and the inevitable, tremendous responsibilities of government. He seemed to be as slack and apathetic as his father, that Louis XIII whom he had scarcely known. Even the three years of exile during the Fronde, at the tender age of ten, when he had already lost his father, did not seem to have caused him more than a momentary, infantile homesickness.
'Excuse me,' I interrupted him, 'but how is it possible that from so meek and unwarlike a being there should have emerged the Most Christian King?'
'That is a mystery and no one can explain it except by the facts which I am about to recount to you. It has always been said that he changed because of the Fronde and that it was the revolt of the people and the nobles that dictated the reaction of the years that followed. Stuff and nonsense! Ten years passed between the Fronde and the sharp change in the King's soul. So that was not what caused it. His Majesty remained a timid, dreamy youth until 1660, almost until he married. Within the space of a single year he had already become the inflexible Sover eign of whom you too have heard so much. And do you know what took place in that year?'
'The forced separation from Mistress Mancini?' I asked rhetorically, while Atto nodded in confirmation.
'What hatred was turned against those two poor young people: the hatred of the Queen Mother, that of Mazarin…'
'But how was that possible? The Cardinal her uncle should have been well pleased.'
'Ah, there's much that could be said on that subject… For the time being, it will suffice that you should know this: despite the fact that the Cardinal showed great skill in convincing everyone at court that he was placing every obstacle in the way of that love, out of his supposed sense of family honour, duty to the monarchy and so on and so forth, I never swallowed any of that. I knew Mazarin perfectly well, his forebears were Sicilian and from the Abruzzi; for him, the only thing that counted was personal profit and the rank of his family. That is all.'
Atto made a gesture as though to say that he knew all about it. Then he continued his narration.
'As I was telling you, they all bitterly detested that love, but as they dared not blame the King, they nurtured a singular hatred for poor Maria, who was, moreover, already disliked both at court and within her own family.'
'Why ever was that?'
'She was hated at court because she was Italian: they had had more than enough, what with all the Italians whom Mazarin had brought over to Paris,' said Atto, who had himself been one of those Italians. 'And in her family, she had been abhorred since her first cry; when she was born, her father compiled her horoscope and saw with horror that she was destined to be the cause of rebellions and calamities, even a war. Being obsessed with astrology — a passion which was to become one of Maria's — even on his deathbed, he recommended her mother to be on her guard against her.'
Maria's mother needed no persuading: she tormented her throughout her childhood. She never failed to remind her of her defects, even physical ones ('Invisible details,' Atto insisted.) She did not even want her to accompany her to Paris with her other children, and yielded only to Maria's repeated and heartfelt pleas. The maiden was then aged fourteen. Once at court, her mother isolated her as much as possible, confining her to her chamber, while her younger sisters were allowed to approach the Queen. On her deathbed, she emulated her husband: after recommending her other children to her brother the Cardinal, she begged him to place Maria, her third child, in a convent, reminding him of her father's astrological prediction.
Her mother's animosity wounded her to the quick, Abbot Melani gravely commented, and, together with that unmistakably masculine air which Maria was wont at times adopt with her intimates — her laughter sometimes a trifle too ribald, her gait perhaps too heavy and martial, those scathing jibes of hers that always found their mark but which would perhaps have been more at home in the mouth of a soldier of fortune than on the docile lips of a young maiden — all these things betrayed how little faith in her own feminine nature Maria had gained from her mother's instruction.
'Yet she was so very feminine!' exclaimed Atto.
He looked around him, as though seeking a special corner of the park, a magical place in which a presence, some entity, might lend substance to his words and from the word make flesh. He turned to look at me.
'I shall tell you more: she was beautiful, indeed perfect, a creature from another world. And that is not my judgement, but the truth. If, however, you were to refer to anyone who knew her — with the possible exception of her husband Lorenzo Onofrio, may God keep him in glory — you may be quite sure that they would be shocked to hear that and would dissent. And do you know why? Because her movements in no way accorded with her womanly qualities. In other words, she did not behave like a beautiful woman.'
Not that she was lacking in grace, far from it. But from the moment that she sensed a man's attention focus on her, she felt almost ill. If she was walking, she would begin to limp; if she was seated at table, she would become hunched up; if she was speaking, she would fall silent, not like any timid maiden of her age, no, hers was too prompt and lively a wit. Indeed, one could be certain that, after holding her breath for a moment, she would sally forth with some infelicitous joke accompanied by raucous laughter. These things all chilled the French in her company, for none could guess that this was the expression of her inner lack of ease and thus of her great purity of heart; on the contrary, everyone was ready to despise her as though she were some country wench.
That is why her sinuous swan's neck was disdained as being too thin, her flaming eyes were seen as hard, her thick dark curls as dry and crinkled, and the pallor of her cheeks (induced by the grim, hostile looks of courtiers) was attributed to a naturally wan complexion.
'In truth, Maria's cheeks could not have been further from wan: how many times have I seen them catch fire from the elan and fervour of her young spirit! And the same could be said of her mouth, which was red and large, with perfectly spaced teeth, and yet no painter ever dared depict her as she was, so much did her mouth differ from the thin lips then in fashion, which from close up reminded one of nothing so much as a pigeon's crupper…'
'It is painful to know that so great a beauty should have remained hidden from itself,' said I to second Melani's heartfelt eloquence.
'Of course, she did not stay that way all her life. It was maternity that transformed her. When next I saw her in Rome, a young mother, although her broken heart had remained in Paris, her entire being had attained the plenitude of femininity. By becoming a mother herself, she had at last exorcised the icy phantasm of her own mother.'
'Your understanding of Maria's true nature was quite immediate,' I said.
'I was not alone in this. His Majesty, too, saw it, since he fell in love with her. Even then, despite his limited experience of the fair sex, he was certainly not likely to become besotted with a displeasing face or one that was merely colourless or just acceptable! But, as I have told you, Maria was convinced, because of her mother's cruel judgements, that she was inadequate, sour, unwomanly. In other words: ugly. Oh, if only there had existed a painter magician who could, unseen, have immortalised the image of Maria in a portrait, as she was at that time! I'd have paid with my blood to commission such a picture, for when Maria was truly herself, forgetting her fears, she was magnificent. To immortalise her in an instant, when she was living according to her true nature: that would have been the necessary miracle. And not the portraits which were made at court, which express nothing but the embarrassment with which she posed before the painter, with a drawn smile and an unnatural pose: as she thought herself to be and not as she was.'
At the time of her amours with Louis, Maria still felt herself to be, not the nightingale she truly was, but a screech owl croaking on a branch. But that was by no means a bad thing. It was indeed because of this that, as soon as she arrived in France, she plunged into her studies, convinced that she must make up for her lack of grace by dint of knowledge. From barely a year and a half of education at the Convent of the Visitation, she drew far greater profit than her sisters and cousins who were enclosed there with her. Her impeccable French, with the exotic charm of Italian inflections, a show of culture in all fields (which was really in Maria's case far more than a mere show), a visceral love for the literature of chivalry and for poetry — which she loved to recite aloud — and lastly a passion for ancient history, all these things placed her immeasurably above the vainglorious ladies of the court who permitted themselves to judge her so spitefully.
And thus, when she made her debut at court, Maria revealed an intellect and wit far beyond her years. Her temperament, which could not conceive of love without a challenge, soon enough found in the Sovereign much raw material which cried out only to be worked on.
'As is the case with so many young men, the intellect was ripe, and yet he was still a little child; matter still inert, yet ready to be modelled, primordial essence which invokes the enlightened wisdom of a feminine spirit, at once elevated and strong,' added Atto, raising his finger to heaven in a gesture of teaching, as though in comprehension of feminine essence rather than of women themselves.
