The Red Sphinx

by Alexandre Dumas

  “The Lord God, if he permitted me to die, will have foreseen the consequences and will provide for them, Madame. It is impossible to change what has been resolved.”

  “Why is that?” asked Marie de Médicis. “If this unfortunate war is so necessary, despite your having decided on it against the advice of all your counselors—”

  “You mean all your counselors, Madame,” interrupted the king.

  “If it is necessary,” Marie de Médicis continued, ignoring the interruption, “why must you go in person? Can’t your beloved minister—”

  “You know, Madame,” the king interrupted for a second time, “I don’t particularly like Monsieur le Cardinal. But I respect him, I admire him, and after God, he is this realm’s greatest defender.”

  “Well, Sire, Providence will watch over the realm, whether or not you are with the cardinal. Charge your minister with conduct of the war and stay safely near to us.”

  “Oh, yes, and open the way for insubordination among the generals! To enable your de Guise, your Bassompierre, and your Bellegarde to refuse to obey a priest and jeopardize the fortunes of France! No, Madame! To recognize the genius of Monsieur le Cardinal is not enough, I must support him as well. Ah, if only there was a prince of the house I could trust!”

  “Don’t you have a brother? Don’t you have Monsieur?”

  “Umpf. Permit me to tell you, Madame, you are too indulgent toward one who has been disobedient as a son and rebellious as a brother!”

  “But that’s just it, my son. To bring peace back to our family, we must embrace the exile, we must love even the son who, admittedly, deserves to be punished rather than rewarded. But it is at supreme moments like this when logic must cease to drive our policy, when to rule well means to love well. God himself shows us by example that sometimes we punish the good and reward the bad. Sire, charge your prime minister with the conduct of this war, and put Monsieur subordinate to him as lieutenant general. I’m certain that if you give your brother this responsibility, he will give up his insane pursuit of Princesse Marie de Gonzague.”

  “You forget, Madame,” said Louis XIII, frowning, “that it is I who am king, and therefore the master—and if my brother wished to take part in this effort, he could long ago have done so, with my consent rather than at my orders. Defying my right to rule is not the way to earn the right to command. I am resolved, Madame. In the future, I will command, and he will obey. This has been my determination for the last two years—that is to say, since the incident in the garden at Amiens.” He emphasized the last words, while looking meaningfully at Queen Anne of Austria. “And for the last two years, I have found this policy a good one.”

  Anne, who was still on her knees before the king, arose at these harsh words and raised her hands to her eyes, as if to hide her tears. The king made a motion toward her, but the move was barely visible and was immediately suppressed.

  Nonetheless, his mother noticed it, and seized his hands. “Louis, my child,” she said, “this is not a dispute, this is simply a plea. I’m not a queen speaking to a king, I’m merely a mother talking to her son. Louis, in the name of my love, which you sometimes slight though you always do it justice in the end, yield to our entreaties. You are the king—in other words, the source of all power and wisdom. Revoke your decision, as is your right, and believe me, not only your wife and your mother, but all of France will thank you.”

  “Very well, Madame,” said the king, who just wanted this discussion to end. “I will sleep on it tonight, and reflect on what you’ve said.” And to his mother and his wife he gave one of those curt gestures that kings use to indicate that an audience is finished.

  The two queens withdrew, Anne of Austria taking the arm of the queen mother. But they’d gone no more than twenty paces down the corridor when a door opened, and around the jamb appeared the head of Monsieur, Gaston d’Orléans. “Well?” he asked.

  “Well,” said the queen mother, “we did what we could. It’s up to you to do the rest.”

  “Do you know which room is Monsieur Baradas’s?” asked the king’s brother.

  “I do. It’s the fourth door on the left, almost directly across from the king’s chamber.”

  “Good,” said Gaston. “I’ll get him to do what we want, even if I have to promise him my Duchy of Orléans—not that I’d give it to him.”

  The two queens and the young prince departed, the queens to return to their chambers, while His Royal Highness Monseigneur Gaston d’Orléans tiptoed in the opposite direction, to the apartment of Monsieur Baradas.

  We don’t know exactly what passed between Monsieur and the young page, whether Monsieur promised him the Duchy of Orléans, or one of his lesser duchies of Dombes or Montpensier; all we know is that half an hour after entering the tent of Achilles, the modern Ulysses made his way, still on tiptoe, to the chambers of the queens. Once there, he opened the door with a cheerful air and said, in a voice full of hope, “Victory! He’s returned to the king.”

  And, indeed, at almost that very moment, surprising His Majesty when he least expected it, Monsieur Baradas, without bothering to scratch at the door as etiquette demanded, entered the chambers of King Louis XIII, who recognized his page with a cry of joy and welcomed him with open arms.

  XXXVII

  The Overlooked Wisp of Straw,

  the Unnoticed Grain of Sand

  While these low intrigues were plotted against him, the Cardinal was bent over and peering, by the light of a lamp, at a map of what were then called “the Marches of the Realm.” This map showed, in great detail, the border between France and Savoy, as surveyed by the engineer-geographer Monsieur de Pontis. The Cardinal also had before him the route the army must follow, the towns and villages where it would stop, and the roads and paths by which the food necessary to feed thirty thousand men would get to them. This map, prepared by Monsieur d’Escures, accurately showed every valley, mountain, river, and even stream. The Cardinal was delighted: it was the most detailed map he’d ever seen.

  Just as Bonaparte in March 1800, stretched out across the map of Italy, pointed at the plains of Marengo and said “This is where I will defeat Mélas,” so Cardinal Richelieu, more a man of war than of the church, said “This is where I will defeat Charles-Emmanuel.” Delighted, he turned to Monsieur de Pontis and said, “Monsieur le Vicomte, you are a loyal servant of the king—but more than that, you’re clever, and if this war turns out as well as we hope, you are due for a reward. And as I have no doubt of the outcome, you may ask for your reward in advance.”

  Monsieur de Pontis bowed. “Monseigneur, every man has ambitions, in the head or in the heart. Mine is in my heart, and since Your Eminence asks, I will open my heart to you.”

  “Ah!” said the cardinal. “You are in love, Vicomte?”

  “Yes, Monseigneur.”

  “And you love above your rank?”

  “Not my rank, but perhaps my fortune.”

  “And how can I serve you in such a case?”

  “The father of the woman I love is a faithful servant of Your Eminence, who will do nothing without your permission.”

  The cardinal thought for a moment, as if plumbing his memory. “Ah!” he said. “You’ve been close to the queen in the last year, haven’t you—and so you’ve seen Mademoiselle Isabelle de Lautrec?”

  “Yes, Monseigneur,” said the Vicomte de Pontis, blushing.

  “But I don’t believe Mademoiselle de Lautrec has been presented to His Majesty as your fiancée, no?”

  “No, Monseigneur—not as my fiancée. In fact, when I spoke to Monsieur de Lautrec of my love for her, at the first words he said, ‘Isabelle is not yet sixteen. In a couple of years, after the affair in Italy is settled, we may discuss this again—and then, if you still love her, and you have the approval of the cardinal, I would be happy to call you my son.’”

  “And Mademoiselle de Lautrec—what did she think of her father’s promise?”

  “When I told Mademoiselle de Lautrec of my love
, and that her father permitted me to speak of it to her, she promised—or rather, I should say, admitted to me—that her heart was free, and she had too much respect for her father to disobey him.”

  “And when did she say that to you?”

  “A year ago, Monseigneur.”

  “And have you discussed it with her since?”

  “Not . . . frequently.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to her of your love?”

  “Four days ago.”

  “How did she respond?”

  “She blushed and stammered out a few words, which I put down to embarrassment.”

  The cardinal smiled and said to himself, “It seems to me she left something out of her confession.”

  The Vicomte de Pontis looked anxiously at the cardinal. “Does Your Eminence have an objection to my ambition?” he asked.

  “Not at all, Vicomte, not at all. If you love Mademoiselle de Lautrec, there may be obstacles . . . but none of them will come from me.”

  The viscount appeared relieved. “Thank you, Monseigneur,” he said, bowing.

  At that moment, the clock struck two in the morning.

  The cardinal dismissed the viscount with some sadness, for, based on Isabelle’s confession, he knew it would be difficult, if not impossible, to grant this loyal servant the reward he desired.

  He was preparing to retire to his chambers when the door to Madame de Combalet’s chambers opened and she appeared on the threshold, a smile lighting up her face.

  “My dear Marie,” said the cardinal, “should you be disturbing yourself at this late hour, when you should be taking the opportunity to get some sleep?”

  “My dear Uncle,” said Madame de Combalet, “joy can displace sleep as much as sorrow. When you are sad, you let me share your sorrow. When you are victorious, shouldn’t I share in your victory? And you won a victory today, did you not?”

  “Yes, Marie—a genuine victory,” he said, his heart swelling in his chest.

  “Well,” Madame de Combalet said, “when you are victorious, allow me to share your triumph.”

  “You have a right to share my joy, dear Marie, because you are entitled to it. You’re part of my life, a part of everything that happens to me, happy or unhappy. However, for once I can breathe freely, for my victory comes untainted. This time I didn’t have to climb by stepping on another, or by sending an enemy to the scaffold. The greatest victories, Marie, are achieved through peaceful means, and are due to persuasion alone. Those who are coerced by force become our enemies, but those who succumb to reason become our allies.

  “If God guides me, my dear Marie, within six months there will be a new power in Europe, feared and respected by all other powers—and that power will be France. All I need is for Providence to protect me for six months more from those two treacherous women! In six months, the siege of Casale will be lifted, Mantua will be rescued, and the Protestants of Languedoc, seeing me return from Italy with a victorious army, will sue for peace without the need, I hope, of further warfare. And then the pope will cease to oppose me, the king will favor me as he does now, and I will be able to exercise both temporal and spiritual power in France. Unless His Majesty encounters on the road one of those overlooked wisps of straw or unnoticed grains of sand that can overthrow even the mightiest project, I will be master of France and Italy!

  “So kiss me, Marie, and go sleep the sleep you deserve. As for me, I’m not sure I’ll sleep, but at least I’ll try.”

  “But tomorrow you’ll be a wreck.”

  “No, in lieu of sleep, this joy will carry me through.”

  “May I be permitted, my dear Uncle, to check upon you when I awake tomorrow, to see how you passed the night?”

  “Come in early to be my sunrise, or late to be my sunset—so long as I get to see your beautiful eyes, I know the day will be fine. May your night be fine as well.”

  And, kissing Madame de Combalet on the forehead, he led her to the door of his study and stood in the doorway, watching until she was lost in the darkness of the stairs. Only then did the cardinal close the door. He was about to go to his bedchamber, but as he was leaving he heard a small knock on the panel that led to Marion Delorme’s house.

  He thought he must have been mistaken, but, as he stopped and listened, the knock came again, louder and more urgent. He had not been mistaken: someone was at the door that communicated with the neighboring house.

  Richelieu went to the main door to his office and turned the key in the lock, then approached the secret panel. “Who knocks?” he asked quietly.

  “It’s me,” a woman’s voice said. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let me in. I have something to report that I think is more than a little important.”

  The cardinal looked around to make sure he was, in fact, alone, and then pushed a spring that opened the secret panel.

  In the doorway waited a handsome young man, twirling a fake mustache. It was Marion Delorme.

  “Ah! Here you are, the pretty page boy,” Richelieu said smiling. “I confess that if I had been expecting someone at this hour, it wouldn’t have been you.”

  “Didn’t you say to me, ‘Whatever the hour, if you have something important to tell me, ring the bell, and if that doesn’t work, knock on the door’?”

  “I said that, my dear Marion, and thank you for remembering it.” And, taking a seat, the cardinal motioned to Marion to sit beside him.

  “In this costume?” said Marion, laughing and pirouetting on tiptoe to show it off, displaying her natural elegance even in an outfit unsuited to her sex. “No, that would be disrespectful to Your Eminence. I will remain standing, if you please, Monseigneur, while I make my little report—unless you’d prefer I speak to you on one knee. But I suppose that would be too much like a confession, which would be taking things too far.”

  “Speak to me however you like, Marion,” said the cardinal, concern lining his forehead, “and quickly, for if I’m not mistaken, you bring me bad news. And in order to react to it, one can never hear bad news too soon.”

  “I’m not sure whether the news is bad—though my feminine instincts tell me it isn’t good. You understand.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Your Eminence is aware that the king has quarreled with his favorite, Monsieur Baradas?”

  “Say, rather, that Monsieur Baradas has quarreled with the king.”

  “That’s so, since Monsieur Baradas has been the one who was sulking. Well, tonight, while the king was with his fool, l’Angely, the two queens went in and then, after half an hour, came out again. They seemed upset and paused for a moment to speak with Monsieur, the Duc d’Orléans, after which he went to speak with Monsieur Baradas. After talking in a window embrasure for nearly a quarter of an hour, the prince and the page reached an agreement, and came out into the hallway. Monsieur waited until he saw Baradas go into the king’s suite, after which he went down the corridor leading to the chambers of the queens.”

  The cardinal brooded for some moments, and then said to Marion, without bothering to conceal his anxiety, “Your report is so detailed, I’m sure I have no need to ask if it is accurate.”

  “It is—and in any event, I have no reason to hide anything from Your Eminence.”

  “If it’s not indiscreet to ask, my dear friend, I’d like very much to know how you learned this.”

  “It’s not indiscreet at all, as I hope to be of service to both you and the friend who gave me this news.”

  “Who is this friend?”

  “One who hopes to be a devoted servant to Your Eminence.”

  “His name?”

  “Saint-Simon.”

  “The king’s new page? The short one?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I know him, but not well. Tonight he came to my house.”

  “Before or after midnight?”

  “I’ll tell you what I’m able to say, Monseigneur, and
you’ll have to be satisfied with that. He came to my house tonight from the Louvre, all eager to tell me his story. On the way to visit his comrade Baradas, he saw the two queens come out of His Majesty’s chambers. They were so agitated that they didn’t notice him. He saw them stop in a doorway to speak with Monsieur, the Duc d’Orléans, but Saint-Simon continued on his way and went in to visit Baradas. The page was still sulking, and said that on the next day he planned to leave the Louvre. At that moment, Monsieur entered. He didn’t see Saint-Simon, who is rather small. He stood there silently and, as I have said, watched his comrade talk with the prince in the recess of a window. Then both left, Baradas to go to the king, and Monsieur, in all probability, to run to the queens to report his success.”

  “And this rather small Saint-Simon came to tell you all this so you’d repeat it to me, you say?”

  “My faith, I’ll give it to you in his own words: ‘My dear Marion, I think all these comings and goings portend a plot against Cardinal Richelieu. You are said to be one of his good friends—I don’t ask whether this is true or not, but if it is, please tell him about it. And say that I am his humble servant.’”

  “He’s a clever lad. I won’t overlook this service he’s done me, and you can tell him I said so. As for you, my dear Marion, how may I prove my gratitude?”

  “Oh, Monseigneur.”

  “I’ll think about it, but in the meantime . . .” The cardinal drew from his finger a beautiful diamond ring. “Here,” he said, “take this diamond as a remembrance of me.”

  But Marion, instead of offering her hand, put it behind her back. The cardinal reached around, took her hand, and put the ring on her finger himself. Then, kissing her hand, he said, “Marion, tell me you’re still my good friend and always will be.”

  “Monseigneur,” Marion said, “I am sometimes mistaken when it comes to lovers, but as to friends, never.”

  Then, hand on one hip and hat in the other, with the audacity of youth and beauty, she bowed like a real page, and with a wink and a smile returned home, admiring her diamond and singing one of Desportes’s villanelles.