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"A man of the Church and of science. Let me guess: Father Athanasius Kircher, perhaps," hazarded the doctor.

Dulcibeni did not reply, thus giving us to understand that the physician had guessed rightly. Then he recited: "
Aerem, acqiiam, ter­rain innumerabilibus insectis scatere, adeo certum est.'"*

"He is saying that the earth, the air and water pullulate with mi­nuscule beings invisible to the naked eye."

"Now," resumed Dulcibeni, "these minuscule beings come from organisms in a state of putrefaction, but it has only been possible to observe them since the invention of the microscope, and so..."

"He is known to many, this German Jesuit," interrupted Cristofano with a hint of scorn, "whom Signor Dulcibeni is, it seems, quot­ing from memory."

To me, Kircher's name meant nothing. But he must have been very well known: on hearing the name of Father Athanasius Kircher, the whole audience nodded its assent.

"Kircher's ideas, however," continued Cristofano, "have not yet supplanted those of the great authors, who, on the other hand..."

"Perhaps Kircher's ideas may to some extent be founded, but only sensation can provide a solid, trustworthy basis for our knowledge."

This time, the interjection came from Signor Bedfordi, the young Englishman, who seemed freed from last night's terror and was again his usual bumptious self.

"The same cause," he continued, "may in different cases produce opposite effects. After all, does not the same hot water harden eggs and make meat tender?"

"I know perfectly well," hissed Cristofano harshly, "who it is that circulates these sophisms: Master Locke, and his colleague Sidenamio, who know all there is to be known about the senses and the intellect; but in London they claim to cure the sick without being physicians."

"And so what? Their interest is in obtaining a cure," rebutted Bedfordi, "and not in attracting patients with their quacking, like certain physicians. Twenty years ago, when the pestilence in Naples was killing twenty thousand people in a day, Neapolitan chirurgeons and specialists came to London to sell their secret prophylaxis against the plague. Fine rubbish it was too: papers to hang around one's neck with the Jesuits' mark I.H.S. in a cross; or the famous parchment to be hung from the neck with the inscription:

At this point, the young Englishman, after arranging his red mane with some vanity and fixing his audience (except for me, to whom he paid no attention at all) with his glaucous, squinting eyes, stood up and leaned upon the wall, so that he could address us with greater ease.

The door posts of houses and the corners of streets were plastered over with doctors' bills inviting the people to buy "the
infallible
preventive pills", "
matchless
potions", "
royal-antidotes
" and "the
universal
anti-Plague-Water".

"And when they were not gulling the poor people with such-like quackeries," continued Bedfordi, "they sold potions based on mercury, which poisoned the blood and killed more surely than the plague itself."

This last phrase of the Englishman worked on Cristofano like a fuse, leading to a violent renewal of the dispute between them.

At that moment, Father Robleda joined the discussion. At first, he had muttered unintelligible comments under his breath, but now Robleda sallied forth in defence of his fellow Jesuit. The reactions were not long in coming and an indecorous altercation broke out, in which each struggled to impose his views by the force of his vocal cords rather than by that of reason.

It was the first time in my poor apprentice's life that I had wit­nessed so learned a contest, and I was both somewhat shocked and disappointed by the quarrelsomeness of the participants.

It was, however, thus that I obtained my first information about the theories of the mysterious Kircher, which could but arouse one's curiosity. In the course of a half-century of tireless study, the learned Jesuit had poured forth his multiform doctrine in over thirty mag­nificent works on the most varied topics, including a treatise on the plague,
Scrutinium physicomedicum contagiosae luis quaepestis dicitur,
pub­lished some twenty-five years previously. The Jesuit scientist claimed that he had with his microscope made great discoveries, which would leave the reader incredulous (as indeed they did) and which proved the existence of tiny invisible beings which were, in his opinion, the cause of the pestiferous infection.

In Robleda's view, Father Kircher's science was the product of faculties worthy of a seer, and in any case inspired by the Most High. And (I found myself thinking) what if that strange Father Kircher really had discovered how to cure the plague? However, the atmos­phere was so torrid that I dared not ask questions.

Throughout all this, Abbot Melani was as attentive as myself, in­deed more so, to the information concerning Father Kircher. He kept rubbing his nose, in a vain attempt to suppress several resounding sneezes, and while he did not intervene again, his sharp little eyes darted from one to the other of those mouths full of the German Jesuit's name.

I, for my part, was at once terrorised by the looming danger of the plague and fascinated by these learned theories concerning the infection, of which I was hearing for the first time.

That was why my suspicions were not aroused (as indeed they should have been) by the fact that Dulcibeni was so conversant with Kircher's old and forgotten theory about the plague. Nor had I noticed how Atto pricked up his ears when he heard the name of Kircher.

After hours of argument, most of the guests—overcome at last by boredom—had gradually slipped away to their beds, leaving only the antagonists. And a little later we all retired to sleep, without any peace being in sight.

*

No sooner had I returned to my chamber than I leaned out of the window and, using a cane, lowered to Atto's window one end of the string which we were to pull to give the alarm. I then laid me down on my bed, keeping my eyes half-open and my ears pricked up. Fear­ing though I did that I might not be able to resist sleep for long, I prepared nevertheless to keep watch; also because in the bed before me lay my poor master, and Cristofano had asked me to keep an eye on him. I placed some old rags over his loins in order to absorb any urine, and began my wake.

What Abbot Melani had told me had, I reflected, gone some way to making me more tranquil. He had without the least awkwardness admitted to his friendship with Fouquet. And he had explained why the Superintendent had fallen into disgrace: even more than the Most Christian King's disappointment, the determining factor had been Colbert's envy. Everyone knows the malignant force of envy: might not Devize's, Stilone Priaso's and Cristofano's gossip about Atto also be attributable to precisely that? Perhaps too much jealousy had been stirred up by the ascent of a mere bell-ringer's son who, from his beginnings as a poor castrato, had so risen as to dispense counsel to the Sun King. Certainly, the three had shown that they recognised him, nor could their talk be the fruit of mere fantasy. Nev­ertheless, Cristofano's hostility might be explained by envy of a fel­low-countryman:
"nemo propheta in patria",
says the gospel. What was one then to think of Devize's strange lie? He had spoken of visiting the Teatro del Cocomero in Venice, when it was in Florence. Was I to mistrust him, too?

Atto's tale was not only credible but grandiose and moving. I felt bitter repentance arise in my breast for having thought him a scoun­drel, a dissimulator ready to betray and to lie. In truth it was I who had betrayed the sentiment of friendship that had grown out of our first conversation in the kitchen, and which I had taken to be genu­ine and sincere.

I glanced at my master, who for many hours had been sleeping a heavy and unnatural sleep. We seemed beset by too many mysteries: what had reduced him to that state? And, before him, to what had Signor di Mourai fallen victim? And, last of all, what had induced Brenozzi to present me with those precious pearls, and why had they now been stolen?

My mind was still occupied with these painful thoughts when I woke up: without realising it, I had fallen asleep. A sound of creak­ing awoke me: I jumped up and rolled out of bed, but immediately a mysterious force cast me to the ground, and only with the greatest of difficulty did I avoid a heavy fall. I cursed: I had forgotten the cord linking my right ankle with that of Abbot Melani. Rising, I had tripped over it; and when I fell, the noise awoke my master, who moaned softly. We were in the dark; perhaps for lack of oil, my lamp had gone out.

I listened carefully; in the corridor, there was not a sound. Hardly had I risen, however, fumbling for the edge of the bed, when I again heard creaking, followed by a heavy thud, then metallic sounds, then yet another creak. My heart was beating hard; this was certainly the thief. I freed myself of the string that had tripped me and groped in search of the lantern which was on the table in the middle of the chamber, but with no success. With great trepidation, I decided then to leave the room and intercept the thief, or at least to discover his identity.

I plunged into the dark corridor, without having the least idea of what to do. Laboriously, I made my way down the stairs to the closet. If I found myself face to face with the mysterious individual, was I to attack him or to call for help? Without knowing why, I ducked and tried to approach the door of the closet, holding my hands out in front of me both to defend my face and to explore the unknown.

The blow was cruel and unexpected. Someone, or something, had struck my cheek, leaving me confused and in pain. Terrified, I tried to avoid a second blow by backing against the wall and screaming. My anguish became insuperable when I realised that no sound was issu­ing from my mouth; for such was my panic that it crushed my lungs and blocked my vocal cords. I was about to roll desperately on the ground to escape from my unknown adversary, when a hand grasped my arm firmly and at the same time I heard: "What are you up to, you little fool?"

It was beyond any doubt Atto's voice, and it was he who had rushed up when I rose in alarm at the creaking and pulled on the string. I explained to him what had happened, complaining of the blow I had received to the face.

"That was no blow, it was I who was running to help you—but you came tumbling down the stairs like a half-wit and collided with me," he whispered, holding back his anger. "Where is the thief?"

"I have seen no one but you," I murmured, still trembling.

"I heard him. While I was climbing the stairs, I heard his keys jan­gling. He must have entered the closet," said he, lighting a lantern which he had had the foresight to bring with him. From above, we glimpsed a slit of light issuing from under the door of Stilone Priaso, on the right-hand side of the second floor corridor. The abbot asked me to lower my voice and indicated the entrance to the little passage into which he supposed that the thief had gone. The door was ajar. Within, all was dark.

We looked at each other and held our breath. Our man must be within, aware now that he was trapped. The abbot hesitated for a moment and then opened the door boldly. Inside, there was no one.

"It is not possible," said Melani, visibly disappointed. "If he had escaped downstairs, he would have run into me. If he had run upstairs, even if he had succeeded in getting past you, there is nowhere left to hide. The doorway from Cloridia's tower to the roof has been sealed from the outside. And if he had opened the door of one of the other rooms, we should surely have heard him."

We were utterly disconcerted; but just when we were on the point of beating the retreat, Atto gestured that I was to stay put, and went rapidly down the stairs. I followed his lantern with my gaze and saw him stop at the second-floor window onto the inner courtyard. He put the lantern on the floor and I saw him leaning over the window sill. Thus, he remained awhile. Growing curious, I too approached the grate of the little window which gave light to the closet during the day. But it was too high for me and I could see nothing but the pale moonlit night. Returning to the closet, the abbot knelt down and measured the length of the floor with his palms, until he reached under the sideboard loaded with household utensils which stood against the far wall. There he stopped for a moment, then repeated the operation, taking account this time of the thickness of the wall. He then measured the distance between the window and the end wall. When at last he raised his hands from the dust, he grasped me without uttering a word and lifted me onto a stool; then, putting the lantern on my head, so that I had to hold it in place with my hands, he set me before the grate. "Do not move," he commanded, tapping my nose with his finger.

I heard him grope his way down to the second-floor window. When at long last he returned, I was impatient to know what he was thinking.

"Follow this carefully. The closet is a little over eight hands long; about ten hands, if we include the wall. As one can see quite clearly from the courtyard, the little wing to which this closet belongs was built later than the main body of the inn. Indeed, from the outside, it looks like a great pillar rising up to here from the ground, attached to the posterior corner of the building's west wall. Only, there's some­thing here that does not add up: the pillar is at least twice as wide as the closet. This little window is, as you can see, very close to the shelf, not more than a couple of palms from the end of the room. Therefore it should, when seen from the outside, be close to the outer corner of the wing. But, when I leaned out from the window on the second floor, I saw that the little window, lit up by the lantern which you were holding, was not even halfway along the wall."

The abbot stopped, perhaps waiting for me to reach my conclu­sions. But I, with my head cluttered to suffocation by all those geo­metric figures piled one on top of the other and adduced by Atto's rigorous reasoning, had understood nothing. So he continued: "Why so much wasted space? Why was not more room given to this closet, which is so small that the two of us cannot stand up in it without touching one another?"

I too went to look from the second-floor window, happy above all to breathe the fresh night air.

I screwed up my eyes. It was true. The light from the oil lamp which I could descry through the grate of the closet was curiously distant from the far corner, outlined by the pale moonlight. I had never paid attention to this, being too busy by day and tired by night to tarry by that window sill.

"And do you know what the explanation is, my boy?" asked Abbot Melani the moment I rejoined him.

Without awaiting my reply, he reached out with his arm to the sideboard and began busily to explore the wall behind the utensils. Panting, he asked me to help him shift the piece of furniture.

The operation was not too difficult. The abbot seemed not at all surprised by the revelation which met our eyes; half-hidden by the dirt which time's disrespectful hand had spread over the wall, there emerged the outline of a door.

"Here you are," he exclaimed, satisfied.

And without flinching, he gave a push on the door; the old hinges squealed.

The first thing that I noticed was a damp, cold draught blowing in my face. Before our eyes, an obscure cavity opened up.

"He went into there," I concluded, stating the obvious.

"That does indeed appear to be the case," replied the abbot, peering apprehensively over the brink. "This wretched little closet had a double wall. Would you care to enter first?"

My silence spoke for itself.

"Very well," conceded Atto, reaching forward with his lantern to show the way. "It is always up to me to resolve everything."

Hardly had he spoken than I saw him clutch desperately at the old door which he had just opened, pulled down by an irresistible force.

"Help me, quickly," he called.

It was a well, and Melani was about to fall into it, with conse­quences which would surely have been fatal. He had just managed to hold onto the doorpost with his legs dangling in the voracious dark­ness opening beneath us. When he had climbed back, thanks to my feeble support, we found ourselves in the dark. The abbot had let go of the lantern, which had been swallowed up by the black hole. So I went to fetch another one from my chamber, which I took care to lock. Pellegrino was sleeping peacefully, happily unaware—thought I—of what was going on in his hostelry.

When I returned, Atto was lowering himself into the hole. He showed himself to be unusually agile for his age. As I often had cause to note thereafter, he possessed a kind of controlled but fluid vigour of the nerves, which constantly sustained him.

It was not really a well, as he showed me, waving the lantern, for in the wall was set a series of iron supports rather like steps, which permitted a cautious descent. We climbed down gingerly into the vertical aperture, not without some trepidation. The descent did not last long: soon we were standing on a rough brick platform. We looked around us, pointing the lantern, and found that the way down was not cut off but continued on one of the short sides of the landing with a stone stairway around a square shaft. We leaned over, trying in vain to descry the bottom of this stairwell.

"We are under the closet, my boy."

I responded with a feeble moan in lieu of comment, seeing that this was of little consolation to me.

We went on in silence. This time, the descent seemed to be with­out end, also because of a fine slimy film which covered everything and rendered our progress quite perilous. At a certain point, the stair­way changed completely in appearance; excavated from the tufa, it became exceedingly narrow and correspondingly uneven. The air had become dense, a sure sign that we were underground.

We continued our descent until we found ourselves in a dark and sinister gallery dug out of the damp earth: our only company, the dense air and the silence. I was afraid.

"This is where our thief went," whispered Abbot Melani.

"Why do you speak so quietly?"

"He could be nearby. I want to be the one to surprise him, not the contrary."

However, the thief was not a few paces off, nor was he beyond that. We proceeded along the gallery, in which Abbot Melani had to walk bending down because of the ceiling—if that it could be called—which was low and rather irregular. He watched me move easily in front of him: "For once I envy you, my boy."

We advanced very slowly along a pathway occasionally made com­pact by stones and bricks scattered haphazardly here and there. We continued a few dozen paces further, during which the abbot re­sponded to my mute but foreseeable curiosity.

"This passage must have been built to enable one to emerge un­seen at some remote point in the city."

"In times of pestilence, perhaps?"

"I think a long, long time before that. It will never have failed to be useful in a city like this. Perhaps it has been used by some Roman prince to unleash his men upon a rival. Roman families have always hated and fought one another with all their might. When the German mercenaries sacked Rome, some households helped them to plunder the city, so long as they struck only at their rivals. It is possible that our inn may originally have served as the headquarters of groups of assassins and cutthroats. Perhaps at the service of the Orsini, who own many houses in the neighbourhood."