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  He went to the window and began to sing in an exceedingly suave voice, which he barely restrained:

  Disperate speranze, addio, addio.

  Ahi, mentite speranze, andate a volo…'*

  The abbot's extemporaneous assay of virtuosity left me stupefied and full of admiration. Despite his age, Melani still possessed a rather light soprano voice. I complimented him and asked him if he had composed the splendid cantata of which he had just sung a snatch.

  "No, 'tis by Seigneur Luigi Rossi, my master," he replied distractedly. "But tell me rather, tell me: how did the morning go? Have you noticed anything bizarre?"

  "A rather strange episode befell me, Signor Atto. I had only just had a conversation with Signor Devize when…"

  "Ah, Devize, it was precisely about him that I wished to talk to you. Was he playing?"

  "Yes, but…"

  "He is good. The King appreciates him greatly. His Majesty adores the guitar almost as much as, once, when young, he adored opera and giving a good account of himself in the court ballets. Fine times… And what did Devize say to you?"

  I understood that, unless I first exhausted the matter of music, he would not allow me to proceed further with my account. I told him of the rondeau which I had heard from the French musician's guitar, and how the latter had spoken to me of the music he had heard in many Italian theatres, above all in Venice, with its celebrated Teatro del Cocomero. [1]

  "The Teatro del Gocomero? Are you sure that you remember that properly?"

  "Well, yes… the Watermelon… It is such a strange name for a theatre. Devize told me he had been there just before he travelled to Naples. Why?"

  "Oh nothing. It is just that your guitarist is telling tall tales, but he has not taken the trouble to prepare them well."

  I was dumbfounded. "How can you tell?"

  "The Cocomero is a magnificent theatre, where many splendid virtuosi do indeed perform. To tell the truth, I have sung there myself. I remember that, once, the organiser wished me to play the part of Apelles in Alessandro, Vincitore di Se Stesso. I of course refused and they gave me the main role, ha ha! A truly fine theatre, the Cocomero. A pity that it is in Florence and not in Venice."

  "But… Devize said he had been there before going to Naples."

  "Exactly. Not long ago, then, since from Naples he came straight to Rome. But 'tis a lie: a theatre with such a name remains imprinted in the memory, as it did for you. I tell you: Devize has never set foot in the Cocomero. And perhaps not in Venice either."

  I was dismayed by the revelation of that small but alarming untruth on the part of the French musician.

  "But pray, continue," resumed the abbot. "You said that something strange had happened to you, if I am not mistaken."

  I was at last able to tell Atto about the questions which Brenozzi the Venetian had put to me so insistently, his bizarre request for daisies and the mysterious gift of three pearls, which Cristofano had recognised as being of the type used to cure poisoning and apparent death. For which reason, I feared that these little jewels might have something to do with the death of Signor di Mourai, and perhaps Brenozzi knew something, but had been afraid to speak clearly; I showed the pearls to Melani. The abbot took one look at them and laughed heartily.

  "My boy, I really do not believe that poor Monsieur de Mourai…" he began, shaking his head; but he was interrupted by a piercing scream.

  It seemed to come from the floor above.

  We rushed into the corridor, and then up the stairs. We stopped halfway up the second staircase where, sprawled across the steps, lay the inanimate body of Signor Pellegrino.

  Behind us, the other guests also came running. From my master's head flowed a rivulet of blood which ran down a couple of steps. The scream had without a doubt issued from the mouth of Cloridia, the courtesan, who, trembling, with a handkerchief that covered almost all her face, was staring at the apparently lifeless body. Behind us, who all still stood as though frozen, the chirurgeon Cristofano made his way forward. With a kerchief, he removed the long white hair from my master's face. It was then that he seemed to regain consciousness and, giving a great heave, vomited forth a greenish and exceedingly foul-smelling mass. After that, Signor Pellegrino lay on the ground without giving any sign of life.

  "Let us carry him up to his chamber," exhorted Cristofano, leaning over my master.

  No one moved save myself, when I tried with scant success to raise his torso. Pushing me aside, Abbot Melani took my place.

  "Hold his head," he ordered.

  The physician took Pellegrino by the legs, and, making our way through the silent onlookers, we bore him to his chamber and laid him on the bed.

  My master's rigid face was unnaturally pale and covered with a fine veil of perspiration. He seemed as though made of wax. His wide-open eyes stared at the ceiling, and under them were two livid bags of skin. A wound on his forehead had just been cleaned by the chirurgeon, revealing a long, deep gash, on either side of which the bone of the skull was visible, probably injured by a heavy blow. My master, however, was not dead. His breathing was stertorous, but subdued.

  "He fell down the stairs and struck his head. But I fear that he was already unconscious when he fell."

  "What do you mean?" asked Atto.

  Cristofano hesitated before answering: "He suffered an attack of a malady which I have not yet identified with any certainty. It was, however, a fulminating seizure."

  "And what does that mean?" repeated Atto, raising his tone somewhat. "Was he too perhaps poisoned?"

  At those words, I was seized by shivering and remembered the abbot's words the night before: if we did not stop him in time, the assassin would soon find other victims. And perhaps now, far earlier than expected, he had already struck down my master.

  The doctor, however, shook his head at Melani's question and freed Pellegrino's neck from the kerchief which he usually wore knotted over his shirt: two swollen bluish blotches appeared below his left ear.

  "From his general rigidity, this would appear to be the same sickness as that of old Mourai. But these," he continued, pointing out the two swellings, "these here… And yet he did not seem…"

  We understood that he was thinking of the plague. We all drew back instinctively. Someone invoked heaven.

  "He was perspiring, he probably had a fever. When we lowered Monsieur de Mourai's body to the street, he was far too easily fatigued."

  "If it is the plague, he will not last long."

  "However, the possibility does exist that this may be another similar but less desperate infirmity. For example, the petechiae."

  "The what?" interrupted Father Robleda and Stilone Priaso, the poet.

  "In Spain, Father, 'tis known as tabardillo, while in the Kingdom of Naples, it is called pastici and in Milan, segni," explained Cristofano, turning first to the one, then to the other. "Some call it the spotted fever. It is a distemper caused by blood corrupted by an indisposition of the stomach. Pellegrino has, indeed, vomited. The onset of the plague is violent, while the petechiae begin with very mild symptoms, such as lassitude and giddiness (which I noted in him this morning). It worsens, however, and causes the most diverse symptoms until it covers the whole body with red, purple or black spots, like these two. Which, it is true, are too swollen to be petechiae, but also too small to be tokens, that is, the bubos of the plague."

  "But," intervened Cloridia, "is not the fact that Pellegrino fainted so suddenly a sure sign of the plague?"

  "We do not know for certain whether he lost consciousness because of the blow to the head or because of the disease," sighed the doctor. "However, these two spots will reveal the truth to us tomorrow. As I said, they are indeed very black and show that the disease is greater and involves more putrescence."

  "To sum up," interrupted Father Robleda, "is it contagious or not?"

  "The petechial disease is caused by excessive heat and dryness and therefore those with choleric temperaments, like Pellegrino, are readily subject t
o it. From this, you will understand the importance, for keeping contagion at arm's length, of avoiding agitation and raving." Here, he looked significantly at the Jesuit. "The malady gives rise to extreme dryness. In a brief space of time, it extinguishes the radical humidity of the body and can in the end kill. But if sustenance is given to the weakened body of the patient, that in itself reduces the virulence, and very few die: that is why it is less grave than the plague. However, almost every one of us has been close to him during the past few hours and we are all therefore at risk. It is advisable that you should all return to your apartments, where I shall later visit you one by one. Try to keep calm."

  Cristofano then called me to help him.

  "It is good that Signor Pellegrino vomited at once: that vomiting cleared from his stomach the matter which was liable to putrefy and grow corrupt as a result of the humours," he said, as soon as I had joined him. "From now on, the sick man must be fed with cold foods, which refresh his choleric tendency."

  "Will you bleed him?" I asked, having heard that such a remedy was universally recommended for all maladies.

  "Absolutely to be avoided: bleeding might cool the natural heat too much and the patient would soon die."

  I shivered.

  "Fortunately," continued Cristofano, "I have with me herbs, balsams, waters and powders and all else that I need to treat disease. Help me to undress your master completely, for I must anoint him with oil for the morbilli, as Galen calls petechiae. This penetrates the body and preserves it from corruption and putrefaction."

  He went out and returned soon with a collection of small ampoules.

  After carefully folding Signor Pellegrino's great grey apron and clothes in a corner, I asked: "Then, is di Mourai's death perhaps due to the plague or the petechiae?"

  "I did not find the shadow of a spot on the old Frenchman," was his brusque answer. "However, 'tis now too late to know. We have given away the body."

  And he closed himself into the chamber with my master.

  The moments that followed were, to say the least, turbulent. Almost all reacted to the host's misadventure with accents of desperation. The death of the old French lodger, attributed to poison by the physician, had certainly not thrown the company into such confusion. After cleaning the stairs of my master's fluids, the thought of his soul's welfare crossed my mind, as he might soon be meeting the Almighty. I recalled, in this connection, an edict which commanded that, in every chamber of hostelries, a picture or portrait was to be placed of Our Lord, or of the Blessed Virgin, or of the saints, together with a vase of holy water.

  Dismayed and praying heaven with all my heart that it should not deprive me of my master's kindness, I went up to the three chambers under the eaves that had remained empty since the departure of Signor Pellegrino's wife, in order to look for holy water and some holy image to hang above the sick man's bed.

  These were the apartments where the late Signora Luigia had lived. They had remained almost unchanged, as the new host's family sojourn there had been so brief.

  After a rapid search, I discovered above a rather dusty table, next to two reliquaries and a sugarloaf Agnus Dei, a terracotta statue of John the Baptist under a crystal bell; in his hands, he held a glass phial filled with holy water.

  Beautiful holy images hung from the walls. The sight of them affected me deeply, and as I reflected on the sad events of my young life, a lump rose in my throat. It was not right, I thought, that there should be only profane images in the dining chambers, however charming: a picture of fruit, two with wooded landscapes and figures, two more oblong paintings on sheepskin, with various birds, two villages, two Cupids breaking a bow over their knees, and lastly, the one and only concession to the Bible, a licentious depiction of Susannah bathing, watched by the Elders.

  Absorbed in these reflections, I chose a little picture of the Madonna of Sorrows which was hanging there and returned to the apartment, where Cristofano was busying himself around my poor master.

  After arranging the picture and the holy water near the sickbed, I felt my strength abandon me and, collapsing in a corner, I burst into tears.

  "Courage, my boy, courage."

  I found again in the physician's tone of voice that paternal, jovial Cristofano who had in the past few days so raised my mood. Like a father, he took my head in his hands and I could at last unburden myself. I explained to him that the man who had taken me in, thus saving me from extreme misery, was dying. Signor Pellegrino was a good man, albeit of bilious humour, and although I had been but six months in his service, it seemed to me that I had always been with him. What would become of me now? Once the quarantine was over, even if I were to survive, I would be left without any means of support and I did not even know the new parish priest of Santa Maria in Posterula.

  "Now everyone will need you," said he, raising my dead weight from the ground. "I myself was coming to look for you, as we have to calculate our resources. The subsidy which we shall receive from the Congregation for Public Health will be very small indeed, and we shall have to ration our provisions carefully."

  Still sniffling, I reassured him that the pantry was far from empty, but he wished nonetheless to be taken there. The pantry was in the cellars and only I and Pellegrino possessed a key to it. From now on, said Cristofano, I was to keep both copies in a place known only to myself and him, so that no one could help themselves to the provisions. By the faint light that filtered in through the grates, we entered the pantry, which was on two levels.

  Fortunately, my master, being a great steward and cook, had never failed to see to it that we were furnished with all manner of odoriferous cheeses, salt meats and smoked fish, dried vegetables and tomatoes, as well as rows of wine and oil jars which, for an instant, delighted the eye of the physician and caused his features to soften. He commented only with a half-smile, and continued: "If there are any problems, you will advise me, and you will also tell me if anyone seems to be in ill health. Is that clear?"

  "But will what has befallen Signor Pellegrino also happen to others?" I asked with tears again filling my eyes.

  "Let us hope not. But we shall have to do everything possible to ensure that it does not happen," said he, without looking me in the eyes. "You, meanwhile, may continue to sleep in the chamber with him, as you already did last night despite my orders: it is good that your master should have someone to watch over him at night."

  1 marvelled greatly that the physician did not consider the possibility of my becoming infected, but dared not ask questions.

  I accompanied him back to his apartment on the first floor. Hardly had we turned right, towards Cristofano's chamber, than we both gave a start: there we found Atto leaning against the door.

  "What are you doing here? I thought that I had given everyone clear instructions," protested the doctor.

  "I am perfectly aware of what you said. But if anyone has nothing to lose from keeping company with one another, it is we three. Did we or did we not carry poor Pellegrino? The boy here has lived shoulder to shoulder with his master until this morning. If we were to be infected, we are already."

  A fine veil of perspiration covered Abbot Melani's broad, wrinkled forehead as he spoke, and his voice, despite the sarcasm of his tone, betrayed a certain dryness in the throat.

  "That is no good reason for being imprudent," retorted Cristofano, stiffening.

  "I admit that," said Melani. "But before we enter this claustration, I should like to know what our chances are of leaving here alive. And I wager…"

  "I care not what you wager. The others are already in their apartments."

  "… I wager that no one knows exactly how we are to organise the days to come. What will happen if the dead should begin to pile up? Shall we get rid of them? But how, then, if only the weakest should survive? Are we certain that provisions will be supplied? And what is happening outside these walls? Has the infection spread or not?"

  "That is not…"

  "All of this is important, Cristofa
no. No one can go on alone, as you thought to do. We must speak of these things, if only to lighten the burden of our sad predicament."

  From the physician's weak response, I understood that Atto's arguments were breaching his defences. To complete the abbot's work, at that moment we were joined by Stilone Priaso and Devize who seemed also to have many anxious questions to put to the physician.

  "Very well," said Cristofano, yielding with a sigh before the two could even open their mouths. "What do you want to know?"

  "Nothing whatever," replied Atto superciliously. "We need first of all to reason together: when shall we fall ill?"

  "Well, if and when the infection comes," replied the physician.

  "Oh, come, come!" retorted Stilone. "In the worst case, supposing that this is indeed the pestilence, when will that happen? Are you or are you not the physician?"

  "Yes, indeed, when?" I echoed, almost as though to give myself strength.

  Cristofano was touched to the quick. He opened wide his round black, barn-owl eyes and, arching an eyebrow in an unmistakeable sign that he was disposed to talk with us, he gravely raised two fingers to the pointed beard on his chin.

  Then, however, he thought better of it and put off his explanations until evening, it being his intention, he said, to call us together after supper, on which occasion he would furnish us with whatever elucidations we might desire.

  Thereupon, Abbot Melani returned to his apartment. Cristofano, however, retained Stilone Priaso and Devize.

  "It seems I heard, when I was speaking to you a moment ago, that you are suffering from a certain intestinal flatulence. If you wish, I have with me a good remedy to rid you of that nuisance."

  The two consented, not without some embarrassment. All four of us then resolved to descend to the ground floor, where Cristofano ordered me to prepare a small portion of good broth with which to administer the four grains per head of Oil of Sulphur. The physician would, in the meanwhile, anoint the back and loins of Stilone Priaso and Devize with his special balsam.