In Venice, a man clad in a cassock selected diamonds with the meticulous air of a prince. He gathered up a vast quantity of them, had them paid for by the banker Antonio Bartoloni, and departed the city, leaving behind a receipt, a promise of reimbursement, and the impression of having won the unreserved confidence of an entire household. It was by no means the first identity he had borrowed. While the chronicle enters his case under the name of Francesco Fava, the true identity of the man remains veiled in uncertainty: a contemporary French account of the trial notes that neither his true name, nor his native country, nor his trade could ever be established with any certainty. In 1607, he presented himself in the vestments of a fallen bishop seeking refuge and funds.
The stranger related that he had formerly been the Bishop of Venafri, in the Kingdom of Naples. His enemies, he averred, had brought about his deposition by falsely accusing him of an intrigue with the daughter of the Duke Gaetano. He claimed to have hastened to Rome to vindicate his honor, only to flee when his adversaries’ malice threatened his very life. Nothing in this tale allows for any independent verification of the bishopric he claimed to hold. Cast out, destitute, and stripped of protection, he had fled as far as Padua, where he besought the hospitality of the Bishop of Concordia. The latter, deeply moved by his guest’s misfortunes, agreed to succor him without laying upon him the burden of a protracted stay.
The fugitive explained that he had left ten thousand ducats behind in Naples, entrusted to the Marquis of Sainte-Erme. He sought to recover this sum through Venice, where a reputable banking house might facilitate the transfer. He professed a desire to purchase diamonds, pearls, and golden chains intended as gifts for reigning sovereigns and princes of the Church. With their powerful intercession, he assured his host, his rights would be restored and his patrimony recovered. The Bishop of Concordia judged the scheme eminently plausible. He wrote forthwith to Bartoloni, warmly commending his brother in Christ.
A courier named Octavio Oliva duly arrived in Venice, bearing a portfolio of letters addressed to the eminent banker Angelo Bossa. One of them, purporting to come from Alessandro Bossa—his nephew and the premier banker of Naples—announced the impending conveyance of the ten thousand ducats to Antonio Bartoloni. A second letter confirmed the remittance. Two further missives from the Marquis of Sainte-Erme, addressed to both bishops, expressed his heartfelt gratitude for the shelter accorded his friend. The fugitive refrained from appearing before his Paduan host until a further dispatch arrived from Naples, accompanied by a promissory note and a draft bearing the signature of Bordenali, Alessandro Bossa’s partner.
Thereupon, the Bishop of Concordia urged him to repair in person to Venice, where, he believed, the draft might be cashed with the utmost security. He furnished him with letters of introduction to his friend Bartoloni. The banker welcomed him warmly, and having inquired of Angelo Bossa whether the draft would be duly honored, hastened to satisfy his guest’s every wish. The purported prelate visited the finest shops, asked to be shown the rarest gemstones, and selected them with an unerring eye. Bartoloni paid in ready coin. The traveler’s cassock, the breviary ever held in his hands, and his modest demeanor thoroughly disarmed the banker and his family; the man spoke little, and with a soft-spoken gentleness that seemed the very seal of his high dignity.
Prior to his departure, a letter attributed to the Bishop of Venafri requested Concordia to permit an aged retainer, Don Martino, to travel from Padua to attend the prelate. Concordia wrote to Bartoloni authorizing him to surrender all the valuables against a signed receipt. The man affixed his signature as “Carlo Pirotto, Bishop of Venafri.” The farewells were most cordial. Bartoloni escorted his guest as far as Padua, before returning to Venice.
Upon his return, the banker unlocked a strongbox only to discover that four hundred gold crowns were missing. The lock had been picked and skillfully reset so as to deceive any casual glance. The chest stood within the chambers the prelate had occupied, or within easy reach of them; yet Bartoloni, at first, refrained from allowing his suspicion to harden into an accusation. Eight days later, he presented the draft drawn in Alessandro’s name to Angelo Bossa and received payment in full. The very next day, a courier arrived from Naples with a letter from Alessandro to his uncle: he declared he knew nothing of the affair, and had never drawn any draft whatsoever to the order of the Marquis of Sainte-Erme. Angelo Bossa perceived that he had been duped and lodged a formal complaint with the Venetian authorities. But the suspect had vanished. Bossa, Bartoloni, and the Bishop of Concordia exerted every effort to trace him, circulating detailed descriptions of the jewels and promising a handsome reward to whosoever should discover them.
A copy of the notice eventually reached Paris. Near the Church of Saint-Benoît, a modest jeweler named Bourgoin saw an Italian enter his shop and offer several diamonds for sale. The stranger left several caskets and withdrew, promising to return. Bourgoin had dealings with more substantial merchants, to whom he promptly displayed the stones. Maurice and Paris Turquet immediately recognized the caskets described in the Venetian hue and cry. They checked every item against the inventory and, satisfied that these were the stolen jewels, concerted their plans with Denis de Quiqueboeuf, lieutenant of the Grande Prévôté.
The officer posed as a prospective buyer. When the Italian returned with further caskets, the officer feigned a desire to inspect the stones, then pleaded an urgent errand, promising to return shortly. This time, the lieutenant revealed his authority and took him into custody. The man protested vehemently, swearing he had acquired the gems honestly. A search of his lodgings stripped away the mask: within were discovered the greater part of the jewelry, a young woman, and a family circle whom the contemporary account describes as deeply suspect. The arrest took place on January 12, 1608. The accused identified himself as Francesco Fava, a doctor of medicine, born at Capriola near the Ligurian border, and aged some forty-five years. A French relation printed in 1608 notes, however, that neither his true name, nor his birthplace, nor his profession could be verified independently of his own assertions.
On the morrow, when confronted with the descriptions of the stolen goods, the forged letters, and the jewels found in his lodgings, his composure broke entirely. He confessed to both the theft and the deceit. His confederate Pietro Oliva made his escape that same evening and was never seen again. The inquiry subsequently unraveled a succession of other personae. The prisoner had traveled under diverse aliases, passing himself off now as a physician, now as a merchant. He acknowledged having copied the handwriting and signatures of others after observing them in Bossa’s counting-house. He boasted that from a single specimen he could forge a multiplicity of varied scripts. Pitaval records this confession as the explanation for his counterfeits, without offering access to the original instruments.
His previous life was already a pageant of borrowed roles. He had studied medicine and gained, according to the narrative, a singular reputation for his knowledge of herbs and poisons. Eager to advance in the world, he had wooed a young woman of Orta, Katharina Oliva, the daughter of a merchant, presenting himself under the name of Cesar Fiori and exhibiting a forged baptismal certificate bearing a seal of his own manufacture. After their nuptials, he had settled with her at Castelarca, practiced medicine, and fathered several children. The maintenance of the household far outstripped his modest earnings. In 1607, he abandoned his hearth, passed through Naples, and resumed his career as an imaginary prelate.
While in prison, he attempted to slash his arms with a pocket knife. The wounds proved non-fatal; he cried out for aid himself and thereafter delivered a full confession. Interrogated regarding his wife, he declared her entirely innocent, swearing he had concealed all his enterprises from her. When she was brought to see him, she appeared utterly distraught, yet spoke not a word. He addressed her tenderly and urged her to depart, making her understand that her presence at his side could only worsen her plight.
On March 22, the condemned man was informed that his trial was appointed for the following day. He requested an Italian pastry which his wife had on several occasions prepared for him. On the morrow, she sent it to his cell by their young son. He broke off a morsel, chewed it, and collapsed shortly after swallowing a draft of spirits. He died in violent convulsions, without uttering a word to explain his agony. The post-mortem examination performed on March 24, 1608, revealed arsenic in his stomach. Pitaval leaves it unsaid who had furnished the poison. Following his death, the proceedings were pursued against his corpse: the magistrates pronounced him guilty of grand larceny, fraud, usurpation of title, and forgery, ordaining that his body be dragged face down to the place of execution, hung by the feet, and all his goods confiscated. The merchants who had identified the jewel cases never received the promised reward: Angelo Bossa had already indemnified them, to the amount of one hundred crown-thalers according to the chronicle.