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to draw the water which he drank at his meals, fearing that he might fall victim to toxic potions. Did not John of Austria die from wearing poisoned boots? Stilone Priaso recalled how Catherine de' Medici had poisoned Jeanne d Albret, the mother of Henry IV using perfumed gloves and collars, and how she had attempted to repeat the exercise by offering her own son a marvellous book on hunting, the pages of which were a little gummed together, so that he, licking his fingers to turn them, would imbibe the fatal Italian poison with which they were impregnated.
    Such murderous preparations had, asserted another guest, been the province of perfumers and astrologers. And someone dusted off the tale of how Saint-Barthelemy, the servant of the ill-famed Prior of Cluny, had killed the Cardinal of Lorraine by paying him in poisoned gold coin. Henry of Luxembourg died—O subtle blas­phemy!—of poison concealed in the consecrated host with which he took Communion.
    Now, Stilone Priaso began to parley closely with one guest after another, admitting that so many fantastic things had always been said about poets and those who practised the art of fine writing; but he was only a poet, and born for poetry, may God pardon his immodesty!
    They then all turned to me and began again to belabour me with questions about the broth which I had served Signor di Mourai that morning. I had to repeat several times that absolutely no one but myself had been near the dish. Only with difficulty were they at last convinced, and they then ceased paying attention to me.
    I noticed all of a sudden that the only one to have left the com­pany was Abbot Melani. It was late now, and I resolved to go down to the kitchen in order to wash up.
    In the corridor, I almost collided with the young Englishman, Si­gnor di Bedfordi, who struck me as being rather agitated; perhaps because, having transferred his effects to a new chamber, he had not been present for the chirurgeon's diagnosis. This guest was dragging himself along slowly and seemed unusually afflicted. When I stopped in front of him, he gave a start.
    "It is I, Signor Bedfordi," I reassured him.
    He looked dumbly, lost in his daydreams, at the lamp I bore in my hand. For the first time, he had abandoned his usual phlegmatic pose, which gave away his affected and haughty nature, one that caused him to be repelled (and he often gave me proof thereof) by my serv­ant's simplicity. Born of an Italian mother, Bedfordi had no difficulty expressing himself in our language. On the contrary, his eloquence, in the conversations that accompanied their meals, was much appreci­ated by the other guests.
    His silence that evening therefore struck me all the more. I ex­plained to him that, in the doctor's opinion, there was no cause for anxiety, since this was certainly not a case of plague. It was, however, suspected that Mourai might have ingested a poison.
    He stared at me, with his mouth hanging half open, and answered not a word. He retreated several paces, then turned round and re­turned to his chamber, where I heard him lock himself in.
     

Night the First
Between the 11th &12th September, 1683
    *
    "Forget it, my boy."
    This time it was my turn to be startled. I found myself facing Ab­bot Melani, who had come down from the second floor.
    "I am hungry. Kindly accompany me to the kitchen."
    "If you please, Sir, first I should tell Master Pellegrino. He has forbidden me to draw on provisions outside regular luncheon and supper hours."
    "Never fear, your Master Pellegrino is now hard at it with Madam Bottle."
    "And Doctor Cristofano's orders?"
    "Those were not orders, but prudent advice; which I regard as superfluous."
    He preceded me downstairs, where the dining chamber and the kitchen were situated. In the latter, to satisfy his request, I found a little bread and cheese and a beaker of red wine. We sat down at the work table where I and my master usually ate.
    "Tell me, where do you come from?" he asked me, as