The Red Sphinx

by Alexandre Dumas

  The arrival from Dover

  Has shoved him over.

  Kings, when they marry, are no more tolerant than other husbands, so Louis XIII had exiled Monsieur de Montmorency to Chantilly. Restored to favor through the influence of Marie de Médicis, he had returned to spend a month at Court, then left for his governorship of Languedoc. It was there that he heard the news of the duel and execution of his cousin François de Montmorency, Comte de Bouteville.

  The queen mother’s fondness for Montmorency came from the fact that his wife, Maria Felice Orsini, was the daughter of that Virginio Orsini who’d accompanied Marie de Médicis to France. This made Montmorency her nephew-in-law.

  Maria Orsini, who according to the poet Théophile was as white as heavenly snow, was Italian—which is to say, jealous. She tormented her husband, who, as Tallemant des Réaux tells us, couldn’t keep from pursuing every woman with the least bit of coquetry to her. The duke and his wife finally reached a compromise whereby he was allowed to act as gallant whenever he pleased—so long as he told her all about it.

  One of her friends told her she couldn’t understand how she could give her husband such latitude, and then insist on hearing the details. “Well,” she replied, “I always wait to ask till we’re about to go to bed, and then I get everything I’m owed.”

  And indeed, it’s no surprise that women, especially in this lusty period, would succumb to passion for a handsome prince of thirty-three years of the first family of France: a millionaire, governor of a province, Admiral of France at seventeen, Duke and Peer at eighteen, Chevalier du Saint-Esprit at twenty-five, who counted among his ancestors four constables and six marshals, and whose entourage was composed of a hundred gentlemen and thirty pages.

  That evening, the Duc de Montmorency was more handsome than ever. Upon his arrival, all eyes turned his way, and there was general amazement when, after greeting Princess Marie, he respectfully kissed the hand of Madame de Combalet.

  Since the death of his cousin Bouteville—a wound felt more deeply in his pride as a Montmorency than in his affection for a relative—this was the first such advance he’d made to the cardinal. But no one was fooled by this demonstration: war with Savoy, Spain, and Austria was imminent, and like Monsieur de Créqui, the Duc de Montmorency was ambitious to bear the sword of the Constable of France, which had been borne with distinction at the king’s knee by both his father and grandfather.

  He who best understood the duke’s ambition, as he’d had similar hopes which had been thoroughly crushed, was Charles de Lorraine, Duc de Guise, son of the Guise known as the Scarface who had perpetrated the Massacre of Saint Bartholomew’s Day. The younger Guise was born in 1571, the year before the massacre, and was known more for his love affairs than for his deeds of war—though he’d served valiantly at the siege of La Rochelle, where he’d continued to fight even after his ship was completely afire. He ought to have a fair claim to the constabulary, or at least a prominent position in the army. Indeed, even if he were a simple gentleman like Bas-sompierre, Bellegarde, Cramail, or even Schomberg, he would have had the precedence, but against the Duc de Montmorency he could never hope for anything better than a secondary position. Given his birth, Montmorency’s victory over the Calvinists in destroying the fleet commanded by the Duc de Soubise, from whom he’d also retaken the islands of Oléron and Ré, placed him above all other captains of the time.

  There was another rivalry between them: the conquests of love. Although Monsieur de Guise had a broad, flat nose and was short in stature, he had inherited from his father some of the airs of royalty, which made him quite the ladies’ man. The women found him guilty of only one great fault, his age—a thing which only Henri IV had briefly made fashionable and converted into an asset. But as we know from the date of his birth, the Duc de Guise was now approaching his sixtieth year, a condition he tried to regard as a new adventure.

  One night he was standing in for a counselor—not, however, in his role on the council, but in his bed. The counselor, who was traveling, wasn’t expected to return before noon, but arrived unexpectedly at about five in the morning. He had the key to the house, and made his way to the door of his bedchamber, where his wife, fortunately, had thrown the lock. The counselor knocked loudly and called her name. His wife, acting without haste, as that might give rise to suspicion, took a few moments to thrust Monsieur de Guise, naked, into the counselor’s wardrobe, picking up the lace collar he’d left on a chair and shoving it into her pocket. Then, rubbing her eyes as if surprised from sleep, she opened the door to the counselor, thinking he would go right to bed, giving her lover a chance to escape.

  Upon entering, the counselor drew the curtains to let in the daylight, and the first thing he saw was the rest of the duke’s clothes. “So,” he asked, frowning, “what clothes are these, my love?”

  “Clothes I have on approval from a second-hand merchant, and which I can get for almost nothing if they suit you. But lie down and rest—you must be tired.”

  “No,” the counselor said, “I have an early appointment at the palace, and must go there directly.”

  Then, taking off his travel-stained garments, he put on those of the duke, which were resplendent. “By my faith,” he said, “these fit like they were made for me. Pay your second-hand merchant, my dear, and if he has any more like this, tell him to bring them. I’m off to the palace.”

  And indeed, taking only the time needed to get some papers from his desk, he threw his cloak over his clothes and left for the palace.

  Behind him, his wife closed the bedroom door and opened the closet. “Dear me, Monseigneur,” she said, “you must be frozen!”

  “Faith, no,” replied the duke. “While your husband was donning my clothes, I dressed in his. Don’t you think I make a good attorney?” And with these words, he clapped a lawyer’s cap on his head and stepped out, dressed in the complete outfit of a counselor.

  The counselor’s wife laughed, finding it all very amusing. But for the Duc de Guise, the best part of the joke was yet to come. As he had an audience at the Louvre that morning with King Henri IV, he thought it would be funny to go in his counselor’s garb.

  The king didn’t recognize him at first, and when he finally did, he asked, half seriously and half laughing, what was the meaning of his masquerade.

  Monsieur de Guise recounted his adventure, and as he told it well, and the king laughed heartily, he decided to press the point. “Sire,” said the duke, “if you doubt me, send a guard to the palace to escort the counselor back to the Louvre. You’ll see that he’s dressed in my clothes.”

  The king, who never passed up an opportunity for amusement, approved of this joke, and summoned the counselor to appear before him within the hour. The counselor, dumbfounded, with no idea what could have earned him this honor, hastened over to the Louvre.

  The king, who was never at a loss when it came to gouailler (to use the old Gallic word for shenanigans, a term much in vogue at the time, which we’re sorry to see has almost been lost from the language), drew the counselor aside, and while chatting with him about a hundred trivialities, began undoing the man’s cloak. The counselor, astonished, didn’t dare to protest. Suddenly the king cried, “Hey! Ventre-saint-gris! Monsieur Counselor, you’re wearing the clothes of Monsieur de Guise!”

  “Of who? Monsieur de Guise?” asked the counselor, fearing the king had gone mad. “My wife bought these from a merchant.”

  “My faith!” said the king. “I didn’t think the House of Guise had fallen so low that its head was reduced to selling his old clothes. Thank you, Monsieur Counselor, for showing me something I didn’t know.” And he sent the proud counselor off, glorying in the knowledge that he wore the clothes of a Prince of Lorraine.

  When he arrived at home, the first thing he said to his wife was, “Do you know, my dear, whose clothes I’m wearing?”

  “My faith, no!” she replied anxiously.

  “Well! These are the clothes of Monseigneur le Duc de Guise,
” said the counselor, preening.

  “Who told you that?” asked his wife in alarm.

  “The king himself. And if you can find any more at the same price, buy them.”

  “Very well, my love,” said his wife. “Under those conditions, I believe I may be able to get his entire wardrobe.”

  Monsieur de Guise was absent-minded, and his woolgathering had once led him into an amorous adventure. One evening he’d lingered over cards at Monsieur de Créqui’s until it was too late to send for his carriage. The Hotel de Guise was quite far, so Monsieur de Créqui offered to lend the prince his own horse. Monsieur de Guise mounted the horse, but his mind was astray, so instead of guiding the horse he just gave it its head. At this time of night, the horse was used to taking Monsieur de Créqui to visit his mistress, so it bore Monsieur de Guise there and stopped at her door. Guise didn’t recognize the door, but he was amused and amenable: wearing his hooded cloak, he dismounted and knocked.

  The door was opened by a pretty maidservant, who slapped the hackney, sending it straight back to the stable where it knew it would find its oats. Then the maid led Monsieur de Guise up a staircase lit just well enough to keep him from breaking his neck, to a room no more well-lit than the stairs. The rider was apparently as expected as his horse, and he fell into a pair of open arms.

  No one spoke. Everything happened in the dark. Monsieur de Guise, who was a friend of Monsieur de Créqui, must have known him well enough to imitate his performance, as the lady fell asleep without noticing her mistake. But in the morning she was awakened by Monsieur de Guise as he turned in the bed.

  “Bon Dieu, my love,” she said, “why do you turn so?”

  “Because,” said Monsieur de Guise, who was as indiscreet as he was absent-minded, “I need to get up so I can go tell all my friends that, instead of spending the night with Monsieur de Créqui, you’ve spent it with Monsieur de Guise.”

  Monsieur de Guise offset his faults with the virtue of generosity. One morning the Président de Chevry sent him by way of Raphaël Corbinelli, father of that Jean Corbinelli famous for his friendship with Madame de Sevigné, fifty thousand livres that the duke had won the day before at cards. The sum was divided into five sacks, four large bags each containing ten thousand livres in silver, and a smaller bag containing ten thousand livres in gold.

  Corbinelli wanted to count it out for him, but the duke wouldn’t allow it. He just saw that one bag was smaller than the others, and without looking inside it, said, “Here, my friend. Take this for your trouble.”

  Corbinelli went home, opened the bag, and found ten thousand livres in gold. He immediately returned to Monsieur de Guise. “Monseigneur,” he said, “I think you made a mistake and gave me a bag of gold believing it was a bag of silver.”

  The duke drew himself up as far as his small stature would allow. “Keep it, keep it, Monsieur,” he said. “The princes of my house don’t make a practice of taking back what we once have given.”

  And Corbinelli kept his ten thousand livres.

  When Monsieur de Montmorency was announced, the Duc de Guise immediately sought out Monsieur de Grammont in order to commence a quarrel as only he could. “Well, my friend,” he said, “I must say I have a bone to pick with you.”

  “It can’t be about gaming, Duke,” Grammont responded. “Every year, good or bad, you win from me around a hundred thousand livres. My wife even offered you ten thousand crowns a year if you’d promise not to play with me.”

  “Which I refused! No, my faith, there’s no question of that.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “What? Why, since I know that after me you’re the most talkative of men, last week I told you that I’d won Madame de Sablé’s ultimate favors. I assumed you’d tell all of Paris, but you haven’t said a word.”

  Monsieur de Grammont laughed. “I was afraid to get on Monsieur de Montmorency’s bad side.”

  “Oh,” said Monsieur de Guise, “I thought it was all over between them.”

  “You can see by the way they argue that it isn’t.”

  And indeed, the marquise and the duke were arguing.

  “Find out what it’s about, my dear Comte,” said the duke, “and then come and tell me.”

  The count approached. “Monsieur,” said the marquise, “it’s intolerable. I’ve heard that at the last ball at the Louvre, you took advantage of the fact that I was sick and danced with all the most beautiful women of the Court.”

  “But my dear Marquise,” said the duke, “what would you expect me to do?”

  “To dance only with the ugly ones, Monsieur!”

  The Comte de Grammont, who’d arrived in time to hear this dialogue, reported it to the duke. “My faith, Comte,” replied the duke, “this is the moment, I think, to go to Monsieur de Montmorency and share with him what I confided to you.”

  “By my faith, no!” said the count. “I wouldn’t say such a thing to a husband, let alone a lover.”

  “So,” said the duke with a sigh, “I’ll go and tell him myself.”

  But as he took his first step toward Montmorency, both halves of the double door were thrown open and the usher announced, “His Royal Highness Monseigneur Gaston d’Orléans.”

  All conversation stopped, those who stood remained that way, and everyone sitting arose, including Princesse Marie herself.

  “Well,” said Madame de Combalet, the confidante of the cardinal, as she rose in her turn, bowing more respectfully than anyone, “now the comedy begins. I mustn’t miss a word of what’s said in the theater—and if possible, behind the scenes.”

  XVII

  The Commencement of the Comedy

  And indeed, it was the first time, publicly and in the midst of a grand soirée, that the Duc d’Orléans had presented himself to Princesse Marie de Gonzague.

  It was easy to see he’d paid particular attention to his appearance. His doublet was white velvet laced with gold, as was his cloak, which was lined with scarlet satin. His velvet breeches were the same color as the lining of his cloak. Below he was clad in silk stockings and white satin slippers. He wore, or rather had in his hand, because, against his usual custom, he’d entered the room uncovered, a white felt hat with diamond braid and scarlet feathers. Ribbons in the two colors he’d adopted flowed and curled from every seam.

  Monseigneur Gaston wasn’t much liked, let alone esteemed. We’ve mentioned how much damage had been done to his reputation in this brave, elegant, and chivalrous society by his conduct at the trial of Chalais; his entrance was greeted by a general silence.

  Hearing the announcement, Princess Marie cast a knowing glance toward the Dowager of Longueville. That day, Madame de Longueville had received a letter from His Royal Highness notifying her of his intended visit and requesting, if possible, a few minutes’ conversation with Princess Marie, to whom he had matters of the utmost importance to communicate.

  He advanced toward Princess Marie, whistling a little hunting tune, but as everyone knew he never stopped whistling, even before the queen, no one worried about the impropriety—not even Princess Marie, who gracefully offered him her hand.

  The prince kissed it, holding it long and firmly against his lips. Then he bowed courteously to the dowager, bowed slightly less to Madame de Combalet, and, addressing both lords and ladies, said, “My faith, Mesdames and Messieurs, I must recommend this new invention of Monsieur de Souscarrières’s. Upon my honor, nothing could be more convenient. Have you tried it, Princess?”

  “No, Monseigneur, I’ve only heard of this vehicle from some who used it to come here tonight.”

  “It’s quite comfortable, and although Monsieur de Richelieu and I aren’t great friends, I can only applaud his award of the rights to this invention to Monsieur de Bellegarde. His father, who is Master of the Horse, never in all his life invented anything the like, and I propose to give his son as much income as I can from this service. Imagine, Princess, a sturdy wheelbarrow, lined with velvet, where one sits comfortably, wi
th windows when one wants to see, and curtains when one does not want to be seen. Some carry only one, but others can take two. I was carried by some lads from Auvergne who could walk, trot, or gallop as required, without damaging the car. I tried it slowly within the Louvre, then at a trot once we were outside. Their pace was strong but gentle.

  “When the weather is bad, they can come right into a hall at the carriage door, so one can step in without even getting muddy. A marvelous convenience. They put the chair—they call it a chair, you know—right down on the floor, so one needn’t step up. I will make it my business, I swear, to ensure that this invention becomes fashionable. I recommend it, Duc,” he said, addressing Montmorency with a little bow of his head.

  “I’ve used it today,” said the duke, bowing, “and I am entirely of the opinion of Your Highness.”

  Gaston d’Orléans next turned to the Duc de Guise. “Greetings, cousin. What news from the war?”

  “It’s you we must ask about that, Monseigneur. The closer one is to the sun, the more its light reveals.”

  “Yes, when it doesn’t blind us. As for me, I find politics quite over-dazzling. If this continues, I may need to ask Princess Marie to lend me a room so I can ask for news from her neighbors the Three Hundred Knights.”

  “If Your Highness wishes to hear some news, I can give it to him: I’ve been told that tonight, after she completes her duties to the queen, Mademoiselle Isabelle de Lautrec will bring us a letter she received from the Baron de Lautrec, her father, who as you know is in Mantua with the Duc de Rethel.”

  “But,” asked Monseigneur Gaston, “is this news that can be made public?”

  “The baron believes so, Monseigneur, and said as much in his letter.”

  “In exchange,” Gaston said, “I’ll give you some hallway gossip, which is the only kind of news that interests me, since I’ve given up politics.”

  “Tell us, Monseigneur! Tell us!” said the ladies, laughing.

  Madame de Combalet, as was her habit, covered her face with her fan.