Nevertheless, I shall come. I shall do as Lidio desires. So we shall meet at the Villa Spada. This I promise you.
Here again was an allusion to Herodotus. She wrote of Lidio, in other words of Croesus, King of Lydia, the name by which, I had the day before discovered, Atto and Maria referred to the Most Christian King.
I collected my thoughts. So it had been Lidio, the Most Christian King in person, who had asked Maria to accept Cardinal Spada's invitation! And why should he have done that?
I read and reflected, until I had an intuition: the Sovereign wanted to convince Maria to return to France. That was what Abbot Melani's mission must be about. And the backdrop to all this was provided by the nuptials at Villa Spada.
The King of France was filled with nostalgia for the Connestabilessa. Had not Atto himself given me to understand this the day before, during our last visit to the Vessel? He had even revealed to me that Madame de Maintenon wanted the King to see Maria again now that she was old, in the hope of blotting out once and for all the memory which the King retained from the years of their youth.
I imagined that the Sovereign might, through Atto, be pulling strings to persuade Maria to meet him again; perhaps by accepting the official invitation to court which Madame de Maintenon was so keen on, or perhaps a secret meeting, far from inquiring eyes.
But the Connestabilessa, judging by the letter I had before me, had no intention of accepting. She considered that by now it was "all pointless", even that "what today may seem good will tomorrow turn out to be a disaster". She was probably referring to a possible meeting with the King; the joy of embracing once more would be followed by a bitter confrontation with the truth: the withering of bodies, the faded lineaments, the wilting of every charm.
Ah yes, I reasoned, the Connestabilessa would never show herself aged to the love of her whole life.
Anchored to these certainties, I continued the letter. I frowned: the Connestabilessa seemed suddenly to have changed the subject. She was speaking of Spanish affairs:
Have you heard of the jingle that is doing the rounds in Madrid? Charles V was Emperor, Philip II was King, Philip IV was but a man, Charles II is not even that.
My friend, how have we descended into such decay? The worms that infest the old trunk of the Monarchy are myriad but do not believe all you hear: many, far too many of them come from beyond the Pyrenees. Who inoculated in Spain's weary members the toxin of spies, plotters, artificial terror, misinformation, corruption? Who wants to see Spain voided from within, poisoned, intoxicated and made to rot like the walking cadaver of her King?
I am Italian by birth, I grew up in France and I chose Spain as my new fatherland; I can see when the shadows of the Great Jackals stretch over Madrid.
I left off reading; who were the Great Jackals? Probably the other European kingdoms. The report continued with a list of all the defeats of the past half century, starting with the bloody battle of Rocroy, when the Spanish forces who were winning ended up massacred by the French. The leader of the Spanish forces, Francisco de Melo, had thrown his victory to the winds, yet for this he received no sanction but a purse of twelve thousand ducats. How better, the Connestabilessa wondered, could one have fostered the decay and subversion of all values?
Since then, everything had fallen apart: the humiliations in
Flanders had been followed by the defeats at Balaguer, Elvas and Estremoz, the rout of Spain's armies at Lens and the shameful retreat from Castel Rodrigo. Then came the loss of Portugal after twenty-four long years of war and the uprising in Naples, put down only with the greatest of difficulty. (They had even proclaimed a republic). How could one be surprised by the continual military reversals when one knew that, to compensate for their lack of equipment, the Spanish armies had (as at the expedition against Fuentarrabia) been reduced to using antique arms from the collection of the Duke of Albuquerque, which had been rejected by the King himself a century before. How could one be surprised, knowing that Charles's father, Philip IY had for his most trusted counsellor a nun from an enclosed order who knew nothing of the world?
Passing from battles to diplomacy, matters became even worse: the Peace of Westphalia had humiliated Spain, while that of the Pyrenees had made her an object of ridicule in the eyes of all Europe.
Meanwhile, the members of the dynasty had been dying like flies: the first wife of Philip IX Isabella, had died at the age of forty-one, followed two years later by her first-born, Balthazar Charles; the little Prince Philip Prosper had died before reaching the age of five and Charles II's first wife had died of suspected poisoning when she was not yet thirty.
Now, at the end of this long Calvary, here in the capital we are reduced to utter chaos. The secret agents of both parties, all hired or held to ransom, circulate rumours of defeat, foment revolts, make every government hated by the people.
My friend, do you think they have not realised? The order is peremptory: let the Minister be corrupt, let the magistrate be arbitrary and let the priest sin.
The Grandees of the Kingdom have all been set at one another's throats, so that no joint action is any longer possible. Let every government be short-lived, so as to increase uncertainty. Let robber Ministers be dealt with clemently, or not at all, so as to convince honest citizens that Evilpays. Let the rulers tarry at ceremonies and festivities, indifferent to the fact that their country is falling to pieces. All hope must be lost: for the morrow, for justice, for humanity.
Only then, impelled by the powerful force of evil examples, will the plan of the Great Jackals come to fruition: the police will rob, the merchant will cheat, the soldier will desert, the honest mother will prostitute herself. Children will grow up without love and without illusions to sow disorder and unhappiness among future generations. Let Herod's test be renewed, may every seed of love die out; let madness flourish.
Every Spaniard's claim to rights, respect, dignity, must be destroyed. He must be convinced that his destiny matters to no one and that he can therefore count on no help. He must feel betrayed by everything and everyone, and he must hate.
In the face of his dismay, his hunger, his fear, Palace protocol must remain sumptuous, the privileges of the rich, shameless. Every day must, for Spaniards, bear the colours of disillusionment, the odour of betrayal, the bitter taste of rage; until, one morning, they will rise cursing their rulers, but with resignation. When that day comes, the time will be ripe.
The ruin or fortune of Kingdoms depends not upon finances, not upon armies, but on the soul of the people. Even the most sanguinary tyrant can in the long run do nothing against the hostility and mistrust of his fellow-countrymen. This is more powerful than cannons, swifter than cavalry, more indispensable than money, for true power (and every Minister knows this) proceeds from the Spirit, not the Flesh.
The people's scorn is a hot wind that no wall can stop. It will in the end dissolve the hardest stone, the most solid bastion, the sharpest sword.
That is why tyrants have since time immemorial yearned to crush the people, but not without first obtaining their assent.
For that purpose, however, the lie is essential, the mother and sister of all despots. They invoke dangers which they themselves have secretly created, magnified by newspapers, and to which they claim to hold the solution. To achieve this, they will demand and be given full powers. And with those powers, they will reduce the people to desperation.
What will then happen? The Great Jackals will exult. Oh, how stupid they are! For this will also be their own end: all will fight one another, to divide the spoils of dead Spain. A great fratricidal struggle, a new Pelopponese war, after which there will no longer be any possibility of peace, only more wars, this war's daughters.