardinal Durazzo, followed by a servant, break off somewhat brusquely the conversation which he had only just begun and move immediately away from the trio to approach another eminence whom I was later to recognise as Cardinal Barberini.
'Now really, that allusion…' I heard Marchesa Serlupi upbraiding her husband.
'What allusion? I didn't mean to say anything…'
'You see, Marchese,' said Monsignor Grimaldi, 'if Your Benevolence will permit me to explain, Cardinal Durazzo, before receiving his cardinal's hat, was Nuncio to Spain.'
'And so?'
'Well, it seems — but this is of course only gossip — that His Eminence was not at all appreciated by the King of Spain and, what is more, and this however is certain truth, the kinsfolk whom he brought in his train were assaulted by persons unknown, and one of them died of his wounds. So, you can imagine, with the times in which we are living…'
'What do you mean?'
Monsignor Grimaldi glanced indulgently at the Marchesa.
'It means, dearest husband of mine,' she broke in impatiently, 'that since His Eminence is among the papabili, the likely candidates at the forthcoming conclave, he takes umbrage at even the slightest reference to the Spaniards, for that could put an end to his election. We spoke of these things at our home only two days ago, if I am not mistaken.'
'I really cannot be expected to remember everything,' grumbled the Marchese Serlupi, feeling bewildered as he realised the faux pas he had just made before a possible future pontiff, while his wife took her leave of Monsignor Grimaldi with a smile of benevolent forbearance and the latter greeted another guest.
That was the first occasion on which I became fully aware of the true character of the festivities which were about to begin. Abbot Melani was right. Though all in the villa seemed designed for revelry and to divert the mind away from serious matters, yet the hearts and minds of the participants were focused on the affairs of the day: above all, on the imminent conclave. Every discourse, every phrase, every single syllable was capable of causing the eminences and princes present to jump in their seats as though prodded with a spike. They had come pretending to seek distractions, while in reality they were present at the villa of the Secretary of State only in order to seek their own advancement, or that of the powers which they served.
At that very moment, I realised that the personage whom Monsignor Grimaldi had gone to greet was none other than Car dinal Spada himself, who, after duly saluting Grimaldi, continued on a tour of inspection accompanied by his Major-Domo, Don Paschatio Melchiorri. Despite his purple cardinal's cape, I had almost failed to recognise Fabrizio Spada, so furious was his countenance; he seemed nervous and distracted.
'And the theatre? Why is the theatre not yet ready?' fumed the Secretary of State, panting at the heat as he walked from the little grove towards the great house.
'We have almost attained the optimum, Your Eminence, that is to say, we have made great progress and we have practically resolved, almost resolved the problem of the…'
'Signor Major-Domo, I do not want progress, I want results. Do you or do you not realise that the guests are already arriving?'
'Your Eminence, yes, of course, nevertheless…'
'I cannot see to everything, Don Paschatio! I have other matters on my mind!' snapped the Cardinal, at once exasperated and disconsolate.
The Major-Domo nodded and bowed agitatedly without suc ceeding in getting in a single word.
'And the cushions? Have the cushions been sewn?'
'Almost, almost completely, Your Eminence, only a very few…'
'I see, they are not ready. Am I to seat the aged members of the Holy College on the bare ground?'
With these words, Cardinal Spada, followed by a throng of servants and retainers, turned his heel on poor
