Don Paschatio, who remained immobile in the middle of the avenue, unaware that he was being observed by me as he dusted down his shoes which were bedaubed with mire.
'Heavens, my shoes!' muttered Buvat, rising with a start at the sight of Don Paschatio's gesture. 'I was meant to go and fetch them.'
It was, however, by then too late to fetch his shoes at Palazzo Rospigliosi and so, jumping lightly to my feet, I suggested that we should, taking unfrequented byways, make our way discreetly to the attic of the great house, where we could be sure of finding a servant willing to lend him a pair in better condition than his own.
'A lackey's footwear!' mumbled Buvat with a hint of shame, while we hurriedly piled the remains of our picnic into the basket, 'but they will surely be better than my own.'
With the rolled-up piece of jute under my arm, we turned furtively away from where we could hear voices. We took care to keep to the edge of the park, far from the festive lights, moving along the rim of the dark slope that led down to the vineyard of the villa. Aided and abetted by twilight, we had no difficulty in reaching the service entrance of the house.
Once Buvat was, for a modest consideration, shod with a fine pair of livery shoes in black patent leather with bows, we hurried to our appointment with Abbot Melani. We had no need even to knock at his door: the Abbot, bewigged, powdered and resplendent with ribbons and ruffles, wearing embroidered satin ceremonial dress, his cheeks shining with carmine red and dotted with black beauty spots after the French fashion (and not at all small, but large, ridiculous ones) awaited us on the threshold, nervously ill-treating his walking-cane. I noticed that he was wearing white stockings instead of his usual red abbot's hose.
'Where the deuce have you been hiding, Buvat? I have been waiting for you for over an hour. You would not wish me to come down unaccompanied like a plebeian, would you? All the other guests are already in the garden: explain to me why I came here. Was it to look down from the window at the Marchese Serlupi chattering blissfully away with Cardinal Durazzo, while I rot here in my chamber?'
The Abbot's gaze was drawn suddenly to the shine which the lackey's shoes worn by his secretary gave off in the candle-light.
'Say nothing. I do not wish to know,' he warned, raising his eyes heavenward, when Buvat most unwillingly resigned himself to explaining what had happened.
Thus they set off, without Melani paying the slightest attention to my presence. As Buvat nodded to me in sorrowful commiseration, Atto turned to me without stopping and gestured that I was to follow him.
'Keep your eyes open, my boy. Cardinal Spada is Secretary of State, and if anything important is unfolding, I am sure that you will know how to catch the scent of it. We are certainly not interested in his arguments with his Major-Domo.'
'In truth, I never promised to spy on your behalf.'
'You will have to spy on nothing whatever. In any case, you would not be capable of it. You have only to make good use of your eyes, ears and brain. That's all you need to know the world. Now, get on with it. That is all. Tomorrow at dawn, here in my chambers.'
How eager the Abbot was, I noted, to join in the conversations with the other illustrious guests of the Spada family, and certainly not from any desire for distraction. Yet it was clear that he had, from his window, overheard Cardinal Fabrizio rebuking Don Paschatio and he would thus have noted the singular apprehensiveness of the Secretary of State. Perhaps that was why he had made me that last recommendation: to keep my eyes well trained on the master of the house.
That night, I thought, it would be better to stay at the great house, seeing that I had an appointment with Atto at a very early hour on the morrow, but above all, because my Cloridia was not at home. To sleep in our empty bed was for me the worst of torments. Better then that I should sleep on the improvised couch that awaited me in the servants' hall under the eaves.
I was on my way down to offer my last services to the Major-Domo when I remembered that I had left my gardener's apron and tools behind in Atto's lodgings. The Abbot would not, I thought, mind if I entered briefly to retrieve it. I obtained permission from one of the valets de chambre to take the keys to Melani's apartment. I had worked long enough among the villa's servants for them to trust me blindly.
Having entered and taken my apron, I was about to leave again when my attention was caught by what lay on Atto's bureau: a neat pile of absorbent powder and, nearby, two broken goose plumes. The Abbot must have written much, and in a great state of excitation, during our absence that afternoon. Only a fevered hand could have twice broken a pen. Might this have something to do with the letter which he had received and which had so perturbed him?
I glanced out of the window. Abbot Melani and Buvat were moving down one of the walks in the garden. They were on the point of disappearing from view when I remembered that a short while before I had, without being certain of recognising it, glimpsed a device in Atto's lodgings. I looked around me. Where could he have hidden it? On the dining chair, that was it. I was not mistaken. It was a telescope. Although I had never held one in my hands, I knew what these things looked like and how they functioned, for in Rome the celebrated Vanvitelli used similar devices to paint his famous and wonderful views of the city.
So I took the telescope and brought it to my eye, pointing it at the figures of Atto and his secretary now receding in the distance. I was surprised and delighted by the miraculous power of that machine, capable of rendering distant things near and minute things large. Thus, like wit, to cite Father Tesauro, it is able to render interesting that which is tedious, and gay, that which is sad. Flushing with emotion, with my eyelids still recoiling from the hard metal of the device, I aimed in error at the indigo of the sky and then at the green of the vegetation, at last succeeding in pointing its powerful regard in the right direction.
I saw Atto stop and bow deeply to a pair of cardinals, then to a noblewoman accompanied by two young ladies. Buvat, with a glass of his beloved wine already in one hand, tripped over a piece of wood and came close to falling against the noble lady. Melani went to great lengths to present his excuses to the three ladies, then upbraided Buvat discreetly but bitterly, while the latter, after setting down his glass, brushed the soil clumsily from his black stockings. It was not, however, easy to move along the drives; all around were the usual comings and goings of lackeys, servants and labourers, while the walks still had not been cleared of materials and refuse from the works for the construction of the theatre, the ephemeral architectural effects, the open-air tables, not to mention the gardening and irrigation works.
No sooner had I seen Atto and Buvat meet and talk to another pair of gentlemen than I decided. This was the opportune moment. If the French wolf had found his way into the sheepfold of the little Spanish lambkins, that gave me the chance now to spy out the wolf's lair.
To tell the truth, I was rather ashamed of my idea. The Abbot had taken me into his service, paying me handsomely. I was therefore beset by some hesitation. Yet, said I to myself at length, I may perhaps be more useful if I know better the requirements of my temporary master: including those which, for whatever reason, he had not yet revealed to me.
I therefore began to explore the apartment with some circumspection in search of the letters, or more probably one single letter which the Abbot had penned with such passion during our absence. I was certain that he had not yet had it sent; Buvat who, as the Abbot had already told me also copied his letters, had returned too late to produce a copy for Atto's archives, in accordance with the common practice among gentlemen. This was evident from the fact that I found no traces of sealing wax on the bureau, and the table candle (on which Atto would have had to heat the wax to seal his letter) was still uncut.
I searched fruitlessly. In Atto's trunk and among the things in the two wardrobes with which his apartment was furnished there was, on the face of it, no trace of the missives. Next to a geographical map and the manuscript of a number of cantatas, I came upon a little folder of commentaries on items of news. It was a set of notices and flyers from gazettes, heavily marked and annotated by the Abbot. They dealt for the most part with matters pertaining to the Holy College of Cardinals, and a number of Atto's notes referred to events far back in time. It was, in substance, a collection of gossip on the relations between the various eminences, on their rivalries, the tricks played on each other during conclaves, and so on and so forth. I found no little amusement in perusing them, however rapidly.
Spurred on by the scant time at my disposal, I soon took my search further. I opened a little medicine chest which, however, revealed only creams and ointments, a perfume for wigs and a bottle of the Queen of Hungary's Water; then, a second chest with a little mirror, a brooch, metal-tipped cords, a belt and two watch dials. I found nothing, nothing. My heart leapt suddenly when, lifting a woollen cloth, I discovered a pistol. Seventeen years
