with the vestiges of ancient Rome.
The statues, marbles, inscriptions and all the other things which ignorant workmen had brought to light in the gardens of Villa Spada were, by order of Cardinal Fabrizio, raised from oblivion in the cellars or under the invasive maidenhair ferns and so arranged as to punctuate the modern gardens with majestic whiteness.
The beautiful concentric flower beds with shrubs along their borders, divided up by radiating drives arranged for the occasion by Tranquillo Romauli, the Master Florist, had been adorned with columns, sarcophagi and steles, while along the outer wall, fragments of capitals alternated with espaliered citrus trees; even at the main gates, above the stairway of a ruin, rose a pergola supported by trellises, as though time, waving the green banner of nature, wished to signify the overthrow and vanity of human endeavours.
But Villa Spada was but a small example: Rome's villas often enclose temples which remain almost intact, or even entire sections of aqueduct. In the Villa Colonna at Monte Cavallo there was for a long time preserved (and then, alas, thoughtlessly demolished) a fine piece of the gigantic Templum Solis. In the Villa Medici on the Pincio, the Templum Fortunae was to be found. In the Villa Giustiniani on the Lateran Hill, the boundary was marked by the aqueduct of Claudius, flanked by other enormous, anonymous ruins. Even the interior of the Mausoleum of Augustus, a glorious and solemn vestige of the greatest of emperors, was transformed into a garden when it was the property of Monsignor Soderini. On the Palatine Hill and on the Celio, villas and ruins, edifices new and old stretched in a single inextricable web. And likewise, the little Gentili Palace backed onto the ancient Aurelian Walls, of which it had even incorporated a tower; while the Orti Farnesiani (the inestimable work of Vignola, Rainaldi and Del Duca) fused harmoniously with the vestiges of the imperial palaces on the Palatine. Even Cardinal Sacchetti, when in his villa in the Pigneto he wished to offer a sepulchre to his favourite ass Grillo, used ancient Roman remains which had come into his hands there, on his own lands, where one had only to sink a spade into the ground to strike marble from the centuries of Cicero and Seneca.
In the Villa Ludovisi a pavilion had been erected for the sole purpose of housing the statues, while at Villa Borghese, Cardinal Scipione had devoted most of the space to his collection of busts and figures.
However, antiquities were not the only items employed for the embellishment of the vineyards and casino of the Villa Spada. The avenues which led to fountains and nymphaeums, as well as the little wood, had been adorned with obelisks, as at the Del Bufalo Garden at Villa Ludovisi; or then there was the obelisk in the Medici Garden, of which I had admired splendid engravings in the books of my late father-in-law. However those at the Villa Spada were ephemeral, made of papier mache in imitation of the admirable architectural designs of the Cavalier Bernini erected in the Piazza Navona or the Piazza di Spagna to celebrate the birth of princes or other worthy events, wonders destined to last only for the duration of a few nights' festivities.
Every Roman villa was a place conceived for repose and pleasure, as in the days of Horace (and so I believe it will still be in the centuries to come), and thus also a venue for games, extravagances and all manner of delightful distractions. And Villa Spada seemed to be rising to the present nuptial occasion as a veritable compendium of all these things.
I would have liked to stop and admire one by one the thousand delights and marvels which the villa offered, but the evening was advancing. Taking leave of my reflections, I hastened on my way to my appointment with Abbot Melani; and with the Connestabilessa who, according to what I had read in her letter to the Abbot, was expected after Vespers.
'Good heavens, dear boy, whatever have you been doing to yourself? I seem to be receiving a delegation of Arcadian shepherds.'
I lowered my head in response to Atto's remark and took an embarrassed look at my clothing, crumpled by amorous activity and stained by the grass on which I had lain with my wife.
'Buvat, put some order in these rooms,' he ordered his secretary suddenly, as though he were addressing some slovenly manservant. 'Wipe the floor with some cloths, and if you can find none, use the sleeves of your jacket, as you never change it. Pile up my papers, and go and get something to eat. And do it quickly, for heaven's sake, I am expecting guests.'
Although unaccustomed to performing servants' duties, and wondering why Atto did not instead employ an ordinary valet de chambre, yet Buvat dared not rebel, seeing his master's extreme nervousness. So he began at random to tidy up the Abbot's documents, the ornaments, the remnants of luncheon still strewn on the divan and the numerous piles of books encumbering the floor here and there. Such was Buvat's inexperience that, despite the fact that I gave him a hand, instead of diminishing, the chaos only increased.
I saw that the Abbot was rubbing his injured arm.
'Signor Atto, how is your wound?' I asked.
'It is getting better, but I shall have no peace until I know who reduced me to this state. The strangest things have been happening in the past few days: first, my arm is wounded in the bookbinder's presence, then the poor man's death and, to cap it all, the attempt to rob you two…'
At that moment, someone knocked at the door. Buvat went to open it. I saw him take delivery of a letter from a messenger which, after closing the door, he hastened to hand to Abbot Melani.
Atto broke the seal and read swiftly. Then he stuffed the letter into his pocket and, speaking in a low voice, told us reluctantly of its contents.
'She will no longer be coming. She has had to stop, owing to a light attack of fever. She begs to be excused for her inability to advise me earlier, et cetera, et cetera''
A few minutes later, Abbot Melani showed us the door. The reason, as had also been the case the day before, lay in the letter from the Connestabilessa, which Atto wished to read properly, far from our curious looks.
Once I had closed the door behind us and taken my leave of Buvat, who was going to take a look at the library of the great house, I began to feel ill at ease. What had the Abbot summoned me for if he was now dismissing me without having commanded, asked or said a single thing? Bad news of the Connestabilessa's unexpected delay had indeed arrived; besides which, my task of keeping a chronicle had only just begun the day before. Yet, when I came to think of it, Atto had used me more as an informer (as at dinner the evening before) than as a biographer. Not only that: about the nature of that little book which seemed to lie at the heart of a singular series of misadventures, the Abbot had been distinctly sparing with information. Yet, hardly had he learned of the death of the bookbinder than Atto had rushed in furious haste to recover it.
Buvat had rejoined Melani, who was conversing with other guests in the gardens of Villa Spada when, an hour later, keeping the Abbot under frequent observation with his own spyglass, I set to work looking for the little bound book. When the binder had delivered it to him, it had been wrapped in a blue velvet cloth, and that now made it impossible to identify the appearance and colour of the binding.
I searched the apartment from top to bottom and examined all Abbot Melani's volumes one by one, but alas, not a trace did I find of a newly bound book: all the tomes showed signs of wear and frequent consultation. It was quite clear that Atto had brought with him to the Villa Spada only those books he most needed. Consequently, a brand new binding would certainly have caught my eye. For a few moments, I stopped again to peruse a few pages containing piquant episodes concerning cardinals: these had already proved very useful to me when it came to following the allusions and jokes which the eminences exchanged at dinner. Then I searched everywhere once more, but of that little volume there was no trace. Perhaps the Abbot had lent it to some other guest? If that were the case, the matters dealt with in the book could not be so very confidential.
Atto, as I already knew, feared that he might have been the victim of an anti-French plot, perhaps at the hands of the imperial party. Of this he was, however, not at all convinced. Sfasciamonti's talk of the cerretani, of whom he had never previously heard tell, had made him uncertain. To the Connestabilessa he had written that he wished to request an audience with the Imperial Ambassador, Count von Lamberg, but the latter, who was expected at the Villa Spada, had not yet arrived. He would surely be present on the morrow, at the wedding. Until then, the Abbot — and I — must needs wait.
Otherwise, I found myself thinking once more, what had I learned from Abbot Melani? A conclave was in sight, that he had indeed told me, and had even shown me a list of cardinals written in his own hand; but, apart from that? Where now was the didactic passion of the veteran agent who had imparted so many and such dense teachings to me at the time when I was working as an apprentice at the Locanda del Donzello? And Atto must indeed know plenty about conclaves: he had even boasted of getting a pope elected.
Abbot Melani had really aged, I concluded rather sadly. Now, rather than by word of mouth, I was obtaining clues and news mainly from his personal effects, which I had surreptitiously examined, from his clothing (among
