Only a few minor incidents (all of them fortunately resolved by the prompt intervention of the servants, who had come running en masse) had momentarily disturbed the entertainment, causing poor Don Paschatio's heart to jump into his mouth. Prince Vaini, reckless as ever, had for a joke aimed his crossbow at the hat of Giovan Battista Marini, Bargello of the Campidoglio, whereupon the shot had gone off by accident. The arrow had narrowly missed Marini's cranium and had stuck into a nearby tree, taking his hat with it. Cardinal Spada, backed by his Major-Domo and a host of lackeys, had had to plead long and hard to avoid Vaini and his victim coming to blows. Challenges to fight a duel, several times uttered, had fortunately come to nothing.
In the meanwhile, Monsignor Borghese and Count Vidaschi, for want of nobler prey, had fired their arquebus at a large rook. The black (notoriously inedible) fowl had fallen to the ground, apparently badly wounded. When, however, the two aggressors had advanced to catch it, it had taken off, flying rather haphazardly among the other players and ending up perched on the fine, flowing tresses of Marchesa Grescenzi who exploded into screams of pain and panic. When at last the bird let go of her, the whole group took aim at it with arquebuses and crossbows. The poor creature, being wounded in one wing, could not gain height. When at last it landed on the ground, it was ingloriously finished off with a shovel.
The third incident was not the fruit of an excess of audacity, as in the case of Prince Vaini, but of total incompetence. Marchese Scipione Lancelotti Ginetti, who was notorious for his lack of wit, and even more so for his short-sightedness, shot a bolt from his crossbow at what he believed to be a bird perched on the topmost branch of a tall pine. The bolt struck a bough, causing it to shake violently. Out of the branches fell a whitish sphere which shattered on the ground.
"An egg," exclaimed the first.
"One does not shoot at nests, it is both pointless and cruel," exclaimed the other, turning to Marchese Lancelotti Ginetti.
Others gathered, all keen to stress the Marchese's error, at a time when the latter was pulling strings to be appointed Colonel of the Roman People (an ancient and noble office of the city's communal institutions), while many nourished the hope that he would fail in this. Moreover, any pretext was good for distracting attention from the hunt, which was yielding such meagre results. The Marchese tried to disculpate himself, claiming that he had been shooting at a big bird, while everyone was trying to hide their laughter, knowing full well that Lancellotti Ginetti could not see a yard beyond his own nose.
With their noses pointing skyward, many guests — all claiming themselves to be expert hunters — tried to understand to which bird the egg that had fallen to the ground might belong.
"Riparian swallow."
"Pheasant, in my view," proposed Monsignor Gozzadini, Secretary for His Holiness's Memorials.
"But, Excellency, on top of a tree…"
"Ah yes, that is true."
"A partridge," said another.
"A partridge? Too small."
"Excuse me, it must be a turtle dove, or at most a pigeon, that's quite clear."
"But even a white dove…"
"Perhaps it is a jay," ventured Marchese Lancellotti Ginetti, who seemed to regard it as somehow dishonourable not to pronounce his opinion on the egg which he himself had brought down.
"Come, come, Marchese!" butted in Prince Vaini with his usual insolence. "Can you not see that the egg is white, while jays' eggs are speckled? Even the dogs in the street know that!"
The entire group ganged up on poor Lancellotti Ginetti, stressing the gravity of his mistake with a series of "Ah, yes!", "But what's got into his head?", "Utterly absurd" and so on and so forth, all accompanied by allusive little coughs and the clearing of throats.
Suddenly, the ear-splitting report of an arquebus was heard. Everyone, including Lancellotti Ginetti, immediately ducked to the ground to avoid any further shots.
Fortunately, there were no dead or wounded. A quick check revealed that none of the gentlemen present had an arquebus. Moving further afield, none of those handling one admitted to having fired in the previous few minutes. Some of those present still had goose pimples from the experience, and moved away to resume the beat.
This incident, which I had fortuitously witnessed as I was in the process of moving one of the cages to a better position, filled my soul with a dense cloud of disquiet. At point blank range, an arquebus shot could only kill.
Out of a sense of duty, I at once reported what had happened to Don Paschatio; his face was marked in equal measure by anguish and terror. The one thing not needed at the festivities which he was overseeing was a dead man, perhaps one high born. He began lamenting that this hunting party was most inappropriate at the present time when a conclave was imminent, with so much mutual detestation in the air. Someone might give in to the temptation to settle old accounts.
I had, however, cooled down after the initial shock. I had my suspicions; but I could not yet imagine whether there were any grounds for them, nor did I know whether it would be wise to investigate the matter. In any case, urgent business now occupied my mind, calling me to action.
The business of spying, to be quite precise.
Evening the Seventh
13th J ULY, 1700
I found Atto in his lodgings. He had not taken part in the merry hunt: the hunt for Caesar Augustus had been quite enough for him, said he. In fact, he was too busy replying to the letter from the Connestabilessa. Now that he had accomplished that task, it was time for him to go down with Buvat for dinner in the gardens of the villa. I told him what I had learned from Don Tibaldutio: the cerretani even had a friend at Saint Peter's, whose name the chaplain had not, however, revealed.
"Ah yes? Very good, very good," he commented, "I shall ask Sfasciamonti to check up on this at once."
Half an hour later, after making sure that the Abbot and his secretary were at table, I again plunged my hands into his dirty linen and took out the little envelope of secret correspondence.
From my pocket, I drew the little book of The Faithful Shepherd which I had borrowed from the library at the Vesseclass="underline" now I was ready to read Maria's letters in the light of those verses. As on the previous occasion, I could find in the folder neither the Connestabilessa's letter nor the reply which the Abbot must just have penned. I searched among Buvat's effects, hoping to find an interesting letter, as had happened during my previous inspection, but this time I found nothing.
I rummaged everywhere, to no avail. I grew worried. Perhaps Melani was beginning to harbour suspicions of my incursions. Alas, Atto must have taken the letter with him.
It only remained for me to read the third and last report from Maria Mancini on the court of Spain, the only one which I had not yet read. Who knows, said I to myself, perhaps now that I had discovered the truth about the correspondence between Atto and Maria, now that I had got to the very heart of it, which had to do not with politics or spying, but with love, I might be able to retrace in those reports allusions and quotations which had at first escaped me. Glancing out of the window to make sure that Atto was a long way off and otherwise occupied, I opened the packet.
Attached to the report was a covering letter from Maria. It had been sent from Madrid two months before. The Connestabilessa was replying to a letter from Atto and confirming that she would be coming to Rome to attend the Spada-Rocci wedding.
My friend, I understand the point of view shared by Lidio and yourself, but I repeat my own opinion: it is all pointless. Moreover, what today may seem good will tomorrow turn out to be a disaster.