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I did not take offence at Abbot Melani's unfortunate expression; well I knew that many of my less fortunate fellows populated the dark lairs of the criminal fraternity, and I was aware that I for my part had been kissed by good fortune.

Buvat had returned, washed, combed and wearing clean clothes, but the sateen of his dark green shoes was visibly threadbare, if not torn; one of the oaken heels was shattered and the buckles dangled, almost completely ripped away from their moorings.

"I left my new shoes behind at the Palazzo Rospigliosi," he at last summoned up the courage to admit, "but I promise you that I shall go and retrieve them before evening."

"Take care not to forget your head, then," said the Abbot with a sigh of resignation that betrayed contempt, "and do not waste time loafing around as usual."

"How is your arm?" I asked.

"Magnificent, I simply adore being sliced up with a sharp blade," he replied, remembering at last to open the letter which had been delivered to him.

As he read it, a rapid succession of contrasting expressions crossed his features: first he frowned, then his face opened for a few instants in a fleshy and heart-warming smile that caused the dimple on his chin to tremble. At length, he looked pensively out of the window, his gaze lost in the sky. He had grown pale.

"Some bad tidings?" I asked timidly, exchanging a questioning glance with his secretary.

We understood from the vacant look on the Abbot's face that he had heard nothing.

"Maria…" I seemed to hear him murmur, before slipping the badly crumpled letter into the pocket of his dressing gown. Suddenly, Atto Melani looked old and tired again.

"Now go away. You too, please, Buvat. Leave me alone."

"But… are you sure that you need nothing else?" I asked hesitantly.

"Not now. Kindly return tomorrow evening at nightfall."

We had left the Abbot's apartments and descended the service stairs, and within moments my forehead and that of Buvat felt again the scorching breath of the afternoon heat.

I was dumbstruck: why had Atto fallen into such grave prostration? Who was the mysterious Maria whose name had so softly touched his lips? Was she a woman of flesh and blood or had he perhaps invoked the Blessed Virgin?

In any case, I thought, as I walked vigorously beside Buvat, it all seemed inexplicable. Atto's faith was certainly not fervent: never — not even at moments of the greatest danger — did I once recall him invoking the assistance of heaven. And yet it would be even stranger if this Maria were a woman of this world. The sigh with which Atto had murmured that name and the pallor which came into his face suggested a promise not kept, an old and unrequited passion, a torment of the heart: in short, a love entanglement.

Love for a woman: the one test, I thought, to which Atto the castrato would never be equal.

"You will have a long ride under the sun to Palazzo Rospigliosi, if you want to recover your shoes," said I, turning to Buvat, as I looked in the direction of the stables, seeking the groom.

"Alas," he replied with a grimace of discontent, "and I have not even had lunch."

I seized the opportunity without an instant's hesitation.

"If you so desire, I shall arrange for something to be prepared for you quickly in the kitchens. That is, of course, if you do not mind…"

Abbot Melani's secretary did not need to be asked twice. We turned swiftly on our heels and, after leaving the great house through the back door we were soon in the chaos of the Villa Spada's kitchens.

There, amidst the to-ing and fro-ing of the scullions who were cleaning and the assistant cooks who were getting ready to prepare the evening meal, I gathered together a few leftovers: three spiny needlefish cleansed of their salt, two unleavened ring-cakes and a fine white and azure chinoiserie in the form of a goblet, full of green olives with onions. I also obtained a small carafe of Muscatel wine. For myself, by now almost dying of hunger, I broke off a pair of rough hunks from a large cheese with herbs and honey and laid them on lettuce leaves which I retrieved still fresh from the remains of the luncheon's garnishings. It was certainly not enough to sate my appetite after a day's work, but it would at least enable me to survive until suppertime came.

In the febrile activity of the kitchens, it was not easy to find a corner in which to consume our late meal. What was more, I was looking for a discreet recess in which to further my acquaintance with that strange being who was acting as secretary to Atto Mel ani. Thus I might perhaps be able to clarify my ideas somewhat about this Maria and the singular behaviour of the Abbot, as well as the plans which the latter was hatching for his own future and, a fortiori, for mine.

I therefore proposed to Buvat, who needed no persuading, that we should sit on the grass in the park, in the shade of a medlar or peach tree, where we should also enjoy the advantage of being able to pluck a tasty fruit for our dessert directly from the tree. Without so much as a by-your-leave, we seized a basket and a double piece of jute and walked along the gravel scorched by the midday sun in the direction of the chapel of the Villa Spa da. The dense grove of delights which stood behind it was the ideal place for our improvised picnic. Once within the perfumed shade of the undergrowth, the soft freshness of the ground gave instant relief to the soles of our feet. We would have settled on the edge of the wood near the chapel if a subdued and regular snoring had not revealed to us the presence of the chaplain, Don Tibaldutio Lucidi, curled up in the arms of Morpheus, evidently having thought the time ripe to enjoy a brief respite from the fatigues of divine service. After, therefore, placing a certain dis tance between the chaplain and ourselves, we at length chose as our roof the welcoming umbrella of a fine plum tree replete with ripe fruit, ringed by little wild strawberry bushes.

"So you are a scribe at the Royal Library in Paris," said I to open our conversation, as we stretched out the ample piece of sacking on the sward.

"Scribe to His Majesty and writer on my own behalf," he re plied, half seriously and half facetiously as he fumbled greedily in the basket of provisions. "What Abbot Melani said of me today is not exact. I do not only copy, I also create."

Buvat had resented Atto's judgement, yet there was a hint of self-deprecating irony in his voice, the fruit of that resigned disposition which — in elevated minds destined to fill subaltern roles — results from the impossibility of being taken seriously, even by themselves."What do you write?"

"Above all, philology, although anonymously. On the occasion of a pilgrimage I made to Our Lady of Loreto, in the Marches of Ancona, I arranged for the printing of an edition of certain ancient Latin inscriptions which I had discovered many years previously."

"In the Marches of Ancona, did you say?"

"Yes," he replied bitterly, allowing himself to fall to the ground as he plunged his fingers into the goblet of olives. " Nemo propheta in patria, saith the Evangelist. In Paris I have never published a thing: I must even struggle to obtain any pay. 'Tis as well that Abbot Melani is there to commission some small piece of work from time to time, otherwise that envious old skinflint of a librarian… But do tell me about yourself. It seems that you too write, or so the Abbot tells me."

"Er… not exactly, I have never had anything printed. I should have liked to do so, but did not have the means," I replied, embarrassedly turning away my gaze and pretending to fuss over serving him some slices of needlefish with butter. I said nothing to him about my one and only opus, the voluminous memoir of the events which had befallen the Abbot and myself at the Donzello inn many years before, and which Atto had now stolen from me.

"I understand. But now, if I am not mistaken, the Abbot has commissioned you to keep a record of these days," he replied, grasping an unleavened focaccia and greedily hollowing it out to make room for the stuffing.