The sister said nothing.
“Is the prisoner I wish to see dead?” the cardinal asked anxiously, for he feared the answer might be yes.
The sister continued to remain silent.
“I am asking if she is alive or dead,” the cardinal said, in a voice beginning to reveal his impatience.
“She is dead,” said a voice from the darkness of the convent beyond the window.
The cardinal thrust his keen gaze into the darkness whence the voice came, and saw a human form he recognized as that of another sister. “Who are you,” Richelieu demanded, “who respond so peremptorily to a question not addressed to you?”
“I am the proper person to answer questions of this nature, though I don’t recognize you as one with the right to ask them.”
“I have that right,” the cardinal replied, “and you will answer my question, whether you like it or not.” Then, turning to the first sister, he said, “Bring a light.”
There was no mistaking the tone of the speaker: here was a man who had the right of command. The sister, without waiting for confirmation from her superior, went back inside and came out with a lighted candle.
“By Order of the Cardinal,” said the false monk, drawing a letter from within his robe. He unfolded it to reveal, beneath a few lines of writing, a large red wax seal that gleamed in the light from the candle. He held up the letter to the superior where she could see it through the bars of the window. Meanwhile, the sister passed the candle through the grill, so the superior could read the following lines:
By order of the Cardinal Minister, all are directed, in the name of his spiritual and temporal power, on behalf of the Church and the State, to answer any questions whatsoever, on any subject whatsoever, the bearer chooses to ask, and to bring him to any and all prisoners he shall name.
December 13 in the Year of Our Lord Jesus Christ, 1628
—Armand, Cardinal de Richelieu
“Before commandments like these,” said the superior, “I have no choice but to bow.”
“Then please order the sister to return inside and lock up.”
“You heard, Sister Perpetua?” the superior said. “Obey.”
Sister Perpetua placed her candle on top of the stairs leading up to the gate, returned inside, and locked the door behind her.
The cardinal, meanwhile, ordered his porters to pick up the sedan chair, back away from the door, and await his signal.
The superior opened the gate, and the cardinal entered. “Why did you say, my sister,” he asked in a stern voice, “that the Dame de Coëtman was dead when she is not?”
“Because,” the superior replied, “I regard as dead anyone whom society has completely rejected.”
“The only ones who are truly denied the company of their fellows are the dead and buried,” said the cardinal.
“The stone of the tomb was closed over the one you named.” “That stone closed on a living person is not a tombstone, it’s the stone of a prison—and any prison door can be reopened.”
“Even,” said the nun, looking the pretend monk in the face, “when a parliamentary decree has ordered that door shut for all time and eternity?”
“There is no judgment higher than justice—and I am the one the Lord has given the power to judge the judges.”
“There’s only one man in France who has that power.”
“The king?” asked the monk.
“No: one who, though below him in rank, is above him in genius. Cardinal Richelieu. Are you the cardinal in person? If you are, I’ll obey, but my orders are so precise that I must refuse anyone else.”
“Take that light and lead me to the Dame de Coëtman’s prison, which is in the left corner of the courtyard. I am the cardinal.”
And he removed his hood and uncovered his head, with a result much like that of the revelation of Medusa of antiquity.
The superior remained motionless for a moment, paralyzed not by resistance but by surprise. Then, with that passive obedience that generally followed a command from Richelieu, she bowed, took the candle and his arm. Leading the way, she said, “Follow me, Monseigneur.”
Richelieu followed. They crossed the forecourt. The night was calm, but cold and dark, the stars shining in a black sky, with the sharp glints that foretoken the arrival of the winter frost. The candle flame rose vertically into the air, bent by no breath of wind. It cast a circle of light around the monk and the nun who moved with them, lighting objects as they approached and leaving them in shadow when they passed.
Finally, they began to glimpse a small round building like an Arab hut. In the center of it, about the height of a man’s chest, a small black square took shape. It was the window, and as they approached they could see that it was closed by a grid of iron bars, so tight one could barely pass a fist between them.
“She’s here?” the cardinal asked.
“She’s here,” the superior replied.
As they got closer, it seemed to the cardinal that two pale hands grasping the bars suddenly let go, and a dim figure within disappeared back into the dark interior of the tomb.
The cardinal approached first and, despite the stench issuing from the tomb, put his face to the bars to try to see inside. But the night was so black, he could see nothing but two greenish lights shining in the darkness like the eyes of a wild beast.
He stepped back, took the candle from the superior, and passed it through the bars and into the mausoleum. But the air inside was so noxious, so thick, that inside the tomb the flame grew pale, dwindled, and almost went out.
The cardinal drew the candle back out, and the flame returned to life. Then, in order to clear the air and light up the interior, he took his signed order, which he no longer needed once it had been acknowledged, set it afire, and threw it into the tomb.
Despite the thickness of the atmosphere within, the letter gave off enough light for the cardinal to see, crouched against the wall opposite the window, a figure, elbows on knees, chin on fists, and naked but for a scrap of damp cloth that covered her from waist to knees.
This figure, pale, hideous, and shivering, watched the monk from hollow eyes with the night inside them, their gaze fixed, almost insane.
A groan came from her with every exhalation, painful as the breath of the dying. She had been in constant pain for so long that this groaning had become a part of her.
The cardinal, though not particularly sensitive to others’ pain, or even his own, shivered from head to toe at this sight. He turned a menacing gaze on the superior, who said, “That was the order.”
“Whose order?” demanded the cardinal.
“The order of judgment.”
“And what did this order of judgment say?”
“That Jacqueline Le Voyer, called the Marquise de Coëtman, is to be enclosed in a structure of stone, sealed behind her so no one can enter, and she shall be fed only bread and water.”
The cardinal passed his hand across his brow. Then, approaching the barred window, within which the night had returned, he said, “Is that you?” He turned his face toward where he’d seen the pale figure. “Are you Jacqueline Le Voyer, Dame de Coëtman?”
“Bread! Heat! Clothing!” gasped the prisoner.
“I asked you,” repeated the cardinal, “if you are Jacqueline Le Voyer, Dame de Coëtman.”
“I’m hungry! I’m cold!” replied the voice, ending in a sob.
“First answer my question,” the cardinal insisted.
“If I say I’m the one you named, you’ll just let me starve. For two days they’ve ignored me, despite my cries.”
The cardinal glared again at the superior, who murmured, “The order! The order!”
“The order was she’s to live on bread and water, not be starved.”
“Why is she so stubborn as to go on living?” said the superior.
The cardinal very nearly said something close to blasphemy. Instead, he crossed himself, saying “If you tell me that this order gives you the right to let her
die, I swear to God, you’ll take her place in that tomb.”
Then, turning back to the wretch who was the object of their discussion, the cardinal said, “If you admit you’re really the Dame de Coëtman, and if you answer my questions honestly and faithfully, within an hour you’ll have clothing, heat, and bread.”
“Clothing! Heat! Bread!” cried the prisoner. “Do you swear it?”
“On the five wounds of Our Lord.”
“Who are you?”
“I am a priest.”
“In that case, I don’t believe you. It’s priests and nuns who’ve tortured me for nine years. Let me die. I won’t talk.”
“But I was a gentleman before taking orders,” said the cardinal, “and I swear on my honor as a gentleman.”
“And what do you think would happen to you if you betrayed these promises?” said the prisoner.
“Then I would be dishonored in this world and damned in the next.”
“All right, then, yes!” she cried. “Yes! No matter what happens, I’ll tell everything!”
“And if I’m pleased with what you tell me, then in addition to bread, clothing, and heat, you’ll have freedom.”
“Freedom!” the prisoner cried, rushing to the window and pressing her pale face against the bars. “Yes, I’m Jacqueline Le Voyer, Dame de Coëtman! Yes, I’ll tell everything, everything, everything!”
Then, in a fit of crazy happiness, she yelled “Freedom!” Her laugh was mad, sinister, and she shook the bars with a strength that should have been impossible to a body so lean and feeble. “Freedom! Oh, you must be Our Lord Jesus Christ himself, if you can say to the dead ‘Get up and walk from your graves!’”
“My sister,” said the cardinal, turning toward the superior, “I will forget everything if, within five minutes, you have tools brought that will enable an opening to be made in this tomb large enough for this woman to get out.”
“Follow me,” the superior said.
The cardinal turned to follow. “Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!” the prisoner said. “If she takes you with her, you’ll never return, I’ll never see you again. The heavenly light that came into my tomb will go out and I’ll be buried once more.”
The cardinal gave her his hand. “Rest easy, poor creature,” he said. “With God’s help, your martyrdom is almost over.”
But, seizing his hand between two fleshless claws that gripped like a vise, she cried, “A hand! I hold a hand! The first human hand that’s been extended to me for ten years! The others were nothing but tigers’ paws. Be blessed, O be blessed, human hand!” And she covered his hand with kisses.
The cardinal didn’t have the courage to remove it. He called out to his porters, saying, “Follow this woman,” indicating the superior. “She’ll give you the tools necessary to rip open this tomb. There are five pistoles in it for each of you.”
The two men followed the superior who, light in her hand, led them to a sort of shed where they kept the garden tools. In much less than five minutes they reappeared, the larger of the two with a pickaxe on his shoulder, the other with a crowbar.
They sounded the wall with the tools, and where it seemed to be thinnest, they began to work.
“What should I do now, Monseigneur?” asked the superior.
“Go heat up your room,” the cardinal ordered, “and prepare some food.”
The superior withdrew.
The cardinal’s eyes followed her, glinting from the candle she carried. He watched her enter the convent. Probably it never even occurred to her to resist what was happening. She knew too well what her situation was, and though the power of the cardinal was far from the height it would reach later, she knew she was at his mercy, as his ecclesiastical power at this time was even greater than his temporal power. He was within his rights, having temporal authority over a prison, and religious authority over a convent.
When the prisoner heard the pickaxe and the crowbar echoing from the stone, only then did she believe what the cardinal had promised. “So it’s true! It’s true!” she cried. “Oh, who are you, that I may bless you in this world and through all eternity?”
Then she heard the first stones crack and tumble into the interior, and her eyes, accustomed to darkness like those of night birds, saw light infiltrating her tomb from an opening other than her barred window, which for nine years had been her only source of light and air. She dropped the cardinal’s hand, rushed to the opening, and despite the risk of being struck by the pickaxe, she grabbed the stones and tugged on them, doing whatever she could to hasten her deliverance.
Even before the hole was big enough for her to get out, she stuck her head through, then her shoulders, ignoring cuts and bruises, and saying through her tears, “Help me! Oh, help me! Pull me from my grave, blessed saviors, beloved brethren!” And since she was already halfway out, they took her under the arms, her body as cold as the stone from which she issued, and dragged her out.
Once she was out, the poor creature’s first act was to fill her lungs with the clean air. She extended her arms to the stars with a painful cry of joy, and fell on her knees to thank God. Then, seeing her savior, she held out her arms and rushed toward him.
But he, either out of pity for this half-naked woman, or out of shame for her condition, had already taken off his monk’s robe, which for convenience opened in front. He cast it over her shoulders, leaving him in the clothes he wore beneath, a cavalier’s outfit in black velvet with purple ribbons.
“Cover yourself with this robe, my sister,” he said, “until you receive the clothes you’ve been promised.” Then, as she staggered from either emotion or lack of strength, he called, “Good men, come here.” Giving them twice what he’d promised, he said, “Take this woman, who’s too weak to walk, and carry her to the superior’s room.”
He went up to the room where, according to his orders, the superior had laid a fire in the hearth, while two candles burned on a table. “Now,” the cardinal said, “bring paper, pen, ink, and leave us!”
The superior obeyed. Left alone, leaning on the table, the cardinal murmured, “This time, I think the spirit of the Lord is truly with me.”
At that moment, the larger of the two porters came in, carrying the unconscious prisoner as if she were a child. He placed her where the cardinal indicated, still wrapped in the monk’s robe, near but not too close to the fire. Then, bowing as if aware he was in the presence of great rank, he went out.
XXIII
Her Story
The cardinal remained alone with the poor creature, who lay so motionless that one might have thought her dead but for the nervous chills that occasionally agitated the coarse cloth of the robe that covered her. She was so shrouded that no part of her body was showing, and her shape, revealed in relief, seemed more like that of a corpse than a living person.
But, little by little, as the warmth of the fire penetrated the robe, the trembling beneath it became more frequent. Two hands, which might have been taken for a skeleton’s if they hadn’t had such long nails, emerged from the sleeves, stretching instinctively toward the fire, proving that the body they belonged to had not yet reached its limit of suffering. Then the pale face, eye sockets wide with pain, swarthy cheeks and lips drawn back from the teeth, appeared in its turn, like the head of a turtle protruding from its shell. Legs as well stretched toward the fire, revealing from under the hem of the robe two feet as cold and hard as marble. Then, stiffly, the figure sat up, and a voice came as if from the chest of a corpse: “The fire! Oh, how good is the fire!”
She crept closer to the flames, like an infant unaware of the danger, too chilled to really feel its heat.
“Take care, my sister,” said the cardinal, “lest you burn.”
The Dame de Coëtman shuddered and turned rigidly toward the voice. She hadn’t noticed that anyone else was in the room, hadn’t seen anything but the fire that to her was as compelling as the dizzying edge of an abyss.
She gazed for a moment at the cardinal, but di
dn’t recognize him in his cavalier’s outfit, having seen him only in a monk’s robe. “Who are you?” she asked. “I know your voice, but not your look.”
“I’m the one who has already given you clothing and heat, and next will give you bread—and freedom.”
She made a mental effort to remember, then said, “Oh, yes!” She dragged herself toward him. “Yes, you promised.”
But then she looked around and, lowering her voice, said, “But can you keep your promise? I have enemies, terrible and powerful enemies.”
“Don’t worry—you have a protector more terrible and powerful than they are.”
“Who is that?”
“God!”
The Dame de Coëtman shook her head. “He’s forgotten me for a very long time,” she said.
“Yes, but once He remembers, He won’t forget again.”
“I’m very hungry,” she said.
At that moment, as if at her order, the door opened and two nuns came in, bringing bread, wine, a cup of broth, and a plate of cold chicken.
At the sight of them, the Dame de Coëtman screamed with fright. “My tormentors!” she cried. “Protect me!” And she crouched behind the cardinal’s chair, placing her unknown defender between her and the nuns.
“Is that enough, Monseigneur?” the superior asked from the doorway.
“Yes, but you see how the sisters are frightening the prisoner. Have them put what they’ve brought on the table and go.”
The nuns placed the broth, chicken, bread, and wine on the table opposite the Dame de Coëtman, with a spoon in the broth, and a fork and knife with the chicken. “Go,” said the superior. The nuns departed.
The superior turned to leave, but the cardinal raised a finger. The superior saw that the gesture was directed at her and stopped. “Keep in mind,” he said, “that I will taste everything this woman will eat and drink.”
“There’s nothing to fear, Monseigneur,” replied the superior. And, with a curtsy, she withdrew.
The prisoner waited until the door was closed before reaching a lean arm toward the table. But she stopped short. The cardinal picked up the cup of broth and took a sip from it, and then turned toward the starving woman, whose arms were stretched toward him. “You say you haven’t eaten for two days?”
The Red Sphinx Page 21