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Fouquet's imprisonment was most rigorous: every communication with the outside world was forbidden him, whether oral or written: there were to be no visits of any kind or for whatever reason. He was not even permitted to take a breath of air within the confines of the fortress. He could read, but only such works as the King permitted, and one book at a time. Above all, he must not write: once returned, each book read by the prisoner was to be leafed through thoroughly by the faithful Saint-Mars, in case Fouquet might have annotated something or underlined some word. His Majesty charged himself with seeing to clothing, which was sent to Pinerol with each change of season.

* Unhappy thought, / Who can give comfort for't? / Alas! / Who can give counsel?

In that remote citadel, the climate was hard. Fouquet was not allowed to walk. Constrained to absolute immobility, the Superinten­dent's health declined rapidly. Despite this, he was denied the care of his personal physician, Pecquet. Fouquet did, however, obtain herbs with which to care unaided for his health. He was also allowed the company of two of his valets, who had agreed out of loyalty to share their master's fate.

Louis XIV knew how fascinating Fouquet's mind was. He could not refuse him the comforts of the Faith, but he recommended that his confessors should be changed frequently, lest he should win them over and use them to communicate with the outside world.

In June 1665, lightning struck the fortress and caused the explo­sion of a powder store. There were many deaths. Fouquet and his valets jumped out of a window. The chances of surviving that leap into the void were minimal; yet all three emerged unharmed. When the news reached Paris, poems circulated which commented upon the occurrence and called it a miracle: God wished to spare the Su­perintendent and to show the King a sign of His will. Many took up the cry: "Free Fouquet!" The King, however, did not yield; on the contrary, he persecuted whoever clamoured too loudly.

It was necessary to rebuild the fortress. In the meanwhile, Fou­quet spent a year in the house of the Commissary for War of Pinerol, and then in another prison.

In the course of the work, Saint-Mars discovered among the ashes of Fouquet's furniture of what the Superintendent's intellect was ca­pable. Louvois and the King were at once sent the little treasures of ingenuity found in the Squirrel's cell: notes written by Fouquet using a few capon's bones as a pen and as ink a little red wine mixed with lamp black. The prisoner had even managed to create an invisible ink and to find a hiding place for his writings in the back of a chair.

"But what was he trying to write?" I asked, shocked and moved by these pitiful stratagems.

"That has never been discovered," replied Atto. "All that was intercepted was sent to the King in great secret."

From that moment onwards, the King ordered that he should be searched thoroughly every day. Only reading then remained to him. He was allowed a Bible, a history of France, a few Italian books, a dictionary of French rhymes and the works of Saint Bonaventure (while those of Saint Jerome and Saint Augustine were not permitted him).

He began to teach Latin and the rudiments of pharmacy to one of his valets.

But Fouquet was the Squirrel in all things: his astuteness and industry could not be bridled. Goaded on by Louvois, who knew the Superintendent well and could not believe that he would allow him­self to be so easily defeated, Saint-Mars made a careful inspection of his underclothing. He was found to be wearing little ribbons of lace trimmings covered in minute writing, and many inscriptions were also found on the back of the lining of his doublet. The King at once ordered that Fouquet was to be issued solely with black clothing and undergarments. Towels and napkins were numbered so as to avoid the possibility that he might take possession of them.

Saint-Mars laid the blame on the two valets who gave him no peace with their requests and who always strove to favour their mas­ter, to whom they were devoted body and soul.

The years passed, but the King's almost obsessional fear that Fou­quet might somehow get away from him in no way lessened. Nor was he mistaken: towards the end of 1669 an attempt to help him escape was found out. It is not known who organised it, perhaps the family, but it was rumoured that Madame de Sevigne and Mademoiselle de Scudery were not unconnected with it. The person who paid the price for this was an old servant, a moving example of fidelity. He was called La Foret, and he had accompanied the Superintendent at the. time of his arrest in Nantes. After the arrest, he had marched for hours and hours to escape the musketeers who had placed a cordon around the city. Thence, he reached the nearest postal stage, whence he rode with all speed to Paris in order to give the grim news of the arrest to Fouquet's pious mother. La Foret had even gone so far as to wait by the roadside for the carriage bearing his master to Pinerol, so as to be able to salute him for the last time. Even d'Artagnan had been moved, for he had the convoy stopped and allowed the two to exchange a few words.

La Foret was, then, the only person not to have lost all hope. He arrived at Pinerol in disguise and even succeeded in finding a number of informers within the fortress and communicating with his adored master by gestures, through a window. In the end, his attempt was discovered and the poor man was hanged immediately. Life became hard for Fouquet. His windows were barred. No longer could he see the sky.

His health declined. In 1670, Louvois travelled to Pinerol in person, sent by the King. After six years of refusals and prohibitions, Louis finally consulted the Superintendent's old physician, Pecquet.

"How strange. Did not the King wish to see Fouquet dead?"

"The one thing that is certain is that, from that moment on, Louis seemed to be concerned about the health of the poor Squir­rel. Those of the Superintendent's friends who had not fallen into disgrace, like Pomponne (who had just been appointed Secretary of State), Turenne, Chequi, Bellefonds and Charost, returned to the attack and sent petitions to the Most Christian King. The turning point, however, came later."

In 1671, the number of special prisoners at Pinerol grew to two. Another illustrious captive arrived at the fortress: the Comte de Lauzun.

"Because he had married Mademoiselle, the King's cousin," I interjected, remembering Abbot Melani's previous account.

"Bravo, I see that you have a good memory. And now the tale becomes really interesting."

After subjecting Fouquet to years of isolation, the decision to ac­cord him a prison companion seems inexplicable. Even stranger is the fact that, in the immense fortress, he should have been given the cell next to Fouquet's.

Of Lauzun, all manner of things may be said, but not that he was an ordinary personage. At the outset, he was the youngest scion of a Gascon family, with neither fortune nor skill, a braggart and full of himself, who had, however, the good fortune to be liked by the King when the latter was very young and to become his boon companion. Although only a cheap seducer, he had succeeded in charming Mad­emoiselle, the very wealthy and very ugly 44-year-old cousin of the King. He was a difficult prisoner, and lost no time in making that quite clear. His attitude was tempestuous, bombastic, insolent; no sooner was he left in his cell than he set fire to it, also damaging a beam in Fouquet's cell. He then gave himself up to painful simula­tions of sickness or folly, with the clear aim of attempting to escape. Saint-Mars, whose experience as a gaoler was limited to guarding the Superintendent, was unable to tame Lauzun and, faced with such fury, came to call Fouquet "the little lamb".

Very early on (but this was discovered far later) Lauzun succeed­ed in communicating with Fouquet through a hole in the wall.

"But how is it possible that no one should have realised," I pro­tested incredulously, "what with all the surveillance which Fouquet had to put up with every day?"

"I have asked myself the same question many times," agreed Ab­bot Melani.

Another year passed. In October 1675 His Majesty authorised Fouquet and his wife to correspond. The couple's letters were, how­ever, first to be read by the King who arrogated himself the right to alter or destroy them. But there was more: without any logical reason, some twelve months later, the King had Fouquet sent a number of books on recent political developments. A little while later, Louvois sent Saint-Mars a letter for the Superintendent, adding that if the prisoner should request writing paper in order to reply, it was to be given to him. And that is what happened: the Superintendent wrote and sent two reports to Louvois.

"What did they contain?"

"No one has succeeded in finding out, although rumours immedi­ately started in Paris that they had been copied throughout the city. Immediately afterwards, however, it became known that Louvois had sent them back to Fouquet, saying that they were of no interest to the King."

This was an inexplicable gesture, commented Melani: first, be­cause if a memorandum is useless, it is simply thrown away; and sec­ondly, because it is practically impossible that Fouquet should not have given the King some good counsel.

"Perhaps they wanted to humiliate him yet again," I speculated.

"Or perhaps the King wanted something from Fouquet which he would not give him."

The concessions, however, continued. In 1674, Louis authorised husband and wife to write to each other twice a year, even though the letters first passed through his hands. The Superintendent's health again worsened and the King became worried: he did not permit him to leave his cell, but had him visited by a physician sent from Paris.

From November 1677, he was at last permitted to take a little air; in whose company? Why, that of Lauzun, of course; and the two were even allowed to converse! With the proviso that Saint-Mars should listen to their every word and faithfully report all that was said.

The King's gracious concessions became more and more numer­ous. Now, Fouquet even received copies of the
Mercure Galant
and other gazettes. It seemed almost as though Louis wished to keep Fouquet informed of everything important that was happening in France and in Europe. Louvois recommended Saint-Mars to place the accent, in his dealings with the prisoner, on the military victories of the Most Christian King.

In December 1678 Louvois informed Saint-Mars of his intention to hold a free epistolary correspondence with Fouquet: the letters were to be rigorously sealed and secret, so that Saint-Mars' only duty was to see to their delivery.

Scarcely a month later, the astonished gaoler received an aide-memoire penned by the King in person on the conditions to apply to Fouquet and Lauzun. The two could meet and converse as often as they pleased and could walk not only within the inner fortress but throughout the whole citadel. They could read whatever they wished, and the officers of the garrison were obliged to keep them company if they so desired. They could also request and receive any table games.

A few months passed and another opening came: Fouquet could correspond as much as he pleased with all his family.

"In Paris we were so excited," said Atto Melani, "for we were now almost sure that sooner or later the Superintendent would be freed."

A few months later, in May 1679, another long-awaited announcement was made: the King would soon allow all Fouquet's family to visit him. Fouquet's friends exulted. The months passed, one year passed. With bated breath they awaited the Squirrel's liberation which, however, never came. They began to fear some stumbling- block; perhaps Colbert was up to his usual tricks.

In the end, no pardon came. Instead, like a bolt of lightning re­ducing hearts to ashes, came news of the sudden death of Nicolas Fouquet in his cell at Pinerol, in his son's arms. It was 23rd March,
1680.

"And what about Lauzun?" I asked, as we climbed the vertical well that led back to the inn.

"Yes, Lauzun. He remained in prison a few months longer. Then he was freed."

"I do not understand; it is as though Lauzun had been imprisoned to stay close to Fouquet."

"That is a good guess. Yet, I wonder, what for?"

"Well, nothing comes to mind, except... to make him talk. To get Fouquet to say something which the King wished to know, something which..."

"That will do. Now you know why we are about to search Pompeo Dulcibeni's chamber."

The search was far less difficult than expected. I kept an eye on the corridor, while Atto entered the Marchigiano's chamber carrying only a candle. I heard him rummage for a long time, with intervals of silence. After a few minutes, I too entered, stirred both by the fear of being discovered and by curiosity.

Atto had already combed through a good many of Pompeo Dul­cibeni's personal effects: clothing, books (amongst them the three volumes from Tiracorda's library), a few scraps of food, a passport to travel from the Kingdom of Naples to the Papal States and a number of gazettes. One of these was entitled: