The Red Sphinx

by Alexandre Dumas

  “Quite so, you couldn’t have known, since six months before your birth he was killed by your uncle Mayenne. Well, you resemble no one so much as the Comte de Saint-Mégrin. Or did you know that already?”

  “I am sorry, my dear Duke, but I must warn you to stop there.”

  “I’m afraid that now you’re the one speaking in anger and malice, not I. Did I lose my temper when Monsieur de Bassompierre said I was passing counterfeit money? I did not. I’m afraid it’s you who’ve fallen into a bad mood, not me, and I who should take my leave.”

  “I believe you’re right,” said Monsieur de Guise, who strode off down the Rue de l’Arbre Sec, which led to the Rue Saint-Honoré. In fact, he left his caustic interlocutor so rapidly that Angoulême stood there for a moment wearing the astonished look of one surprised not to have gotten the last word. Eventually he walked on toward the Pont Neuf, hoping to find there another victim upon whom he could resume the petty torment he’d inflicted on the Duc de Guise.

  Meanwhile, the other courtiers had left one by one, until the king found himself alone with l’Angely. The jester, pleased to find himself in sole possession, planted himself before the king, who was sitting with his head down, melancholy eyes fixed upon the ground.

  “Hum!” l’Angely sighed heavily.

  Louis raised his head. “Well?” he asked, in the tone of a suffering man who expects sympathy.

  “Well!” l’Angely repeated in the same tone.

  “What have you to say about Monsieur de Bassompierre?”

  “I say,” l’Angely replied, in a tone that betrayed a mocking admiration, “that anyone so adept with a larding needle must have been a cook in his youth.”

  A flash briefly lit the dull eyes of Louis XIII. “L’Angely,” he said, “I forbid you to joke about Monsieur Baradas’s accident.”

  L’Angely’s face assumed an expression of deepest pain. “Because the Court cannot bear to lose him?”

  “One more word, Fool,” said the king, rising and stamping his foot, “and I’ll thrash you till you bleed.”

  He began marching around the room in agitation. “I see,” said l’Angely, hopping up onto the chair the king had just left. “First your pages misbehave, and who do you threaten to thrash? Me. And now here I am, threatened again. Ah! My colleague Nogent was right: they don’t call you Louis the Just for nothing. Plague take it!”

  “Oh!” cried Louis XIII, without bothering to reply to his fool’s jests, not that he would have known what to say. “I shall have my revenge upon Monsieur de Bassompierre!”

  “Did you ever hear the story about the snake who bit a steel saw, and found out he wasn’t the only one who had teeth?”

  “What do you mean? Are you making excuses for him?”

  “I mean, my son, that king though you are, you can’t afford to throw away your true friends in order to preserve your false ones. Consider our minister, Richelieu. Though you’re the one who’s called the Just during your lifetime, it may well be that he will be the one called the Just after his death.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t see it that way, Louis? I certainly do. Remember when the cardinal came and told you, ‘Sire, while I’ve been laboring on your behalf and for the glory of France, your brother has been conspiring against me, which is to say against you. He came to my château of Fleury with his entourage in order to dine with me, during which Monsieur de Chalais was to pass his sword through my body. Here’s the proof. Ask your brother about it.’ So you interrogated your brother. He collapsed in terror, as always, fell at your feet, and confessed to everything. Ah! It was a crime of high treason, and he should have lost his head on the block.

  “And now you will go tell Monsieur de Richelieu, ‘I went larding, but Baradas wouldn’t lard. I tried to make him, but he snatched my orange-water, without any respect for my majesty, and smashed the bottle on the floor. I asked what a page who so insulted his king deserved, and Marshal Bassompierre, a sensible man, replied, “The whip, Sire.” Upon which Monsieur Baradas drew his sword and lunged at Monsieur de Bassompierre who, in deference to my majesty, declined to draw his own blade, merely taking a larding needle from the hands of Georges and planting it in Monsieur Baradas’s shoulder. I demand, therefore, that Monsieur de Bassompierre be sent to the Bastille.’

  “But your minister—whom I will support against everyone, even you—your minister, who is the personification of justice, will say, ‘But it is Monsieur de Bassompierre who is in the right. Though I have sent other nobles and even princes to the Bastille, I will not send him. However, I will have your page beaten for having snatched your bottle from your hand, and put in the pillory for drawing his sword in your presence—this, I, your minister, the most important man in France after you—this I will do.’ And how will you reply to him, your loyal minister?”

  “All I can say is, I love Baradas and hate Monsieur de Richelieu.”

  “So you can’t just be wrong, you have to be wrong twice over: you hate a great man who does everything he can to make you great as well, and you love a little lout who can’t advise you as well as Luynes, or even betray you as well as Chalais.”

  “Didn’t you hear his request for a trial by combat? There’s a precedent for it, the duel of Jarnac and La Châtaigneraie, under Henri II.”

  “Sure. But you forget that that was seventy-five years ago, before the edicts against dueling, back when two chivalrous lords like Jarnac and La Châtaigneraie were entitled to draw swords against each other. But since then, by your decree, de Bouteville, a Montmorency no less, has paid with his head for dueling. Just go tell Monsieur de Richelieu that he should let Monsieur Baradas, a king’s page, fight a duel against Monsieur de Bassompierre, a Marshal of France, and see where it gets you!”

  “But I must allow my poor Baradas some satisfaction, or he’ll do what he says he will.”

  “And what is that?”

  “He’ll stay in his rooms!”

  “Oh, and will the Earth stop rotating because this Monsieur Galileo says it must? No, Sire. Monsieur Baradas is a selfish ingrate just like those before him, and in time he will disgust you as they have. As for me, my son, if I were in your place, I know what I’d do.”

  “Well, what would you do? Because I must admit, l’Angely, that sometimes you do give me good advice.”

  “You might even say I’m the only one who does.”

  “All but the cardinal—you were just talking about him.”

  “Oh, don’t ask him. This isn’t his affair.”

  “But see here, l’Angely—in my place, what would you do?”

  “If having favorites doesn’t make you happy, try having a lover instead.”

  Louis XIII recoiled, with an expression somewhere between prudishness and repugnance.

  “I swear, my son, you don’t know what you’re missing,” said the jester. “A woman is a fine thing, and not to be despised.”

  “Not the women in this Court!”

  “What’s wrong with the women of the Court?”

  “They’re so shameless, it disgusts me.”

  “Indeed, my son? I hope you’re not referring to Madame de Chevreuse.”

  “Oh, yes! Let’s hear you defend Madame de Chevreuse.”

  “Well,” said l’Angely, with the most naïve air in the world, “I understand she is quite clever.”

  “Huh. Tell that to Milord Henry Rich, and to Châteauneuf. Tell that to the old Archbishop of Tours, Bertrand de Chaux, in whose papers they found a note signing over twenty-five thousand livres to Madame de Chevreuse.”

  “Yes, that’s all true—I remember how the queen, who could deny her favorite nothing, asked you for a cardinal’s hat for the worthy archbishop. But you refused, and the poor fellow was heard to say, ‘If Madame were the king’s favorite instead of the queen’s, I’d be a cardinal today.’ But three lovers, even if one is an archbishop, isn’t too many for a woman of twenty-eight who’s already had two husbands.”

  “Oh, that’s ha
rdly the complete list! Ask Marillac, ask her knight-gallant Crufft, ask . . .”

  “No, that’s quite enough,” said l’Angely. “I’m far too lazy to speak to so many people. Let’s move on. There’s Madame de Fargis, though I will admit from the start that she is not exactly a vestal virgin.”

  “Now I know you’re not serious, Fool. Have you seen her with Créqui? And Cramail? And the other Marillac, Keeper of the Seals? Haven’t you heard the Latin lyric about her? ‘Fargia di mihi sodes, quantas commiosti sordes, inter primas atque laudes, quando’ . . . I can’t repeat the rest.”

  “No, I hadn’t heard that!” said l’Angely. “Sing the rest of it, all the way to the ending. I find it enchanting.”

  “No, I can’t,” said Louis, blushing. “There are words no proper person can speak.”

  “Though I see you know it by heart, every syllable. Hypocrite! But let’s move on. What do you think of the Princesse de Conti? She is rather mature, but that just means she has more experience.”

  “After what Bassompierre said, it would be crazy. And after what she’s said herself, it would be stupid!”

  “I heard what the marshal had to say, but I don’t know what she said. Come, my son, give me the whole juicy anecdote—you tell them so well!”

  “Well, she said to her brother, who was gambling but losing, ‘Perhaps you’ve played enough, brother.’ And he replied, ‘I’ll give up playing at cards when you give up playing at love.’ And the wicked woman didn’t even reproach him! . . . Anyway, my conscience wouldn’t allow me to speak of love to a married woman.”

  “Is that why you don’t speak of love to the queen? But very well, let’s move on to the unmarried ladies. What do you think of the beautiful Isabelle de Lautrec? You can’t accuse her of such follies.” Louis blushed to the tips of his ears. “Ah-ha!” said l’Angely. “Have I hit the bull’s-eye?”

  “I have nothing to say against the virtue of Mademoiselle de Lautrec. On the contrary,” said Louis XIII, in a voice in which one could discern a slight tremor.

  “Against her beauty, then?”

  “Even less so.”

  “Against her wits, perhaps?”

  “No, she is quite charming, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t know if I should tell you this, l’Angely, but. . . .”

  “Come on!”

  “I don’t think she really likes me very much.”

  “Well, my son, you have nothing to lose by trying, except some false modesty.”

  “And the queen—if I listen to your advice, what will she say?”

  “If someone is going to hold Mademoiselle de Lautrec’s hands, it might as well be you. Anything to get you out of the clutches of these villainous pages and squires.”

  “But Baradas. . . .”

  “Baradas will be jealous as a tiger, and probably try to stab Mademoiselle de Lautrec. But I think he’ll find he’s only rousing a Joan of Arc. Come on, give it a try!”

  “But I’m afraid that Baradas, instead of coming back to me, will just stay angry.”

  “Well, there’s always Saint-Simon.”

  “Yes, he’s a fine lad,” said the king, “and when we go hunting, he’s the only one who knows how to blow the horn properly.”

  “You see? There are always consolations.”

  “So what should I do, l’Angely?”

  “You should follow my advice, and the advice of Monsieur de Richelieu. Why, with a minister like him, and a fool like me, within six months you’ll be the leading monarch in Europe.”

  “All right,” Louis said with a sigh. “I’ll try it.”

  “Starting when?” asked l’Angely.

  “Starting tonight.”

  “Good! Be a man tonight, and you’ll be a king tomorrow.”

  XXXIII

  The Confession

  The day after King Louis XIII, on the advice of his fool l’Angely, had resolved to make Monsieur Baradas jealous, Cardinal Richelieu sent Cavois to the Hotel de Montmorency with a letter to the duke, which read as follows:

  Monsieur le Duc,

  Permit me to employ one of the privileges of my office as minister to express to you my great desire to see you for a serious talk with one of our most distinguished captains about our imminent campaign.

  Permit me, in addition, to request that this interview take place in my house in the Place Royale, which is near your hotel, so you need not come far. I hope that our meeting will be to your satisfaction, and that you will keep it a secret between us. If nine o’clock in the morning is convenient for you, it is for me as well.

  If you wish company, and it is not inconvenient, please bring your young friend the Comte de Moret, if he will do me the honor, as I have a task worthy of his name and his ancestry.

  Believe me, Monsieur le Duc, I am your most sincere and devoted servant.

  —Armand, Cardinal de Richelieu

  A quarter of an hour after having been charged with delivery of this letter, Cavois returned with the duke’s answer. Monsieur de Montmorency had been most receptive and wished to convey to the cardinal that he accepted the invitation and would be there on time, accompanied by the Comte de Moret.

  The cardinal seemed quite satisfied with this response. He asked Cavois for news of his wife, and heard with great pleasure that, since during the last eight or ten nights Cavois had been required to work at the Place Royale only two, domestic tranquility reigned in his household. Richelieu then began his usual work.

  That evening, the cardinal sent Father Joseph to find out how the wounded Latil was doing. He was healing, but was still unable to leave his room.

  The next morning at dawn, the cardinal, as usual, came down to his study, but despite the early hour someone was already waiting for him. A veiled lady, who said she wished to remain incognito, had arrived about ten minutes earlier, and was waiting in the antechamber.

  The cardinal employed so many different people as his agents that, rather than try to guess which one of them this might be, he just ordered his valet, Guillemot, to bring her in and make sure no one interrupted their talk. If he wanted anything, he would knock on the wall.

  Glancing at the clock, he saw that he still had more than an hour before his appointment with Montmorency, and, thinking this would be plenty of time to deal with the veiled lady, gave no more instructions.

  Shortly thereafter Guillemot entered, leading the person he’d mentioned.

  She remained standing by the door. The cardinal gestured to Guillemot, who went out and left him alone with his visitor.

  As his visitor came further into his study, the cardinal knew at a glance that she was young and of noble birth, despite the veil that covered her face—and also that she seemed intimidated. “Madame,” he said, “you wanted an audience with me. Well, here I am—speak.” As he said this, he beckoned to her to approach.

  The veiled lady stepped forward but faltered a little, supporting herself with one hand on the back of a chair, while with the other she tried to calm the beating of her heart. Meanwhile her head tilted back slightly, as if she was experiencing a spasm of emotion or fear.

  The cardinal was too sharp an observer to miss these signs. “From the terror I inspire in you, Madame,” he said with a smile, “I am tempted to believe that you come to me from my enemies. Have no fear, of them or of me; for from the moment you enter my house, you are received as the dove was in the Ark.”

  “I may, in fact, come to you from the camp of your enemies; but if I do, I come as a fugitive. I ask your help as both priest and minister; as a priest I beg you to hear my confession, and as minister I plead for your protection.” And the unknown clasped her hands as if in prayer.

  “I may certainly hear your confession, even if you remain incognito, but it will be hard to protect you unless I know who you are.”

  “Since I have your promise to hear my confession, Monseigneur, I have no reason to remain incognito, since the confession puts your lips under sacred seal.”r />
  “So,” said the cardinal, sitting, “come here, my daughter, and place your trust in me twice over, since you call on me as both priest and minister.”

  The woman approached the cardinal, knelt beside him, and lifted her veil.

  The cardinal knew he wasn’t dealing with an everyday penitent and watched her keenly; but when the veil was raised, he couldn’t help uttering a low cry of surprise. “Isabelle de Lautrec,” he murmured.

  “Yes, Monseigneur. Dare I hope that the sight has not changed Your Eminence’s good intentions?”

  “Not at all, my child,” said the cardinal, with a lively gesture. “You come from a family who are loyal servants of France, and are the daughter of a man I respect and admire. I admit that when you first came to the Court of France, I regarded you with some suspicion; but since you have been here, I have nothing but approval for your conduct.”

  “Thank you, Monseigneur—that restores my confidence. I am here to beg for your aid, for I find myself doubly in danger.”

  “If it is a prayer that you seek, my child, or advice I can offer you, arise from your knees and sit beside me.”

  “No, Monseigneur, please allow me to remain as I am. I want what I have to say to retain the character of a confession. Otherwise it may sound more like a denunciation, which is not what I desire.”

  “Speak, then, my daughter, and I will listen,” said the cardinal. “God forbid that I should ignore such strong feelings, even if they should be exaggerated.”

  “When I was told to stay behind in France, while my father went to Italy with the Duc de Nevers, Monseigneur, he argued his case with two points: First, that the long journey would fatigue me, and only end at a city that might be besieged and sacked. Second, that he had found for me a place near Her Majesty, a position that ought to satisfy any young woman, even one more ambitious than I.”

  “Go ahead and tell me of the dangers you perceive in this new position of yours.”

  “Yes, Monseigneur. It seemed to me that there was some uncertainty about my youth and the sincerity of my devotion to my royal mistress. The king, either on his own account or pressed by others’ advice, seemed to pay me more attention than I deserved. My respect for His Majesty blinded me at first to the meaning of these attentions, though his shyness always kept him within the bounds of gallant courtesy. However, one day I felt as if I needed to account to the queen for the kind of things the king was saying to me. But to my amazement, the queen just laughed and said, ‘It would be quite marvelous, dear child, if the king were to fall in love with you.’