"You are forgetting one thing, however," the Abbot made clear after a while. "The Tetrachion that we saw up there was only the deformed reflection of ourselves."
"That's only what we've seen today. Besides, if we trust to those mirrors, we too must be monsters," I exclaimed with complete confidence.
My observation alarmed the Abbot: "Do you mean that the time before we might have seen those twins' reflections distorted by the mirrors?"
"Are you so sure you can exclude that?" I asked ironically. "We saw yesterday with our own eyes that those mirrors reflect one another. They may perhaps have sent us the reflection of the twins standing somewhere else in the penthouse, perhaps even confounding them with our own images. We were terrified by the distorted vision and fled for our lives without even looking around us."
Abbot Melani was drumming impatiently on the pommel of his walking stick.
"Why are you so unwilling to admit it, Signor Atto? There's nothing magical or inexplicable here. There's nothing to it but the physics of those mirrors and medical obstetrics which, for over a century, have described cases of twins born conjoined like the Tetrachion. And those twins we saw together had — just note the coincidence — the famous Habsburg jaw."
"And where are they supposed to have got to afterwards? We found no further trace of them at the Vessel."
"Once we'd found those distorting mirrors, we made no further attempt to find them. And that was a mistake. It was you who taught me seventeen years ago, with a wealth of examples: if one detail proves baseless, that does not mean the whole hypothesis is to be thrown out. Or, a document may be false, but tell the truth. In other words, as they say, we must be careful not to throw the baby out with the bath water. Now, however, we have fallen for all these errors."
"Then, listen here," retorted the Abbot, cut to the quick: "Yesterday I mentioned this to you. To be quite precise, Capitor said, 'He who deprives the crown of Spain of its sons, the crown of Spain will deprive of his sons'. This, if you want to know, does not, I believe, make any sense. Mazarin had no children, but his nephews and nieces had so many that the name of Mazarin is unlikely to die out at any foreseeable time. Do you know what I think? That all this is far too complicated to be true. I'm glad that I taught you never to trust appearances and to make use of suppositions, without censoring any, wherever evidence is lacking. But I beg you to calm down, my boy, to everything there's a limit. That madwoman was raving and she's making us lose our wits too."
"But think carefully about it…"
"Now, that will be enough of your nonsense, I'm tired."
Atto was looking out of the window at the heights of the Janiculum as we sped away: the villas, the verdant gardens, the gentle treetops; and then, at the city below, many-towered and abounding with the symbols of Christianity and the eternal power of the Church; and finally at the cupola of Saint Peter's.
I should have liked to have the Abbot's support for my reflections; but Atto had remained sceptical and had even laughed in my face and ended up by silencing me, even rejecting factual examples of what he had once taught me. I did not know whether he was incapable of understanding, envious, too old, or whether he really thought that, yes, he had for once listened to me drawing conclusions, only to find that I had come up with nothing but senseless ravings. Who knows whether mine were nothing more than the crude, ingenuous fantasies of a bumpkin who believes in monsters? Only one person could know that, perhaps.
We were approaching our goal. The postillion stopped the horses. I descended from the carriage, went to the other side and helped Atto to step down.
We walked the last few yards on foot, unhurriedly. On arriving in front of the convent, we stopped a moment to contemplate the facade. Shielding his eyes with one hand, Atto looked up at the windows of the upper storeys which in convents are traditionally reserved for guests staying incognito. Perhaps she was behind one of these.
Melani remained motionless, with his gaze fixed on those windows, as though he had come this far only to contemplate them, nothing more.
"It seems you'll have to climb plenty of stairs," said I, to shake him from his torpor.
He did not answer. Instinctively, I held out my arm to him, I know not whether to incite him to knock at the convent door or to offer him comfort. He hesitated. Then he handed me the rolled-up, sealed letter.
"There. Give her this as soon as you see her."
"Me? What do you mean? She is waiting for you and you have so many things to say to her and so many questions to ask, do you not want to…?"
Atto turned his eyes away, towards an old wooden bench, abandoned there by goodness only knows who.
"I think I shall sit down here for a moment," he said.
"Why, do you not feel well?"
"Oh, I am fine. But I should like you to go up."
I paused, disconcerted. "Do you mean that you will not be going?"
"I do not know," said Atto slowly.
"If you do not go, she will not understand."
"Go on, my boy, perhaps I shall follow you."
"But what will she say when she sees a stranger appear? And what am I to say? I shall have to tell her that you are a man of other times and you prefer to climb the stairs slowly…"
The Abbot smiled.
"Just tell her I'm a man of other times, nothing more."
I was unable to restrain a gesture of incredulity. My fingers closed around the letter.
"You are committing a folly," I protested weakly, "and besides.."
But Atto turned on his heels and made his way to the bench.
At that very moment (hard to say whether this was a coincidence, or because the nuns were secretly observing us) the convent door opened. A sister was looking questioningly at me, with her head peeping just outside the door. She was waiting for me to come forward.
I looked at Atto. He sat down. He turned towards me and raised one arm, a gesture combining a greeting and the order to go ahead. I just caught a glimpse of him as the sister closed the door behind me.
I was in a corridor, enveloped in that unmistakeable aroma peculiar to women's convents, smelling of orisons, fresh novices and dawn vigils. I followed my guide up stairways, steps and along corridors until we came to a door. The sister knocked, then turned the handle and looked in. A woman's voice said something.
"Please wait a while. There, take a seat here," said the nun. "Knock again in a few moments. They will let you in. I myself must go at once to the Mother Superior."
What was there in the letter I held tightly in my hand? Was it a message from Atto to the Connestabilessa, or was it rather a note penned by King Louis of France for his Maria? Perhaps both…
Days before, Melani had written that, when they met again, he would deliver to her something that would make her change her mind about the King's happiness. What exactly did that mean? The answer was in the letter 1 held in my hand.
I had little time but my decision was already taken. Atto's seal was badly applied; it had not stuck properly to the paper.
Here I was, about to raise the curtain on the most intimate spectacle of the hearts of those three old people. I unrolled the letter.
When I read it, I could hardly believe my eyes.
After I know not how much time, I knocked. My soul was serene, my spirit more lucid then ever.
"Come in," replied a pleasant feminine voice, mature but kind, gentle, well disposed.
She was, after all, as I imagined. I stepped forward.
After introducing myself and delivering the letter, I provided her with an explanation for Atto's absence, cobbled together in the most general terms. She was kind enough to pretend to believe me, nor were her words tinged with any note of reproach, only regret at have missed meeting Melani.
I bowed again and was on the point of taking my leave, when I thought that, all in all, I had nothing to lose. There was something I wanted to ask her; not about what I had just read — for that I needed no explanations.