The King is paralysed by fear and ready to do anything he is told. But no one can or will offer him counsel. The factions into which the Court is divided are so many hornets' nests in which everyone, even good friends, can expect nothing but ruin from the others. France and Austria blow secretly on the fire of wrath, ambition and envy.
I broke off my reading: footsteps seemed to be approaching in the corridor. In a flash, I put everything back in its place and rushed to the door, ready to make my escape. Alas, I was too late: Atto Melani was returning. Fortunately, he was alone.
I took refuge in Buvat's little room, praying God that the secretary would not return too soon, and from there I watched through the half-closed door. The first thing that the Abbot did was to remove his heavy grey wig, which — seeing how little cool there was even at that late hour — he snatched off with a grunt of satisfaction. He placed it on the appropriate stand which he put on his bedside table. Then, moaning with fatigue, he rapidly undressed. The hectic day which had just come to an end had sapped the Abbot's strength: he had retired to his apartment without waiting until the end of dinner, and now he had not even called a valet de chambre to remove his shoes.
Hidden in the little room, I had perforce to witness Atto's undressing. When he had stripped, I was surprised to observe a body which was, it is true, extremely mature, yet in excellent condition. His skin sagged and in several places fell into folds; his shoulders, however, were straight, and his legs, which were tense and agile, seemed to belong to one twenty years younger. Nowhere on his lower limbs were there those bluish marks which old age inevitably brings. Well, I thought, were it not so, Abbot Melani could not have borne the strain of those intense days of action.
'The Abbot is afraid of dying forgotten. But if he goes on like this, he will live a great deal longer and will do much. Surely, he will have all the time he needs to go down in history,' I concluded, laughing inwardly.
Atto extinguished the lamp and, bathed only in moonlight, went to bed without even scraping off the ceruse, the beauty spots and the carmine red on his cheeks. Very soon, he began to snore loudly.
I was about to go on my way when 1 remembered that I still had not managed to find the most important thing: Atto and Maria's two last letters. The Abbot must have kept them on his person. What better time to find them?
I searched his clothes from top to bottom, even the heels of his shoes, but found nothing. Melani's teachings, together with the many and singular experiences which I had lived through at his side, had, however, sharpened my senses and my wits. Thus it was that, looking attentively all around me, I noticed a curious detail. Atto had placed his foppish periwig, not on the dressing table, as he should normally have done, but on his bedside table; as though he meant to keep watch over it even in his sleep…
Straining to avoid making the slightest noise, an effort which caused me to break into a copious sweat, I succeeded in my undertaking: the letters were in an unlikely secret pocket inside the wig, in the starched web to which were attached the curled locks of artificial hair. The elaborate choice of hiding place left no room for doubt: the Abbot feared greatly that someone might get at these letters. Of course, said I to myself, how could one blame him after all the misadventures with the cerretani? So much care might, however, mean that the content of those letters was far more delicate than the previous messages, and perhaps even too hot to handle.
To my surprise, there were not two but five letters. At a snail's pace, cursing the creaking wooden floor, I at last moved away from the bed in which Abbot Melani was sleeping.
Three of the letters seemed rather old. Curious, I opened one of them. It was the ending of a letter written in Spanish, penned by a rather uncertain hand. Imagine my astonishment when I read the signature: yo el Rey*
It was a letter from the King of Spain, poor Charles II. It was dated 1685, some fifteen years before. Despite the extreme similarity between the Spanish language and Italian, the Sovereign's contorted and tortured handwriting did not allow me to understand anything of what he had written. I opened the two other papers, in search of the beginning of the letter, in order to be able to understand to whom it was addressed. Instead, to my astonishment, I saw that each consisted of the ending of a letter written many years ago. Both were signed by the King of Spain, and here too I was unable to understand the contents.
What was the meaning of those truncated pages? And why ever were they in Abbot Melani's hands? They must be very important if he kept them hidden in his periwig.
Alas, I had very little time in which to reflect. There was something far more urgent to be done: to skim through Atto and Maria's two epistles and put them back in their place before Buvat's return.
Hardly had my eyes settled on the first page than I gave a start.
My dearest Friend,
I have learned the most surprising news which I am sure will surprise and interest you as much as it has me. His Holiness Pope Innocent XII has set up a special congregation for consultation on the Spanish question. It *'I the King'. (Translator's note.) seems that the Pontiff, after a long period of hesitation, has at last given in to the pressing requests of the Spanish Ambassador Uzeda to give his opinion on El Rey's request, and has charged the Secretary of State, our benign Fabrizio Spada, together with the Secretary for Breves, Cardinal Albani, and the Chamberlain, Cardinal Spinola di San Cesareo, to study the situation with a view to preparing the Papal reply.
My heart was beating hard. Spada, Albani and Spinola: the same three eminences who had for days and days been meeting secretly at the Vessel and whose trail I and Atto had been trying in vain to follow. So the Spanish succession was the real reason they were meeting, not the conclave!
I raised my eyes from the letter, frowning. Why had not Atto run to tell me as soon as he had learned the news from Maria?
Feverishly, I skimmed through the letter. I stopped a little further on:
Thus, His Holiness has yielded to spirits more tenacious than his own. Will he have the necessary clarity of mind to act effectively on the King's behalf? Here, my friend, I begin once more to have my doubts. What does the Holy Father mean when, as you wrote, he is heard to moan: 'We are denied the dignity which is due to the Vicar of Christ and there is no care for us'?
I switched rapidly to Atto's reply, which gave me even more food for thought:
Most Clement Madame,
I have known for some time of the congregation of the three cardinals responsible for drawing up an opinion on the Spanish Question. The matter is common knowledge here in Rome, at least in well-informed circles. If you were among us here at the festivities, you would already have learned of it…
I doubted those words. Did Atto perhaps want to make Maria believe that he had prior knowledge of everything, so as not to lose face? Melani's letter continued:
In reality, His Holiness had originally chosen Cardinal Panciati instead of Spinola, which would have been better for France, since Spinola is openly in favour of the Empire; but then the former was obliged to decline on grounds of poor health, so much so that he has not even been able to attend the delightful wedding at Villa Spada.
You were however informed most promptly, since the assignment will only be made officially tomorrow, on the 14th July.
No, Atto was pretending nothing to the Connestabilessa. He was telling the truth: to me, however, he had lied. From all these details, which he was setting forth with such confidence, it was clear that Atto had for some time been fully informed of the three cardinals' diplomatic manoeuvres following Charles of Spain's request for the Pope's assistance. But all this he had deliberately kept from me, and that, for a long time.
Then suddenly I remembered: what was it that I had heard those three spectators saying the evening before, just before the play began? The Spanish Ambassador, Count Uzeda, with the help of others, had at long last succeeded in convincing Pope Innocent XII. To do what, however, that they had not said. Nor had they mentioned the names of those who were supposed to have helped Uzeda by influencing His Holiness: they had only referred to 'four sly foxes'.
Now the Connestabilessa's letter made everything clear: plainly, Innocent XII did not wish to involve himself in the question of the Spanish succession, but he had in the end given in to pressure from the Spanish Ambassador. And who were the other 'sly foxes' like him if not Albani, Spada and Spinola? That was why one of the trio, whom I had overheard the evening before, had silenced the others with the words ' lupus in fabula' as soon as he had realised that Cardinal Spada was approaching.
In other words, the three eminences had used every means at their disposal to put pressure on the dying Pontiff to assign them the task of dealing with the question of the Spanish succession. But worst of all was the fact
