At length he came to a decision. If they could not change owners, the three presents must at least disappear, be sent as far away as possible.
"He entrusted them to Benedetti. He instructed him to keep them here in Rome, where Mazarin never went. Moreover, His Eminence was adamant that he did not want these gifts to remain on any property of his."
"Would it not have been simpler to destroy them?"
"Of course, but in such cases, you never know how matters will end up. And what if one day he might wish to employ a necromancer to disperse the magic power of the three objects? If he were to destroy them there could be no going back. The story was absurd from beginning to end, but Mazarin did not care for risks, not even the most insignificant ones. The gifts must remain accessible.
"So Benedetti kept them here," I deduced.
"In reality, when the Cardinal gave him his instructions, the Vessel did not yet exist, as I've explained to you. But now I am coming to the point."
The Cardinal was so beset by the memory of that visionary madwoman, Capitor, and by that absurd business of the three presents, that to the bitter end he remained undecided as to whether to keep them or send them away. After deciding to entrust them to Benedetti, his anxiety was still too great. So the Cardinal took a second decision which would, in other circumstances, have been unthinkable for a worldly-wise man like himself, who dealt with things hard and fast and cared nothing for superstition or charms to ward off the evil eye.
"Not knowing whether he had taken the right decision or not, he had their portrait painted."
"How could that be? Did he have a picture of them made?"
"He wanted at least to keep the image of them. It may sound stupid to you, but that was how it was."
"And who painted the… portrait of the three presents?"
"There was at that time a Fleming in Paris, a painter. He made fine things. As you may know, the Flemings are very good at painting still lives, tables laden with food, flower compositions and suchlike. The Cardinal arranged for him to paint a quick portrait of the gifts. I personally have not seen it. But I have seen the presents themselves, including the Tetrachion," he concluded, implicitly confirming that we were visiting the Vessel in order to find it.
"The idea would never have come into my head to have a portrait painted of three inanimate things and, what is more, how can I put it…"
"With a spell on them? Of course not. But the Cardinal had learned from the Bastard that he too had done the same thing. In Antwerp, before leaving for Paris, he had for his pleasure had a picture made of the gifts, but with the celestial globe instead of the terrestrial one, which was still in the goldsmith's workshop waiting to be attached to the solid gold pedestal."
Thus, having entered that villa for the first time on the traces of three cardinals and their secret meetings in preparation for the next conclave, I now discovered it also to be the depository of another triad: Capitor's gifts.
The great change in Atto's words at that crucial juncture could not and did not escape me. He had returned to Rome, declaring that his intention was to remain there until the next conclave, in order to watch over its proceedings on behalf of the King of France. At the same time, he had (and this was truly singular) passed over in silence the other great event of the moment: the political and dynastic struggle for the succession to the Spanish throne. This, however, was exercising him in no uncertain manner, as I had learned from reading his correspondence with the Connestabilessa. Now, at last, the Abbot was also beginning to betray his secret interest in his speech. It was no accident that, no sooner had I mentioned the mysterious Tetrachion in connection with the Spanish succession than he had reacted like a wounded animal, since when he had had no other thought than to drag me to the Vessel in search of traces of the missing object. Always assuming that it was indeed an object, as I myself observed.
"Pardon me, Signor Atto, but there is something that is not clear to me. The chambermaid at the Spanish Embassy spoke to me of the Tetrachion as the heir to the Spanish throne, thus of a person. In your view, however, it is an object."
"I know no more than you," he cut me short.
That answer did not satisfy me, and I was about to query it when it was I who started at a noise. I had heard it distinctly, quite separately from the faint sound of the music.
"Was it you?"
"No, you know perfectly well it was not."
The time had come to look around us and to find out what was going on in our neighbourhood.
From the central window in the salon, one could see them rather well. They were down below, in the garden. He was young, not very tall, and rather gauche; far from ugly, but with little eyes that seemed still unsure of where they were meant to be in the oval of his face; his lineaments were elastic, his nose too large and swollen. He was of that unripe age when the body, held hostage by disorderly springtime forces, is expanding from within and almost bursting the tender cocoon of childhood.
His nervous, uncertain gait betrayed an artificial attempt at gallantry and, at the same time, a well brought up sixteen-year- old's overwhelming desire to be able at last to act freely.
Then there was the maiden. From that angle (with our noses pressed against the window panes, but a little too far to the left) we could see her only obliquely; but I knew her all too well from the encounter the day before.
At first he took her arm, then suddenly let go of it, stood facing her and walked backwards, accompanying some pleasantry with animated gesticulation. He placed his hand in jest on the hilt of his sword, miming acts of heroism or evoking duels.
She laughed and let him play on; she was walking lightly, almost like a ballerina dancing on her toes, turning a little pink lace parasol, a magic calyx in which she captured his words. Her hair was in slight disarray, betraying the many kisses just given, or the burning desire to receive them soon, at once, behind the next corner.
Of the conversation, there reached us only a few fragments.
"I would like… if only you knew…" I managed to overhear him say, amidst the rustling of the foliage.
"Majesty, when do you… can happen…" was all I heard of her reply.
I turned to Atto.
He had stepped back and distanced himself from the window. He stood there like a stone idol, looking on with his eyes glazed, his jaws clenched, his lips tightly closed.
When I turned to observe the pair, they were disappearing behind the nearest hedge.
We remained a few moments longer, with our gaze fixed on the place where the couple had vanished from our sight.
"The maiden was… very like the portrait of the Connestabilessa when young," said I, hesitantly. "But the young man's face was familiar, too."
Atto remained silent. In the meantime, the melody of the folia became audible once more.
"Perhaps I have seen him portrayed in a statue… Is that possible?" I added, not daring to utter my impression more openly.
"He does indeed resemble a bust on the external facade of the Vessel, out there in one of the niches. But above all, he resembles one of the portraits you have seen here in the house."
"Which one?"
At first, he did not answer. Then he drew in breath and released the inner burden which had been weighing him down until that moment.
"There are things in this accursed place which are beyond my understanding. Perhaps the subsoil gives off unhealthy vapours; I know that does occur in some places."
"Do you mean to say that we could be the victims of hallucinations?"
"Perhaps. Whatever the case may be, we are here for a specific purpose and we shall allow no one to stand in our way. Is that clear?" he exclaimed, suddenly raising his voice, as though someone within those walls were listening.