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  Talk then spread among the guests about the most notorious cases of poisoning, real or presumed: prominent among these were sovereigns of former times: Charles the Bald, for example, or Lothar, the King of the Franks and his son Louis; or, approaching modern times, th e acqua tofana laced with arsenic, or the Spanish fly, both employed by the Borgias for their abominable crimes, as well as by the Valois and the Guises in their conspiracies. A shameful trembling ran through the group, for poison and fear are born of the same parents. Someone recalled how Henry of Navarre, before he became King Henry IV of France, was wont himself to go down to the banks of the Seine to draw the water which he drank at his meals, fearing that he might fall victim to toxic potions. Did not John of Austria die from wearing poisoned boots? Stilone Priaso recalled how Catherine de' Medici had poisoned Jeanne d Albret, the mother of Henry IV using perfumed gloves and collars, and how she had attempted to repeat the exercise by offering her own son a marvellous book on hunting, the pages of which were a little gummed together, so that he, licking his fingers to turn them, would imbibe the fatal Italian poison with which they were impregnated.

  Such murderous preparations had, asserted another guest, been the province of perfumers and astrologers. And someone dusted off the tale of how Saint-Barthelemy, the servant of the ill-famed Prior of Cluny, had killed the Cardinal of Lorraine by paying him in poisoned gold coin. Henry of Luxembourg died-O subtle blasphemy! — of poison concealed in the consecrated host with which he took Communion.

  Now, Stilone Priaso began to parley closely with one guest after another, admitting that so many fantastic things had always been said about poets and those who practised the art of fine writing; but he was only a poet, and born for poetry, may God pardon his immodesty!

  They then all turned to me and began again to belabour me with questions about the broth which I had served Signor di Mourai that morning. I had to repeat several times that absolutely no one but myself had been near the dish. Only with difficulty were they at last convinced, and they then ceased paying attention to me.

  I noticed all of a sudden that the only one to have left the company was Abbot Melani. It was late now, and I resolved to go down to the kitchen in order to wash up.

  In the corridor, I almost collided with the young Englishman, Signor di Bedfordi, who struck me as being rather agitated; perhaps because, having transferred his effects to a new chamber, he had not been present for the chirurgeon's diagnosis. This guest was dragging himself along slowly and seemed unusually afflicted. When I stopped in front of him, he gave a start.

  "It is I, Signor Bedfordi," I reassured him.

  He looked dumbly, lost in his daydreams, at the lamp I bore in my hand. For the first time, he had abandoned his usual phlegmatic pose, which gave away his affected and haughty nature, one that caused him to be repelled (and he often gave me proof thereof) by my servant's simplicity. Born of an Italian mother, Bedfordi had no difficulty expressing himself in our language. On the contrary, his eloquence, in the conversations that accompanied their meals, was much appreciated by the other guests.

  His silence that evening therefore struck me all the more. I explained to him that, in the doctor's opinion, there was no cause for anxiety, since this was certainly not a case of plague. It was, however, suspected that Mourai might have ingested a poison.

  He stared at me, with his mouth hanging half open, and answered not a word. He retreated several paces, then turned round and returned to his chamber, where I heard him lock himself in.

  Night the First

  Between the 11th and12th September, 1683

  "Forget it, my boy."

  This time it was my turn to be startled. I found myself facing Abbot Melani, who had come down from the second floor.

  "I am hungry. Kindly accompany me to the kitchen."

  "If you please, Sir, first I should tell Master Pellegrino. He has forbidden me to draw on provisions outside regular luncheon and supper hours."

  "Never fear, your Master Pellegrino is now hard at it with Madam Bottle."

  "And Doctor Cristofano's orders?"

  "Those were not orders, but prudent advice; which I regard as superfluous."

  He preceded me downstairs, where the dining chamber and the kitchen were situated. In the latter, to satisfy his request, I found a little bread and cheese and a beaker of red wine. We sat down at the work table where I and my master usually ate.

  "Tell me, where do you come from?" he asked me, as he began to partake of his refreshment.

  Flattered by his curiosity, I recounted briefly the story of my miserable life. At a few months of age, I had been abandoned and left outside a convent near Perugia. The nuns had then entrusted me to a pious woman who lived in the neighbourhood. When I grew up, I was brought to Rome, where I was placed in the service of that woman's brother, the parish priest of Santa Maria in Posterula, the little church not far from the hostelry. After employing me on a number of minor tasks, the priest recommended me to Signor Pellegrino, before he himself was transferred outside Rome.

  "So now you are an apprentice," said the abbot.

  "Yes, but I hope not forever."

  "You would, I imagine, like to have your own inn."

  "No, Signor Abbot. I would like to become a gazetteer."

  "Now, that is a fine one," said he with a mischievous smile.

  I explained to him that the pious and kindly woman to whom I had been entrusted had arranged for me to be instructed by a former serving maid. That old woman, who had previously been in a nunnery, had initiated me into the arts of the Trivium and the Quadrivium, in the sciences de vegetalibus, de animalibus and de mineralibus, in humanae litterae, in Philosophy and in Theology. She had then made me read many historians and grammarians, as well as Italian, Spanish and French poets. Yet, more even than arithmetic, geometry, music, astronomy, grammar, logic and rhetoric, I grew passionately interested in the things of this world, and, most of all, my spirit was inflamed by the telling of the exploits and successes, both near and far, of princes and reigning monarchs and of wars and other admirable things which…

  "Good, good," he interrupted me, "so you want to become a gazetteer, or scribe, if you prefer. Men of wit often end up engaged in that trade. How did the idea come to you?"

  I was often sent on errands to Perugia, I replied. In town, if I was fortunate enough to be present on the right day, I could listen to the public reading of gazettes, and for two pence one could purchase (but this one could in Rome, too) broadsheets with many notable descriptions of the most recent occurrences in Europe…

  "My goodness, young man, I have never come across one like you!"

  "Thank you, Sir."

  "Are you not rather too learned for a mere scullion? Those of your kind usually do not even know how to hold a pen," said he, grimacing.

  That remark upset me.

  "You are very intelligent," he added, softening his tone. "And I understand you: at your age, I too was fascinated by the scribbler's trade. But I had so many things to do. To write skilfully for newspapers is indeed a great art, and always better than working. "And then," he added between one mouthful and the next, "to be a gazetteer in Rome is most exalting. You will know all about the question of the franchises, the Gallican controversy, Quietism…"

  "Yes, I believe that… is so," I murmured, trying in vain to conceal my ignorance.

  "Some things, young man, one must needs know. Otherwise, about what will you write? But of course, you are too young. And then, whatever could one write about these days in this half-dead city? You should have seen the splendour of Rome formerly, indeed, only a few years ago. Music, theatres, academies, the introduction of ambassadors, processions, balls: all was refulgent with a wealth, an abundance that you can scarcely imagine."

  "And why is it no longer so today?"

  "The grandeur and felicity of Rome ended with the ascension of this Pope, and they will return only with his death. Theatrical performances are forbidden, the Carnival has been suppr
essed. Can you not see it with your own eyes? The churches are neglected, the palaces are crumbling, the streets are full of potholes and the aqueducts are close to collapse. The master builders, architects and workmen are all returning to their own countries. The writing and reading of those handbills and broadsheets, for which so you have such a passion, are prohibited, although that ban is not always complied with; punishments are even harsher than in former times. Even for Christina of Sweden, who came to Rome abjuring the religion of Luther for our own, no longer are there festivities at the Barberini Palace, or spectacles at the Teatro Tor di Nona. Since the accession of Pope Innocent XI, even Queen Christina has had to cloister herself in her palace."

  "In the past, did you live here in Rome?"

  "Yes, for a time," he replied, then suddenly corrected himself, "indeed, more than once. I arrived in Rome in 1644, when I was only eighteen and studied with the best masters. I had the honour to be a pupil of the divine Luigi Rossi, the greatest European composer of all time. Then, in the Palazzo alle Quattro Fontane, the Barberini had a theatre with three thousand places and the theatre of the Colonna family in the Palazzo al Borgo was the envy of all the reigning Houses. The artists who designed the scenes bore the most celebrated names, and included even Gian Lorenzo Bernini himself, and the stage astonished, kindled the emotions and entertained, with apparitions of rain, suns setting, bolts of lightning, real living animals, duels with real wounds and real blood, palaces more palatial than real ones and gardens with fountains from which gushed fresh, clear water."

  I realised at that point that I had not asked the abbot whether he was a composer, an organist or a choirmaster. Fortunately, I withheld that question. His almost hairless face, unusually gentle and womanish movements, and above all his very clear voice, almost like that of a small boy who had unexpectedly attained maturity, revealed that I was in the presence of an emasculated singer.

  The abbot doubtless remarked the flash of recognition which my look must have betrayed at the instant when I received this illumination. He continued, however, as though nothing had transpired.

  "Then, there were not as many singers as today. For a good many, the way lay open and they could travel far and attain unhoped-for goals. As for myself, besides possessing the talent which heaven was pleased to bestow upon me, I had studied with some alacrity. Thus it was that my patron, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, sent me to Paris in the retinue of my master, Luigi Rossi."

  So that was where that strange "r" came from, thought I to myself, in which he seemed to take such delight.

  "Did you travel to Paris in order to continue your studies?"

  "Do you imagine that one would still need to study who possessed letters of recommendation to Cardinal Mazarin and to the Queen in person?"

  "But then, Signor Abbot, you have had occasion to sing for those Royal Highnesses?"

  "Queen Anne enjoyed my singing, I might say, more than ordinarily. She loved melancholy airs in the Italian style, in which I was perfectly able to satisfy her. No two evenings passed without my going to serve her, and every time for at least four hours in her apartments, no thought could arise of anything but music."

  He broke off and looked out of the window, as though oblivious.

  "You have never visited the court of Paris. How could one explain this to you? All those nobles and cavaliers rendered me a thousand honours, and when I sang for the Queen, I seemed to be in paradise, surrounded by a thousand angelic faces. The Queen went so far as to beg the Grand Duke not to recall me to Italy, so that she might still enjoy my services. My patron, who was her first cousin on his mother's side, complied with that request. It was the Queen in person who, a few weeks later, showed me, while gracing me with the sweetest of smiles, the letter from my patron permitting me to remain in Paris yet awhile longer. When I had read it, I felt myself dying from jubilation and contentment."

  The abbot had then returned more and more often to Paris, also in the retinue of his master, Luigi Rossi, whose name caused his eyes to shine with pent-up emotion each time that he pronounced it.

  "Today, his name means nothing. But then, all accorded him the honours which were his due: for he was a great-indeed, a very great-man. He wished me to play the hero of the Orfeo, the most splendid opera ever to be performed at the French court. It was a memorable success. I was but one and twenty years old then. And, after two months of continuous performances, I had barely the time to return to Florence before Mazarin begged the Grand Duke to send me back to France, so much did the Queen miss my voice. Thus it was that, after returning with Seigneur Luigi, we found ourselves caught up in the turmoil of the Fronde and were forced to flee Paris, together with the Queen, the Cardinal and the little King."

  "So you knew the Most Christian King as a child!"

  "Very well, even. During those terrible months of exile at the Chateau de Saint-Germain, he never left his mother's side, and would listen to me sing in silence, rapt silence. Often, in empty moments, I would try to distract him, inventing games for him; thus His Majesty recovered his smile."

  I was for a while both galvanised and stunned by my double discovery. Not only had this bizarre guest a glorious past as a musician; he had been an intimate of the royal highnesses of France! And, what was more, he was one of those singular prodigies of nature who united with a man's form vocal gifts and a quality of soul that were utterly feminine. I had almost at once noticed that unusual timbre in his voice. But I had not dwelt sufficiently on other details, thinking that here might be a simple sodomite.

  I had, however, chanced upon a castrato. I knew, in truth, that in order to conquer their extraordinary vocal powers, emasculated singers had to undergo a painful and irreversible operation. 1 knew the sad tale of the pious Origen, who had voluntarily parted with his masculine attributes in order to achieve supreme spiritual virtue, and I had heard that Christian doctrine had from the very beginning condemned castration. But fortune would have it that right here in Rome the services of castrati were highly valued and sought after. Everyone knew that the Vatican Chapel was accustomed to employ castrati on a regular basis, and I had sometimes heard the older inhabitants of my quarter comment jestingly on a snatch of song from a washerwoman with the words: "You sing like Rosini," or, "You are better than Folignato." They were alluding to the castrati who, decades before, had entranced the ears of Pope Clement VIII. Even more often, one heard mention of Loreto Vittori, whose voice had, I knew, the power to bewitch all who heard it. So much so that Pope Urban VIII had appointed him a Knight of the Militia of Christ. Little did it matter that, on several occasions, the Holy See had threatened with excommunication those who practised emasculation. And even less did it matter that the feminine charms of the castrati should perturb spectators. From the chatter and jokes of my contemporaries, I had learned that one need walk only a few dozen paces from the hostelry to find the shop of a complaisant barber who was ever ready to perform the horrendous mutilation, so long as the reward was adequate and the secret well guarded.

  "Why wonder?" said Melani, calling me back from my silent reflections. "One should not be surprised that a Queen should prefer my voice to that-may God forgive me-of a mere canterina. In Paris, I was often accompanied by an Italian singer, a certain Leonora Baroni, who did try so very hard. Today, no one remembers her. Mark my words, young man: if women are not today permitted to sing in public, as Saint Paul so rightly willed it, that is certainly not a matter of chance."

  He raised his glass as though for a toast, and solemnly recited:

  Toi qui sais mieux que aucun le succes que jadis les pieces de musique eurent dedans Paris, que dis-tu de Pardeur dont la cour echaujfee frondoit en ce temps-la les grands concerts d'Orphee, les passages d'Atto et de Leonora, et le dechainement qu'on a pour l’Opera?'

  I remained silent, allowing myself no more than a questioning glance.

  "Jean de la Fontaine," said he, emphatically. The greatest poet in France."

  "And, if I heard well, he wrote about you!"


  "Yes. And another poet, a Tuscan this time, said that the singing of Atto Melani could be used as a remedy against a viper's bite."

  "Another poet?"

  "Francesco Redi, the greatest man of letters and science in all

  Tuscany. Such were the muses on whose lips my name travelled, my boy."

  "Do you still appear before the French royal family?"

  "Once youth has vanished, the voice is the first of the body's virtues to become unreliable. As a young man, however, I sang in the courts of all Europe, and thus had occasion to make the acquaintance of many princes. Nowadays, they are pleased to ask me for advice, when they must take important decisions."

  "You are then… a counsellor abbot?"

  "Yes, let us say that."

  "You must often be at court, in Paris."

  "The court is now at Versailles, my boy. As for myself, that is a long story."

  And, frowning, he added: "Have you ever heard of Monsieur de Fouquet?"

  The name was, I replied, utterly unknown to me.

  He poured himself another glass of wine and fell silent. His silence caused me no embarrassment. We remained thus awhile, without proffering a word, lulled by a spark of reciprocal sympathy.

  Atto Melani was still dressed as he had been that morning: with his abbot's periwig, hood and grey-mauve soutane. Age (and his did not show) had enveloped him with a fine layer of fat which softened a rather hooked nose and severe features. The white powder on his face, which changed to carmine on his prominent cheeks, spoke of a perennial conflict of instincts; his broad, wrinkled forehead and arched eyebrows suggested a cold and haughty nature. Yet that was only a pose: it was contradicted by the mocking fold in his fine, contracted lips and in his slightly receding, but fleshy, chin, in the midst of which sat an impertinent dimple.

  Melani cleared his throat. He drank a last draught and kept the wine in his mouth, letting it smack between his tongue and his palate.