Under the pretext of his nephew's marriage, Cardinal Spada invites both Atto and Maria to Rome. Atto brings with him the ideal person to forge the signature: a quite unusually refined forger.
After all, what had Abbot Melani said when he introduced Buvat to me? 'He is at his best with a pen in his hand; but not like you: you create; he copies. And he does that like no other.' At that moment, I had thought that he was referring to his secretary's work copying letters; but no. It was then, in a flash of memory, that I recalled what Atto had told me many years earlier, when first he mentioned his secretary's name. 'Every time I leave Paris secretly, he looks after my correspondence. He is a copyist of extraordinary talent, and knows perfectly how to imitate my handwriting.'
So that was what I had seen among Atto's secretary's well hidden papers: those strange proofs of e, l, R, o and which I had at first taken for badly performed calligraphic exercises, were in fact part of Buvat's preparations for forging a signature. He was practising to imitate that of Charles II, repeating over and over again the letters contained in the autograph yo el Rey. These exercises he had kept in order to compare them with authentic signatures of the Catholic King and to be able in the end to select the best copy.
I need only have put those letters together in the right order and I would have found out the truth. So that was why Atto kept so carefully concealed in his wig those three incomplete letters bearing the signature of the King of Spain: they were the models on which Buvat was to practise. They were, however, far too confidential to be left in his secretary's hands, and so Melani kept them on his person.
I resumed my reconstruction. Maria, then, had the task of bringing those forged signatures back to Spain, where they would be put to use in due course: when Charles II was dying and his will must be drawn up. A false will would be prepared, the last page of which would be that containing the signature prepared by Buvat. The blank space above would be used to set down the last part of the will. Obviously, a French heir would be appointed. That explained why Atto had never spoken to me of the Spanish succession, instead of which, he kept going on about the conclave! Poor fool that I am, I had not understood the real objective he was so doggedly pursuing.
Had the wait for Maria, then, been nothing but a charade? What a treacherous mise-en-scene, with all those sugary letters in which he spun out his yearning to see her again!
It had all been planned to perfection, so designed as to withstand any attempts at espionage. The Connestabilessa was to arrive at the wedding celebrations as late as possible, just in time to collect the paper with the signature from Atto and Buvat! It was important that she should not in fact attend the festivities: the presence of Maria Mancini, Mazarin's notorious niece who resided in Madrid, would at once have given rise to suspicions of an anti-Spanish plot.
How convenient it had been to make use of me to deliver the paper with the signature to the Connestabilessa! Atto need not even dirty his hands with the chore. He knew perfectly well from the outset that he would never meet her: he had deceived me up to the very last moment, making me think that he was too perturbed to see her after their thirty-year long separation.
The theft of Atto's treatise had been a mere complication which had frightened and impeded him but had only partly distracted him from his prime objective. Once the mystery had been resolved and the stolen good had (once more, thanks to my good offices!) been snatched back from the cerretani, Atto had been able calmly to conclude his shady business of espionage.
Having rapidly made my way back, driven by the force of my anger, I entered Villa Spada, already knowing what awaited me.
When I went to knock at the door, I found it already open. A few articles of clothing remained on the bed, and on the day-bed, a dry inkwell and a few scribbled notes. The scene matched perfectly my poor dismayed and bewildered spirits.
Atto and Buvat had gone.
Doing my best to dissimulate my rage and disappointment, I made a brief investigation, questioning the servants of the villa. I learned that the pair had departed post haste and that their destination was Paris. They had stocked up with provisions, and Atto had left a long letter of thanks for Cardinal Spada, to be delivered by Don Paschatio.
Now I understood why, that morning, he had donned his abbot's mauve-grey soutane and periwig which I knew so well: it was his travelling costume!
They had been gone for quite a while by now. They must have packed their bags in extraordinary haste, like refugees fleeing the onset of war. This was no departure; they had fled.
What from? I was quite sure it had nothing to do with fear of any further threats from the cerretani. It was not like Atto to fear what he had already experienced, once he was familiar with its nature. Nor was he fleeing any supposed political threats, as he had put it about earlier. No, it was something else: he was fleeing from me.
Not that he had any material fear of me — of course not.
Nevertheless, at the last moment, having accomplished what he had set out to do and fearing that I might have guessed at the truth, he had not felt up to confronting me and answering for his lies and subterfuges.
He had turned up after an absence of seventeen years, asking me to act as the chronicler of his deeds with a view to the forthcoming conclave. Yet, he had not provided me with any further instructions, nor had he subsequently shown any interest in the matter.
The chronicle of those days at Villa Spada had been a mere pretext: the only thing that had mattered to him was that I should look, listen to and report everything that might be of use to him. Whether or not I wrote it down was quite indifferent to him. What had he said to me at the outset? 'You will pen for me a chronicle in which you will give a judicious account of all that you see and hear during the coming few days, and you will add thereto whatever I may suggest to you as being desirable and opportune. You will then deliver the manuscript to me.' He had persuaded me that I would be acting as a gazetteer. Instead, he had got me to spy. So much so, that he had left like a fly-by-night without even taking delivery of my work.
Nor did he give a fig for the conclave, of which he had initially spoken at such great length. We had seen, discussed and done all manner of things: from the alarums and excursions with Caesar Augustus to the insane climb up into the ball of Saint Peter's, from the ineffable experiences at the Vessel to the final nightmare when we narrowly missed being slaughtered by the cerretani. But we had hardly touched again on the subject of the conclave.
'What a stupid, ingenuous imbecile I have been!' I berated myself, torn between laughter and tears. He had kept me at his service, manipulating me without the slightest regard for my safety, just as he had done seventeen years before. He had pointed out one road to me, urging me on, while he himself tiptoed off in a very different direction.
This time, however, it was far more serious. Now he had played with the future of my little daughters. When I was on the point of withdrawing from his dangerous games, he had envei- gled me with the promise of a dowry for them, and I had fallen for the bait, even risking my life for him. That very afternoon, we had been supposed to go to the notary for the endowment. One moment, however: I did have the document with his written promise.
Stung by a thousand scorpions, I rushed home, grabbed the paper and spurred my mule towards town.
I went from lawyer to lawyer, from notary to notary, in search of someone who might at least give me a glimmer of hope. To no avail. I met invariably with the same question: 'Do you by any chance know whether this abbot owns property in the Papal States?' And when I shook my head the sentence was always the same: 'Even if you sued and won your case, we would have no means of claiming what is owed you.' So, what was to be done? 'You should find out whether you can also sue in France. That would be a lengthy and expensive process and, what is more, my good sir, the outcome would be utterly uncertain.'
In other words, I had no hope. Now that Atto was on his way to Paris, his promise was not worth the paper it was written on.
Returning to Villa Spada, I was tempted to hit myself with my own whip. I should have insisted on going straight to the notary, or at the very least, I should not have waited so long. The truth is that I had allowed myself to be swept along by events and I had let the Abbot use me like a slave, without any consideration for my family. What would have happened if I had died or become an invalid? Cloridia could not keep our household going on her own. What would have fed and clothed our daughters? Not their work as apprentice midwives. Farewell to those evenings when I had taught them to read and write and they had stared wide-eyed at the fine books bequeathed to me by my late lamented father-in- law. The children would have had to roll up their sleeves at once and slave away as scullery maids, probably in some foul tavern, unless Don Paschatio were magnanimously to find them some place
