"Buvat, put some order in these rooms," he ordered his secretary suddenly, as though he were addressing some slovenly manservant. "Wipe the floor with some cloths, and if you can find none, use the sleeves of your jacket, as you never change it. Pile up my papers, and go and get something to eat. And do it quickly, for heaven's sake, I am expecting guests."
Although unaccustomed to performing servants' duties, and wondering why Atto did not instead employ an ordinary valet de chambre, yet Buvat dared not rebel, seeing his master's extreme nervousness. So he began at random to tidy up the Abbot's documents, the ornaments, the remnants of luncheon still strewn on the divan and the numerous piles of books encumbering the floor here and there. Such was Buvat's inexperience that, despite the fact that I gave him a hand, instead of diminishing, the chaos only increased.
I saw that the Abbot was rubbing his injured arm.
"Signor Atto, how is your wound?" I asked.
"It is getting better, but I shall have no peace until I know who reduced me to this state. The strangest things have been happening in the past few days: first, my arm is wounded in the bookbinder's presence, then the poor man's death and, to cap it all, the attempt to rob you two…"
At that moment, someone knocked at the door. Buvat went to open it. I saw him take delivery of a letter from a messenger which, after closing the door, he hastened to hand to Abbot Melani.
Atto broke the seal and read swiftly. Then he stuffed the letter into his pocket and, speaking in a low voice, told us reluctantly of its contents.
"She will no longer be coming. She has had to stop, owing to a light attack of fever. She begs to be excused for her inability to advise me earlier, et cetera, et cetera''
A few minutes later, Abbot Melani showed us the door. The reason, as had also been the case the day before, lay in the letter from the Connestabilessa, which Atto wished to read properly, far from our curious looks.
Once I had closed the door behind us and taken my leave of Buvat, who was going to take a look at the library of the great house, I began to feel ill at ease. What had the Abbot summoned me for if he was now dismissing me without having commanded, asked or said a single thing? Bad news of the Connestabilessa's unexpected delay had indeed arrived; besides which, my task of keeping a chronicle had only just begun the day before. Yet, when I came to think of it, Atto had used me more as an informer (as at dinner the evening before) than as a biographer. Not only that: about the nature of that little book which seemed to lie at the heart of a singular series of misadventures, the Abbot had been distinctly sparing with information. Yet, hardly had he learned of the death of the bookbinder than Atto had rushed in furious haste to recover it.
Buvat had rejoined Melani, who was conversing with other guests in the gardens of Villa Spada when, an hour later, keeping the Abbot under frequent observation with his own spyglass, I set to work looking for the little bound book. When the binder had delivered it to him, it had been wrapped in a blue velvet cloth, and that now made it impossible to identify the appearance and colour of the binding.
I searched the apartment from top to bottom and examined all Abbot Melani's volumes one by one, but alas, not a trace did I find of a newly bound book: all the tomes showed signs of wear and frequent consultation. It was quite clear that Atto had brought with him to the Villa Spada only those books he most needed. Consequently, a brand new binding would certainly have caught my eye. For a few moments, I stopped again to peruse a few pages containing piquant episodes concerning cardinals: these had already proved very useful to me when it came to following the allusions and jokes which the eminences exchanged at dinner. Then I searched everywhere once more, but of that little volume there was no trace. Perhaps the Abbot had lent it to some other guest? If that were the case, the matters dealt with in the book could not be so very confidential.
Atto, as I already knew, feared that he might have been the victim of an anti-French plot, perhaps at the hands of the imperial party. Of this he was, however, not at all convinced. Sfasciamonti's talk of the cerretani, of whom he had never previously heard tell, had made him uncertain. To the Connestabilessa he had written that he wished to request an audience with the Imperial Ambassador, Count von Lamberg, but the latter, who was expected at the Villa Spada, had not yet arrived. He would surely be present on the morrow, at the wedding. Until then, the Abbot — and I — must needs wait.
Otherwise, I found myself thinking once more, what had I learned from Abbot Melani? A conclave was in sight, that he had indeed told me, and had even shown me a list of cardinals written in his own hand; but, apart from that? Where now was the didactic passion of the veteran agent who had imparted so many and such dense teachings to me at the time when I was working as an apprentice at the Locanda del Donzello? And Atto must indeed know plenty about conclaves: he had even boasted of getting a pope elected.
Abbot Melani had really aged, I concluded rather sadly. Now, rather than by word of mouth, I was obtaining clues and news mainly from his personal effects, which I had surreptitiously examined, from his clothing (among which I had discovered my little pearls) and, above all, from the secret correspondence with the Connestabilessa.
Madama la Connestabilessa, the Princess Maria Mancini Col- onna: on her account Atto had spoken with passionate prolixity during our excursion to the Vessel a few hours earlier. But that tale dated back to many, many years ago, and had nothing to do with the forthcoming conclave. Indeed, Atto had been at great pains to keep the "current" state of his relations with the Connestabilessa strictly to himself; he had not yet, for example, breathed a word to me of their common interest in the matter of the Spanish succession. Nor of whatever the Connestabilessa, born in Rome and brought up in Paris, might have to do with the Kingdom of Spain.
At length I gave up my search for the little book bound by the late lamented Haver, plunged my hands again into the Abbot's dirty linen and took out the folder of secret correspondence between him and the Connestabilessa. As on the first occasion, I found the letter from Maria Mancini together with the reply, as yet unsealed, by the Abbot. I scanned rapidly through both: I wanted also to have time to take a glance at the previous missives, which I had set on one side the day before.
The Connestabilessa's letter opened with a reference to the assault suffered by Abbot Melani:
What pain you have caused my heart, my friend! How are you? How is your arm? Is there really any reason to suspect the hand of the cruel Empire behind all this? I pray ardently that you should at least be spared by the hand of the Imperial assassins; for many, far too many, dead men bear a banner marked with the two — headed eagle of Vienna.
Take care, keep looking all around you. I tremble at the idea of your requesting an audience with Count von Lamberg. Do not eat at his table, drink not from the chalice filled by his hand, accept nothing from him, not even a pinch of snuff. Where the dagger failed, poison, the Imperial agents' weapon of choice, might succeed.
Do you always keep on your person the Bezoar stone which I sent you a few years ago? It will preserve you from all things toxic, never forget that!
I turned my mind again to the question: had I not found a pistol among Atto's personal effects? Clearly, he had not taken his own security lightly. The letter continued:
Never forget the horrible death of the Duke of Osuna who, no sooner had he been appointed general in charge of coastal defences in the Mediterranean, began to work for a truce with the French; but alas, after taking a pinch of snuff he was struck down by paresis of the spine and suffocation, and died at three o 'clock in the morning, without having been able to utter a word. And what should we say of the sudden and mysterious death of the Secretary of State, Manuel de Lira, who strove so hard for peace with France? Finally, permit me to remind you, despite the pain which the very thought causes me for reasons well known to you, of the most atrocious crime of alclass="underline" the late Queen of Spain, our most beloved Marie- Louise of Orleans, the first wife of King Charles II, who never lost an opportunity to convince her consort of the need not to join the league against the Most Christian King, his uncle, and was hated by many in Spain, amongst them, Count Mansfeld, the Ambassador of the Empire.