Imprimatur (37 page)

But, above all, Kircher was a natural philosopher exceedingly well versed in antique and unknown languages. He had deciphered the hieroglyphs of the Alexandrine obelisk which now stood in the foun­tain erected in the Piazza Navona by the Cavalier Bernini. The tale of the obelisk was perhaps the most extraordinary to be told concern­ing him. When the enormous stone relic was found buried among the ruins of the Circo Massimo, the Jesuit was immediately called to the place where it had been discovered. Although only three of the four sides of the obelisk were visible, he had foreseen the symbols which would appear on the side that remained buried, and his prediction had proved correct even in its most abstruse details.

"But, when you met him, he was... how could one put it?..." I objected at that point in the narration.

"Say it outright. He was senile."

Indeed, that was so, at the end of his life, the great genius grew de­mented. His spirit, explained Atto, had evaporated, and his body was soon to know the same fate. Father Kircher in fact died one year later.

"Folly makes all men equal, kings and peasants," said Abbot Mel­ani, who added that he had in the days that followed made a couple of visits to well-connected acquaintances, and had received confir­mation of the painful situation, despite the Jesuits' endeavours to ensure that it was bruited abroad as little as possible.

"I now come to the point," said the abbot, cutting short the dis­cussion. "If your memory serves you well, you will recall that in Col­bert's study, the main thing that I found was correspondence sent from Rome and addressed to Superintendent Fouquet, written in prose which appeared to be that of an ecclesiastic, in which mention was made of unspecified secret information."

"I remember, of course."

"Well, the letters were from Kircher."

"And how can you be sure of that?"

"You are right to doubt: I must again explain to you the illumination which came over me today. I am still overcome by the emotion that it caused me—and emotion is the handmaid of chaos; while what we need is to put facts in order. As you will perhaps recall, when examining the letters, I noted that one of them curiously began with the words
mumiarum domino
, which I was at the time unable to understand."

"That is true."

"Mumiarum domino
means 'to the master of the mummies' and cer­tainly refers to Fouquet."

"What are mummies?"

"They are the corpses of ancient Egyptians contained in sarcoph­agi and preserved from decay using bandages and mysterious treat­ments."

"Still, I do not understand why Fouquet should be 'the master of the mummies'."

The abbot picked up a book and handed it to me. It was a col­lection of poems by Signor de la Fontaine, he who in his verses had lauded the singing of Atto Melani. I opened at a page where he had placed a bookmark and indicated a few lines.*

"It is a poem dedicated to Fouquet. Have you understood?"

"Not a lot," I replied, irritated by that prolix and incomprehen­sible poem."

"Yet it is all quite simple. Cephrim and Kiopes are the two Egyptian mummies which Superintendent Fouquet had acquired.

* I shall take your time and my own. / If I see that you're conversing, / I shall wait most patiently / in this superb apartment / where, from a strange land, / recently, after great wanderings / (not without labour and at some expense) / of Kings Cephrim and Kiopes were brought / the coffin, tomb or bier: / for the kings themselves are dust. / ... / So I left the gallery / most content, despite my chagrin, / for Kiopes and Cephrim, / For Horus and all his lineage / and for many another personage.

La Fontaine, who was his great admirer, speaks of them in this witty little poem. Now, I ask you: who, here in Rome, was interested in ancient Egypt?"

"That I know: Kircher."

"Correct. Indeed, Kircher had personally studied Fouquet's mum­mies, travelling to Marseilles, where they had just been disembarked. He then reported on the results of his studies in the treatise entitled
Oedipus Aegiptiacus."

"Then Kircher and Fouquet knew one another."

"Certainly. I even recall admiring in that treatise a fine drawing of the two sarcophagi which Kircher had had made by a Jesuit colleague. Therefore, the author of the letter and Kircher are one and the same person. Only today, however, did I put all this together and understand it."

"I too am beginning to understand. In one of the letters, Fouquet is addressed as
domino mumiarum
or 'master of the mummies', because he has purchased the two sarcophagi mentioned by Kircher."

"Bravo, you have grasped the essence of it."

The situation was indeed thoroughly complicated. Briefly, Abbot Melani had understood that Kircher had been in contact with Superintendent Fouquet in connection with the mummies which the latter had acquired at Marseilles and brought with him to Paris. Perhaps meeting him in person or by some other means, Kircher had confided a secret to him. Concerning this, however, the correspondence be­tween the two which Atto Melani had taken from Colbert's house contained no explanation, but only allusions.

"So you came to Rome not only to inquire into the presence of Fouquet, but also to uncover the secret referred to in those let­ters."

I saw Abbot Melani grow pensive, as though a disagreeable thought had traversed his mind.

"And it was not at all by chance that you came to the Locanda del Donzello, is that not so?"

"Well done. How could you tell?"

"I have thought it over a little. And then I remembered that, according to the letters which you found, the Superintendent had been seen by Colbert's spies in Piazza Fiammetta, near the church of Sant'Apollinare, as well as in the Piazza Navona: in both cases, a few yards from here.""Again, bravo! I knew at once that you had talent."

It was then that, encouraged by that compliment, I took a chance. When I put the question, my voice trembled a little.

"Signor di Mourai was Fouquet, is that not so?"

Atto Melani remained silent, but his face was answer enough. That mute admission was, naturally, followed by my explanations. How had I worked it out? Not even I could say. Perhaps it was simply the combination of a series of, apparently insignificant, facts that had put me on the scent. Fouquet was French, and Mourai too. Mourai was old and ill, and his eyesight had become very weak. After almost twenty years in prison, such would also be the Superintendent's condition. The age of both was the same: about sixty years, perhaps nearly seventy. Mourai had a young companion, Signor Devize, who however did not know Italy as well as his own country and, what is more, understood only music. A fugitive would need a guide skilled in the ways of the world; and that could well be Pompeo Dulcibeni. The aged gentleman seemed indeed, from some of his observations (concerning the price of textiles in Rome, the grist-tax, the supplying of foodstuffs to the Roman market) to be exceedingly well informed about commerce and merchandise.

Nor was that all. If Fouquet were really hiding in or passing through Rome, it is probable that he would not have moved far from his lodgings. And if he had been a guest at our inn, wherever would he have gone for a stroll at nightfall, if not to the Piazza Navona or to Piazza Fiammetta, passing in front of Sant'Apollinare? Moreover, as I had already confusedly guessed that morning on my couch, to sojourn at the Donzello was a choice more appropriate for someone of limited means; for our quarter, which once had contained the best hostelries, was now in a state of inexorable decay. Yet the old French­man certainly did not give the impression of being short of money, on the contrary. It was therefore probable that he wished to avoid encountering his peers, perhaps Frenchmen who might, even after so long a time, recognise a countenance as well known as that of the Superintendent.

"But why did you not tell me the truth?" I asked with a wavering voice at the end of my discourse, striving to contain my emotions.

"Because it was not yet indispensable. If I always told you every­thing that I know it would only cause your head to ache," he replied shamelessly.

Soon, however, I saw his mood change and he was clearly touched.

"I have still much to teach you, apart from the art of making de­ductions," he said, clearly troubled.

For the first time, I was certain that Abbot Melani was not simu­lating but, on the contrary, showing his pain at his friend's sad fate. So it was that, sometimes fighting back his tears, he told me that he had not come to Rome simply to investigate whether the news of Fouquet's presence was true, and thus to establish whether false rumours had been spread with a view to perturbing the Most Chris­tian King and all of France. He had undertaken the long voyage from France to Italy in the fond hope of seeing again his old friend, of whom he now retained only painful and distant memories. If (he had thought) Fouquet was really in Rome, he would surely be in danger: the same informer who had advised Colbert of the Superintendent's presence in the Holy City would sooner or later receive orders from Paris. He would perhaps be ordered to capture Fouquet or, failing that, to eliminate him.

That was why Melani, as he himself explained, had arrived in Rome torn by a confusion of conflicting emotions: the hope that he might again see the friend whom he had believed dead after years of harsh imprisonment, the desire to serve the King faithfully and, lastly, the fear that, if he were really to find Fouquet, he might be involved in what might follow.

"What do you mean?"

"In Paris, everyone knows that the King never hated anyone more than the Superintendent. And if he discovered that Fouquet had not died at Pinerol but was alive and free, his wrath would know no bounds."

Atto then explained to me that a trusty servant of his had, as on previous occasions, helped him to conceal his departure.

"He is a copyist of extraordinary talent, and knows perfectly how to imitate my handwriting. He is a good man, his name is Buvat. Every time that I leave Paris secretly, he looks after my correspond­ence. They write to me from all the courts of Europe to obtain the latest information, and princes must be answered at once," said he, boastfully.

"And how does your Buvat know what he is supposed to write?"

"A few utterly predictable items of political news, which I left for him before my departure. As for news of the court, that he could procure by paying a few servants, who are the best source of informa­tion in all France."

I was about to ask him how he had managed to conceal his depar­ture from the King himself, but Atto did not let me interrupt him. Once in Rome, he said, he had at last traced Fouquet to our inn. But the very morning when he set foot at the Donzello, he whom we still called Signor di Mourai tragically died. Thus, the abbot came barely in time to see his former benefactor, whom he had retraced in so sin­gular a fashion, die in his arms.

"And did he recognise you?"

"Alas, no. When I entered the apartment, he was already mori­bund, babbling meaningless words. I tried with all my strength to reanimate him, I shook him by the shoulders, I spoke to him, but it was already too late. In your hostelry, there died a great man."

Abbot Melani looked away, perhaps trying to hide a furtive tear. I heard him intone with trembling voice an agonisingly poignant melody:

Ma, quale pena infinita, sciolta hai ora la vita...*

1 was dumbfounded. I felt overcome by emotion, while Atto with­drew to a corner of the chamber, suddenly closed in upon himself. I called to mind old Mourai's features and gestures, as I had known him during those days at the Donzello. I tried to recollect words, expressions, accents which might link him with the great and unfor­tunate figure of the Superintendent, as I imagined him to be from all Abbot Melani had told me. I remembered his eyes, veiled and almost unseeing, his pale, old, trembling body, his cracked, gasping lips; but found nothing, nothing that might remind me of the Squirrel's pro­verbial vivacity. Or perhaps... yes: now that I thought of Mourai's minute and delicate form, of his cheeks, lined but not dried up by age; and his curved profile, and fine, nervous hands... yes, an old squirrel, that was what Signor di Mourai resembled. With not a ges­ture, not a word, not a gleam in his eyes: the Squirrel had settled into his eternal repose. One last effort, and he had made that sudden, final climb up the tree of freedom: that was enough. In the end, I concluded, while my tears flowed silently, what did it matter how Fouquet died? He died free.