Not knowing Spain's political affairs, I could not understand to what the Connestabilessa was referring. I therefore passed on at once to reading the report itself and thus learned what had quite rightly given rise to so much discomfiture:
Observations which may be of use in relation to
Spanish affairs
When King Philip IV died, Charles II was still a child. The Regency thus went to his mother, Maria Anna. Incapable of governing the fate of the Kingdom on her own, Philip IV's widow appointed to the head of the government a Jesuit, her confessor Father Nidhard. Very soon, however, he was ejected by a conspiracy headed by Don John the Bastard. A few years later, the post was taken by Valenzuela, an unscrupulous adventurer whom Charles II, now an adolescent, had made a Grandee of Spain in order to make up for a banal hunting accident (when he had shot him in a buttock). But the Bastard instigated a second plot, exiled the Queen Mother and had Valenzuela arrested too. The latter's wife was arrested, incarcerated and raped. She ended her days begging and died mad. When, however, the Bastard died too, the Queen Mother returned and appointed a new Minister, the Duke of Medinaceli.
Medinaceli worked all day long, apparently exhausting himself in the process, but never achieved a thing. Despite this, he resigned because the task was too wearying. In the end, the Count of Oropesa took the reins. His health was delicate. He was tormented by constant attacks of Saint Anthony's fire and spent more time in bed than on his feet. After barely three years in office, he was thrown out by a palace coup and sent into exile. King Charles then appointed a new Junta without any chief minister. This, however, was soon nicknamed the "government of swindlers". Its failure gave rise in turn to a quadrumvirate consisting of three noblemen and a Cardinal. They achieved absolutely nothing, so there was yet another change of government: the Duke of Montalto came to power, but he too was soon dismissed. The King then recalled Oropesa whom he particularly liked, but the people rose in revolt and swept him away: disguised as a monk, he made a miraculous escape with his wife and son when the rebels came for him.
The public accounts are so disastrous and confused that no one can manage to reconstruct the State budget. Taxes are kept high by public officials so that they can make money out of them, milking surreptitiously the entries in the Exchequer or else exacting bribes. The Royal finances are in such a parlous state that even the staff of the Alcazar go unpaid. At the same time, they increase the taxes on meat and oil for three weeks in order to pay the actors who celebrate the King's birthday.
The French burst into Catalonia. The Spanish army was routed on the river Ter; Palamos and Gerona are under occupation.
El Rey, who looks upon government as the Devil looks on holy water, spends his days in the gardens of the Buen Retiro picking punnets of raspberries.
In the streets, the host of wretches, beggars, petty thieves and homeless people has grown out of all proportion. The people are on their knees. The humblest foodstuffs are paid for with their weight in gold. Thefts, homicides and rapine are the order of the day. Taxes on bakers' goods are raised and the bakers go on strike. Madrid, already famished, is breadless. Flour can be found nowhere. To obtain a little, the English Ambassador has had to send out a squad armed to the teeth, or else his servants would be attacked. To work as a baker means running a daily risk of being robbed and killed.
The only thing that the hungry people get for a reply is the latest in a long line of announcements that the Queen is with child and Spain will soon have an heir to the Throne, but no one believes the Palace's lies.
The darkest day was a year ago, on 29th April 1699, when the furious mob came to the Alcazar, under the windows of the Royal Family. The Sovereign had to come out onto the balcony in person and only by a miracle did he succeed in calming the insurgents. At Court, all is turning to catastrophe.
The King is paralysed by fear and ready to do anything he is told. But no one can or will offer him counsel. The factions into which the Court is divided are so many hornets' nests in which everyone, even good friends, can expect nothing but ruin from the others. France and Austria blow secretly on the fire of wrath, ambition and envy.
I broke off my reading: footsteps seemed to be approaching in the corridor. In a flash, I put everything back in its place and rushed to the door, ready to make my escape. Alas, I was too late: Atto Melani was returning. Fortunately, he was alone.
I took refuge in Buvat's little room, praying God that the secretary would not return too soon, and from there I watched through the half-closed door. The first thing that the Abbot did was to remove his heavy grey wig, which — seeing how little cool there was even at that late hour — he snatched off with a grunt of satisfaction. He placed it on the appropriate stand which he put on his bedside table. Then, moaning with fatigue, he rapidly undressed. The hectic day which had just come to an end had sapped the Abbot's strength: he had retired to his apartment without waiting until the end of dinner, and now he had not even called a valet de chambre to remove his shoes.
Hidden in the little room, I had perforce to witness Atto's undressing. When he had stripped, I was surprised to observe a body which was, it is true, extremely mature, yet in excellent condition. His skin sagged and in several places fell into folds; his shoulders, however, were straight, and his legs, which were tense and agile, seemed to belong to one twenty years younger. Nowhere on his lower limbs were there those bluish marks which old age inevitably brings. Well, I thought, were it not so, Abbot Melani could not have borne the strain of those intense days of action.
"The Abbot is afraid of dying forgotten. But if he goes on like this, he will live a great deal longer and will do much. Surely, he will have all the time he needs to go down in history," I concluded, laughing inwardly.
Atto extinguished the lamp and, bathed only in moonlight, went to bed without even scraping off the ceruse, the beauty spots and the carmine red on his cheeks. Very soon, he began to snore loudly.
I was about to go on my way when 1 remembered that I still had not managed to find the most important thing: Atto and Maria's two last letters. The Abbot must have kept them on his person. What better time to find them?
I searched his clothes from top to bottom, even the heels of his shoes, but found nothing. Melani's teachings, together with the many and singular experiences which I had lived through at his side, had, however, sharpened my senses and my wits. Thus it was that, looking attentively all around me, I noticed a curious detail. Atto had placed his foppish periwig, not on the dressing table, as he should normally have done, but on his bedside table; as though he meant to keep watch over it even in his sleep…
Straining to avoid making the slightest noise, an effort which caused me to break into a copious sweat, I succeeded in my undertaking: the letters were in an unlikely secret pocket inside the wig, in the starched web to which were attached the curled locks of artificial hair. The elaborate choice of hiding place left no room for doubt: the Abbot feared greatly that someone might get at these letters. Of course, said I to myself, how could one blame him after all the misadventures with the cerretani? So much care might, however, mean that the content of those letters was far more delicate than the previous messages, and perhaps even too hot to handle.
To my surprise, there were not two but five letters. At a snail's pace, cursing the creaking wooden floor, I at last moved away from the bed in which Abbot Melani was sleeping.
Three of the letters seemed rather old. Curious, I opened one of them. It was the ending of a letter written in Spanish, penned by a rather uncertain hand. Imagine my astonishment when I read the signature: yo el Rey*