When we had covered the most difficult portion of the return journey, Abbot Melani asked Ugonio if he could procure him a copy of the key which he had used to open the stable door.
"I assure your most worshipful decisionality that I shall not emit to execute your desideration; and that, upon the earliest importunity. However, to be more padre than parricide, it would have been more perfectly ameliorating to have had it fabricated upon the past nocturn."
"Are you telling me that it would have been better to have the copy of the key made last night?"
Ugonio appeared to be surprised by the question.
"Indubiously, in the street of the chiavari, the key-facturers, where Komarek impresses."
Atto's forehead creased. He plunged a hand into his pocket and drew out the page from the Bible. Several times, he passed the palm of his hand over it, then held it up to the light of the lantern which he held in his hand. I saw him carefully examine the shadows which the folds cast in the lamplight.
"Confound it, how can I have allowed that to escape me?" cursed Abbot Melani.
And he pointed out with his finger a form which I only then seemed able to detect in the middle of the. paper: "If you observe carefully, despite the precarious condition of this piece of paper," he began explaining to me, "you will be able to find more or less in the middle of the paper the outline of a large key with an oblong head, exactly like that of the closet. Look, just here, where the paper has remained smoother, while on either side it is crumpled."
"So this piece of paper is just the wrapping of a key?" I concluded, in surprise.
"Precisely. And it was indeed in the Via dei Chiavari, where all the locksmiths and makers of keys have their shops, that we found the clandestine workshop of Komarek, the printer used by Stilone Priaso."
"Ah, then I understand," I deduced. "Stilone Priaso stole the key and then went to have a copy made in the Via dei Chiavari, near Komarek's place."
"No, dear boy. Some of the guests—you yourself told me this, do you not remember?—said that they had stayed at the Locanda del Donzello previously."
"That is true: Stilone Priaso, Bedfordi and Angiolo Brenozzi," I recalled, "in the days of the late lamented Signora Luigia."
"Good. That means that Stilone most probably already had a copy of the key to the little room that leads from the inn to the underground galleries. Moreover, he already had sufficient reason to visit Komarek, in order to have some clandestine gazettes and almanacks printed. No, we need not look for one of Komarek's clients, but simply one of our own guests. The person who briefly removed Master Pellegrino's bunch of keys needed to have a copy made of the key to the closet."
"And then the thief is Padre Robleda! He mentioned Malachi to see how I would react: perhaps he realised that he had lost the sheet of paper with the prophecy of Malachi underground and thought up a trick worthy of the best spies to unmask me, just as Dulcibeni says," I exclaimed, after which I told Atto of Dulcibeni's harangue about the Jesuits' vocation for spying.
"Ah yes. Perhaps the thief is none other than Padre Robleda, also because..."
"Gfrrrlubh," interrupted Ciacconio politely.
"Errorific and fellatious argumentations," translated Ugonio.
"How, pray?" asked Abbot Melani incredulously.
"Ciacconio assures that the provenance of the foliables is not Malachi: this, with all due circumspect for your decisionality, and, of course, decreasing the scrupules rather than increasing one's scruples."
At the same time, from under his clothing Ciacconio produced a little Bible, worn and filthy, but still legible.
"Do you always keep it on you?" I asked.
"Gfrrrlubh."
"He is exceedingly religious: a bigot, almost a trigot," explained Ugonio.
We looked in the index for the Book of Malachi. It was the last of the twelve books of the minor prophets, and so was to be found among the last pages of the Old Testament. I turned the pages rapidly until I found the title and, with some difficulty because of the microscopic characters, began reading:
PROPHETHIA MALACHITE
CAPVT I.
Onus verbi Domini ad Israel in manu Malachiae.
Dilexi vos, dicit Dominus, & dixistis: in quo dilexisti nos? Nonne frater erat Esau Iacob, dicit Dominus, & dilexi Iacob, Esau autem odio habui? & posui montes ejus in solitudinem, & hereditatem ejus in dracones deserti.
Quod si dixerit Idumaea: Destructi sumus, sed revertentes aedificabimus quae destructa sunt: Haec dicit Dominus exercituum: Isti aedificabunt, & ego destruam: & vocabuntur terminis impietatis, & populus cui iratus est Dominus usque in aeternum.
Et oculi vestri videbunt: & vos dicetis: Magnificetur Dominus super terminum Israel.
Filius honorat patrem, & servus dominum suum: si ergo Pater ergo sum, ubi est honor meus? & si Dominus ego sum, ubi est timor meus? dicit Dominus exercituum ad vos, & sacerdotes, qui despicitis nomen meum, & dixitis: In quo despeximus nomen tuum?...
I broke off: Abbot Melani had taken from his pocket the sheet of paper found by Ugonio and Ciacconio. We compared the two. Although mutilated, one could read in it the names Ochozias, Accaron and Beelzebub, all of which were absent. Not a single word corresponded. "So... it is another text of Malachi," I observed hesitantly. "Gfrrrlubh," retorted Ciacconio, shaking his head. "To be more auspicious than haruspicious and more medicinal than mendacious, the foliable is, as Ciacconio suggested and ingested, with all deference to the sagacity of your decisionality, from the secondesimal Book of Kings."
And he explained that "Malachi", the truncated word which could be read on the scrap of Bible, was not "Malachia", the Latin name of the prophet, but what remained of the word "Malachim", which in Hebrew means "Kings". This is because, Ugonio explained patiently, in many Bibles, the title is written according to the version of the Hebrews, which does not always correspond to the Christian one. The Christians do not, for example, admit among the Holy Scriptures, the two books of the Maccabees. Consequently, the complete title, mutilated and masked by the bloodstains, originally read, according to the
corpisantari:
Carattere Lettura Tonda.
Caput Primum.
"Liber Regum" meant "Book of Kings", while "Secundus Malachim" stood for the "Second Book of Kings" and not for "Malachi". We looked up the Second Book of Kings in the Bible of the
corpisantari.
And indeed, the title and text corresponded perfectly both with the scrap of paper and with the explanation of Ugonio and Ciacconio. Abbot Melani's face darkened.
"I have but one question: why did you not say so before?" he asked, and I could already imagine the reply which the
corpisantari
would utter in unison.
"We had not the honorarium to be bequested."
"Gfrrrlubh," confirmed Ciacconio.
So, Robleda had not stolen the keys and the little pearls, nor had he entered the underground galleries, he had not lost the loose page from the Bible, nor did he know anything of the Via dei Chiavari or Komarek. And even less of Signor di Mourai, that is Nicolas Fouquet. Or to put it more precisely, there was no reason to suspect him more than anyone else, and his long discourse concerning Saint Malachy had been purely coincidental. In other words, we were back to our starting point.
In compensation, we had discovered that gallery D led to a great and spacious dwelling, the owner of which was chief physician to the Pope. But another mystery had arisen that night. To the discovery of the Bible had been added our finding the phial of blood which someone had inadvertently (or perhaps deliberately) mislaid in the gallery leading to the house of Tiracorda.
"Do you think that the phial was lost by the thief?" I asked Abbot Melani.
At that moment, the abbot tripped on a stone protruding from the ground and fell heavily. We helped him to his feet, although he refused all assistance; he dusted himself down hurriedly, most put out by what had happened, and uttered many imprecations against the builders of the gallery, the plague, physicians, the quarantine and, finally, against the blameless
corpisantari
who, overwhelmed by so many unmerited insults, exchanged glances full of humiliation.
I was thus able, thanks to that apparently insignificant incident, to measure clearly the unexpected change which had, for some time, come over Abbot Melani. While, on the first days, his eyes had sparkled, now they were often lost in thought. His proud bearing had taken on a more cautious aspect, his once confident gestures had grown hesitant. His acute and perspicacious reasoning sometimes gave way to doubts and reticence. True, we had successfully penetrated the house of Tiracorda, exposing ourselves to the gravest risks. True, we had boldly explored new passages almost blindly, guided more by Ciacconio's nose than by our lanterns. Yet Abbot Melani's hand seemed from time to time to tremble slightly, while his eyes would close in a mute prayer for salvation.
This new state of mind, which for the time being surfaced just occasionally like a half-submerged wreck from the past, had become manifest only recently, indeed very recently. It was difficult to tell exactly when it had begun. It had, indeed, arisen from no particular event, but from occurrences both old and new, which were now settling awkwardly into one single form: a form which, however, remained undefined. Its substance was, however, black and bloody, like the fear which, I was now certain, troubled Abbot Melani's thoughts.
From gallery D, we had returned to gallery C, which we would doubtless need now to explore thoroughly. This time, however, leaving to our right branch E, which led to the Palace of the Chancery, we went straight on.
I noted the absorbed expression of Abbot Melani and above all his silence. I guessed that he must be meditating upon our discoveries, and therefore decided to question him with the curiosity which he himself had instilled in me only a few hours before.
"You said that Louis XIV never hated anyone more than Superintendent Fouquet."
"Yes."
"And that, supposing he had discovered that Fouquet had not died at Pinerol but was here in Rome, alive and free, his wrath would certainly have been unleashed anew."
"Precisely."
"But why such implacable rage?"
"That is nothing compared to the Sovereign's brooding fury at the time of the arrest and during the trial."
"Was it not enough for the King that he had been dismissed?"
"You are not the only one to have asked such questions. And you must not be surprised, for no one has ever found an answer to that. Not even I. At least, not yet."
The mystery of Louis XIV's hatred for Fouquet, explained Abbot Melani, was a matter of endless discussion in Paris.
"There are things which, for lack of time, I have not yet been able to tell you."
I pretended to accept this excuse. But I now knew that, because of his new state of mind, Atto was prepared to confide in me many things which he had hitherto kept to himself. It was thus that he again evoked those terrible days in which the noose of the conspiracy tightened around the Superintendent's neck.
Colbert began to spin his web from the day when Cardinal Mazarin died. He knew that he must act under cover of the state's interests and the glory of the monarchy. He also knew that he did not have much time: he must act quickly while the King was still inexpert in financial matters. Louis was unaware of what had really been going on under the government of Mazarin, whose machinations escaped him. The only one with access to the Cardinal's papers was Colbert, the master of a thousand secrets. And, while he was already tampering with the documents and falsifying evidence, the Serpent lost no opportunity to instil in the Sovereign, like a subtle poison, mistrust for the Superintendent. In the meanwhile, he soothed the latter with pledges of loyalty. The plot was working perfectly: three months before the festivities at the Chateau de Vaux, the King was already meditating on how to bring down his Superintendent of Finances. There remained, however, a final obstacle: Fouquet, who still held the office of Procurator-General, enjoyed parliamentary immunity. The
Coluber
, adducing the pretext of the King's urgent need for money, persuaded the Squirrel to sell his office.