which I had discovered my little pearls) and, above all, from the secret correspondence with the Connestabilessa.
Madama la Connestabilessa, the Princess Maria Mancini Col- onna: on her account Atto had spoken with passionate prolixity during our excursion to the Vessel a few hours earlier. But that tale dated back to many, many years ago, and had nothing to do with the forthcoming conclave. Indeed, Atto had been at great pains to keep the 'current' state of his relations with the Connestabilessa strictly to himself; he had not yet, for example, breathed a word to me of their common interest in the matter of the Spanish succession. Nor of whatever the Connestabilessa, born in Rome and brought up in Paris, might have to do with the Kingdom of Spain.
At length I gave up my search for the little book bound by the late lamented Haver, plunged my hands again into the Abbot's dirty linen and took out the folder of secret correspondence between him and the Connestabilessa. As on the first occasion, I found the letter from Maria Mancini together with the reply, as yet unsealed, by the Abbot. I scanned rapidly through both: I wanted also to have time to take a glance at the previous missives, which I had set on one side the day before.
The Connestabilessa's letter opened with a reference to the assault suffered by Abbot Melani:
What pain you have caused my heart, my friend! How are you? How is your arm? Is there really any reason to suspect the hand of the cruel Empire behind all this? I pray ardently that you should at least be spared by the hand of the Imperial assassins; for many, far too many, dead men bear a banner marked with the two — headed eagle of Vienna.
Take care, keep looking all around you. I tremble at the idea of your requesting an audience with Count von Lamberg. Do not eat at his table, drink not from the chalice filled by his hand, accept nothing from him, not even a pinch of snuff. Where the dagger failed, poison, the Imperial agents' weapon of choice, might succeed.
Do you always keep on your person the Bezoar stone which I sent you a few years ago? It will preserve you from all things toxic, never forget that!
I turned my mind again to the question: had I not found a pistol among Atto's personal effects? Clearly, he had not taken his own security lightly. The letter continued:
Never forget the horrible death of the Duke of Osuna who, no sooner had he been appointed general in charge of coastal defences in the Mediterranean, began to work for a truce with the French; but alas, after taking a pinch of snuff he was struck down by paresis of the spine and suffocation, and died at three o 'clock in the morning, without having been able to utter a word. And what should we say of the sudden and mysterious death of the Secretary of State, Manuel de Lira, who strove so hard for peace with France? Finally, permit me to remind you, despite the pain which the very thought causes me for reasons well known to you, of the most atrocious crime of all: the late Queen of Spain, our most beloved Marie- Louise of Orleans, the first wife of King Charles II, who never lost an opportunity to convince her consort of the need not to join the league against the Most Christian King, his uncle, and was hated by many in Spain, amongst them, Count Mansfeld, the Ambassador of the Empire.
Do you not recall? The poor Queen was afraid; she had even written to the King of France, begging him for an antidote for poison. But when this reached Madrid, Marie-Louise was already dead.
The evening before — I read in the Connestabilessa's letter — the Sovereign wanted milk, but little was available in the capital. It was said that, at the last moment, the Countess of S, a friend and protegee of the Imperial Ambassador, as well as an exile from France following the Affair of the Poisons, the first victim of which, some thirty years earlier, had been Madame, Marie-Louise's mother, arranged for her to have a little. When the Queen of Spain died in dreadful agony, some swore that the fresh and delicious milk which she had drunk before feeling ill had been prepared at the house of Ambassador Mansfeld. And it was perhaps no coincidence if the Countess of S left suddenly on the morning after the crime, so arranging matters that all trace of her was lost.
I noticed that here Maria Mancini had been at pains to conceal the name of the presumed poisoner, of French origin, yet a member of the imperial party. I would also have liked to know what the reasons 'well known' to Atto might have been, which made the memory of the deed so painful for the Connestabilessa, but the letter continued with a heartfelt address to that Silvio, which pseudonym I presumed must, by means of a set of screens behind screens, conceal the person of Abbot Melani himself:
Silvio, Silvio, vain boy, if you imagine this mishap by chance befell, you widely are deceived. These accidents so monstrous and so strange befall us mortals by divine permission. Don't you reflect the Gods by you were slighted, by this your haughty pride and high disdain of love and everything the world deems human? They cannot abhor, although it be in virtue. Now you are mute, who were but now so haughty!
I wondered yet again at the vehemence with which the Connestabilessa hurled indecipherable accusations against Abbot Melani. As though that were not enough, after a few lines of excuses for her own delay (brought about by some slight fever), came the usual note about that so-called Lidio:
You charge me with according scant value to Lidio's presumed felicity. Yet I reply to you that in every matter it behoves us to mark well the end: for oftentimes God gives men a gleam of happiness, and then plunges them into ruin. And to him I repeat: with respect to that whereon you question me, Lidio, I have no answer to give, until I hear that you have closed your life happily.
Who then could this mysterious Lidio be, whom the Connestabilessa addressed through Atto's mediation, employing such impenetrable expressions? And what was the obscure mirror game which, from time to time, caused her to address the Abbot by the name of Silvio?
Nor did I learn much from Atto's reply; I was soon bogged down in a larding of unctuous flattery and affectation:
O that delightful rock on which so oft whole floods of tears and gales of sighs have struck in vain! Must I believe you live and feel some tender strokes of pity for my suff'rings? Is that a human breast, or is it marble?
Your sweetness moves me, my friend, and I tremble with anger at myself for having so improvidently caused you such agitation. Was the fever perhaps my fault too?
My ink tipp'd pen, and you curst arrows (which have pierced her side, so well by me belov'd), ye native brethren, or else for cruelty so called, I'll break you all. No longer darts or arrows shall you remain, but rods with useless wings, headed with steel in vain, lopped of your points and feathers!
And here the Abbot's letter was stained with ink; Atto had actually broken his goose quill, guilty of having written things that had worried the Connestabilessa and perhaps even made her ill. After a moment of sheer astonishment at such vehemence, I resumed my reading. (Melani had obviously found a new pen.)
Wound me then likewise with your plume, I beg of you. Indeed I demand it!
Ah, do not wound, but spare these eyes, these hands, which were the guilty ministers because by an unguilty will they were directed. Here, strike my breast, that enemy to love, foe to all tenderness, this cruel heart which was so harsh to thee. My breast is open.
After that, the tone, relinquishing passion, returned to the realms of common sense. Atto was concerned above all to show courage and boldness in his dealings with Lamberg, and not to betray the anxiety which must, however, be tormenting him.
As for me and my life, fear not, my goodfriend. Of course, I have with me your beautiful oriental stone. How could I ever forget the Bezoar? In France, too, it is esteemed as a protection against malignant fevers and poison. When I am received by the Ambassador, I shall keep it jealously in my pocket, ready to help me in the event of my feeling in any way unwell.
However, when young, I knew Count von Lambergs father well: he was Imperial Ambassador to Madrid just when I was with Cardinal Mazarin at the Isle of Pheasants for the peace treaty between France and Spain. We snatched the hand of the Infanta Maria Teresa, for whom the Emperor Leopold so longed, from under his nose. Indeed, King Philip IV ended up by granting her to Louis XIV after much arm- twisting, so as to be able to gain less humiliating peace terms. And that was mostfortunate: but for this, today the Most Christian King would not be able to lay claim to rights to the Spanish Crown for his nephew the Duke of Anjou. Philip IV did, it is true, make Maria Teresa sign a document renouncing any claim to the Spanish throne (just as Anne of Austria before her had done when she married Louis XIII of France); but since then plenty of jurists have demonstrated that such renunciations are invalid.
All in all, my dear, Lamberg senior rendered Austria the worst of services, just as we rendered France the very best. If the son's abilities are equal to his father's, it is certain that neither I nor French interests in the Spanish succession will be in any danger. However, I shall soon know how matters stand: the arrival of the Imperial Ambassador is expected at any moment. And you? When will you be here?
Silvio was proud, 'tis true, but he venerates the gods, and was one day vanquished by your Cupid. Since then
