The Red Sphinx

by Alexandre Dumas

  The cardinal was alone once more, and passed a hand over his darkened brow. “So this,” he said, “is the overlooked wisp of straw, the unnoticed grain of sand. This,” he said, with a contempt impossible to describe, “this . . . Baradas.”

  XXXVIII

  Richelieu’s Resolution

  The cardinal spent a very restless night. As the beautiful Marion had thought, based on her previous experience with him on momentous occasions, the news she brought was serious: the king had reconciled with his favorite through the intercession of Monsieur, the cardinal’s bitter enemy. It opened the door to any number of disastrous possibilities, and the cardinal, restless, considered them all. By the next morning—not to say when he awoke, but rather by the time he got up—he had a contingency in mind for each of them.

  Around nine o’clock in the morning, a messenger from the king was announced. The cardinal was already in his office, and the messenger was ushered in. With a deep bow, he handed His Eminence an envelope with a large red seal; without knowing what the letter contained, the cardinal gave him a purse of twenty pistoles, as he did whenever he received a letter from the king. The cardinal had purses prepared for these occasions in a nearby drawer.

  A glance told him the letter came directly from the king, as the address was written in His Majesty’s own hand. So he invited the messenger to wait in the office of his secretary, Charpentier, to carry back an immediate reply.

  He paused for a moment; then, like an athlete preparing for a physical challenge by rubbing oil on his muscles, he passed his handkerchief over his high forehead, damp with sweat, and prepared to break the seal.

  Meanwhile, without his noticing it, a door opened quietly, and the anxious face of Madame de Combalet appeared in the gap. She knew from Guillemot that her uncle had slept badly, and from Charpentier that a message had arrived from the king. Thus she ventured to intrude into her uncle’s office where, though uninvited, she felt sure of her welcome.

  But, seeing her uncle seated and holding in his hand a letter he hesitated to open, her unease was redoubled. Though ignorant of Marion Delorme’s visit, she nonetheless guessed that bad news had arrived since she’d last seen him.

  Richelieu finally opened the letter. As he read, something like a shadow appeared on his brow and grew to darken his visage.

  She slipped noiselessly into the room and along the wall, stopping a few feet from him and leaning on a chair. The cardinal started slightly, but as he remained silent, Madame de Combalet believed she hadn’t been noticed.

  The cardinal continued reading, wiping his brow every few seconds. He was obviously dismayed.

  As Madame de Combalet approached, she could hear his ragged breathing. Then his hand seemed to lose the strength to hold it, and he dropped the letter on the desk.

  His head turned slowly toward his niece, revealing his pale and feverish face, and he held out toward her a trembling hand. Madame de Combalet seized his hand and kissed it.

  But the cardinal put his arm around her waist and drew her to him, pressing her hand against his heart, while with the other hand he offered her the letter. “Read it,” he said, trying to smile.

  Madame de Combalet read the letter to herself.

  “Read it aloud,” said the cardinal. “In order to face this, I need to hear it from another. And the sound of your voice will be reassuring.”

  Madame de Combalet read:

  My good friend Monsieur le Cardinal,

  After careful consideration of the issues, both foreign and domestic, both equally serious, I have concluded that of the two, the domestic question is the most important. Considering the troubles plaguing the heart of our realm at the hands of Monsieur de Rohan and his Huguenots, we have decided, having confidence in the political genius you have so often displayed, to leave you in Paris to conduct affairs of State in our absence. Meanwhile we shall march south, with our beloved brother Monsieur as lieutenant general, and Messieurs d’Angoulême, Bassompierre, Bellegarde, and de Guise as our captains, to raise the siege of Casale and thwart the ambitions of Monsieur the Duke of Savoy. We shall send daily couriers to you to maintain constant communication, and to ask for your advice should we find ourselves embarrassed by circumstance.

  Please provide, at your earliest convenience, a report of the exact state of the troops composing our army, as well as the artillery available for the campaign and what funds are available for our disposition, while retaining those you feel necessary to administer your responsibilities.

  I thought long and hard before making the decision of which I inform you, as I remembered the words of that great Italian poet, forced to stay in Florence due to the unrest in the city, yet wishing to go to Venice to complete an important negotiation: “If I stay, what will go on? If I go, what will stay behind me?” I am luckier than him, for I have you, my good friend Monsieur le Cardinal, another self whom I can leave in Paris, to do everything I would do if I stayed.

  With that, my good friend Monsieur le Cardinal, as I have no further business with you, I pray the good Lord shall protect you and keep you.

  Your affectionate,

  Louis

  As she read this, Madame de Combalet’s voice gradually dwindled until, as she reached the last lines, she could barely be heard.

  However, though the cardinal had read the letter only once, its contents were already indelibly engraved in his memory, and he had only asked Madame de Combalet to read it in her soft voice to calm his mind, which had an effect like that of the harp of David upon the tumult of Saul.

  When she had finished, she pressed her cheek to the cardinal’s brow. “Oh!” she said. “The scoundrels! They’re out to drive you to your grave!”

  “Well, then, Marie—what would you do in my place?”

  “Are you seriously asking for my advice, Uncle?”

  “Quite seriously.”

  “Well—if I were in your place . . . !” She hesitated.

  “If you were in my place . . . what?”

  “In your place, I’d abandon the whole lot of them to their fate. We’d soon see how they’d fare without you to manage things.”

  “That’s your advice, Marie?”

  She drew herself up and said, fiercely, “Yes, that’s my advice! None of these people—kings, queens, princes—are worthy of the efforts you make for them.”

  “And what, then, will we do, if I take my leave of ‘these people,’ as you call them?”

  “We’ll go to one of your abbeys, whichever one is best, and live on our own. I will love you, and all we’ll care about is nature and poetry, forgetting all about these worms.”

  “You are consolation personified, beloved Marie, and you’ve always been a good counselor to me. And this time, moreover, your advice and my will are aligned. Last night, after you left my office, I was informed, more or less, of the blow that was about to strike. So I had all night to prepare for it and make up my mind as to how to respond.”

  He reached out his hand, drew a sheet of paper to him, and wrote:

  Sire,

  I could not be more flattered by this new mark of esteem Your Majesty wishes to bestow, but unfortunately I cannot accept it. My health, always fragile, was taxed by the siege of La Rochelle, which by the grace of God we concluded with success. But the effort has exhausted me, and my doctor, my family, and my friends all plead with me to avail myself of the absolute rest I can find only in the solitude of the country. Thus I mean to set aside all business, Sire, and withdraw to the house in Chaillot that I purchased for my retirement. I beg you, Sire, to please accept my resignation, while continuing to believe me the most humble, and especially the most devoted, of all your subjects.

  —Armand, Cardinal Richelieu

  Madame de Combalet had discreetly withdrawn while he was writing. But having signed it, he handed her the letter. As she read it quietly, great tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “You’re crying!” the cardinal said.

  “Yes,” she said, “blessed tears!�
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  “Why do you call them blessed tears, Marie?”

  “Because they spring from joy in my heart, despite the blindness of the king and the misery of his kingdom.”

  The cardinal looked up and placed his hand on his niece’s arm. “You’re right,” he said, “but God, who may abandon a king, does not so easily abandon an entire kingdom. Our lives are short and ephemeral, but that of a realm lasts for centuries. Believe me, Marie, France has too great a role to play in Europe to think that the Lord would look away from her. What I have begun, another will finish, and one man more or less will not change her destiny.”

  “But is it fair,” said Madame de Combalet, “that the man who prepared the path for his country’s destiny should not be the one to accomplish it, that his should be the labor, while another reaps the glory?”

  “Now there, Marie,” said the cardinal, his brow clearing, “without intending to, you touch upon the great question men have asked the sphinx for three thousand years: why is it that those who create prosperity so often earn only misfortune? The sphinx in our hearts has another name: Doubt. Why should God, the supreme justice, allow such supreme injustice?”

  “Dear Uncle, I have nothing to complain of God. I just want to understand.”

  “God has the right to be unjust, Marie, for he has all eternity in which to repair injustice. If we could understand His secrets, we would see that what seems unfair to us serves His purposes in the end. The tension between His Majesty and myself, whom God preserve, had to be settled, if not today, then another day. Will the king decide in favor of his family, or in favor of France? Well, I am for France. And God is with France. In the end, who can be against me if God is on my side?”

  He rang a bell. At the second ring, his secretary, Charpentier, appeared.

  “Charpentier,” he said, “compile a list of the troops ready to march to the Italian campaign, with a list of available artillery. I need this within a quarter of an hour.”

  Charpentier bowed and left.

  Then the cardinal returned to his desk, picked up his pen, and below the last line of his resignation, he wrote:

  P.S.: Your Majesty will find enclosed a detailed list of the troops of the army, as well as their equipment. As for the funds, the remainder of the six million borrowed on my guarantee—the cardinal consulted a small notebook he always carried with him—3,882,000 livres, can be found in a strongbox, the key of which my secretary will have the honor to deliver directly to Your Majesty.

  As there may be those in the Louvre who fear there are state documents entrusted to me that may go astray, I give not only my office, but my entire house to Your Majesty. As everything I have comes from you, all that I have is yours. My servants will continue their efforts on your behalf, and their daily reports will be sent to you.

  As of two o’clock on today’s date, Your Majesty may take full possession of my house.

  I finish these lines as I finished those above, daring to name myself the most obedient, but also the most loyal, subject of Your Majesty.

  —Armand, Cardinal Richelieu

  As he wrote, the cardinal read what he was writing aloud, so his niece didn’t need to read the postscript to know what it said.

  Just then, Charpentier came in with his report: thirty-five thousand men were ready for the campaign, with seventy guns.

  The cardinal sealed the letter, put it and the report in an envelope, recalled the courier, and gave it to him, saying, “To His Majesty, in person.”

  He gave him the usual purse, and added a second to the first.

  His carriage, according to the cardinal’s orders, was harnessed and ready. The cardinal went down to it, taking nothing from his house but the clothes he wore. He got into the carriage with Madame de Combalet and sent his single servant, Guillemot, up onto the box. He told the driver, “To Chaillot!”

  Then, turning to his niece, he added, “If, within three days, the king himself has not come to Chaillot, we leave on the fourth for my bishopric of Luçon.”

  XXXIX

  Birds of Prey

  As we have just seen, the advice of the Duke of Savoy had resulted in complete success: “If an Italian campaign is decided upon despite your opposition, get Gaston command of the army as a pretext for separating him from La Gonzague. The cardinal-duke, whose sole ambition is to be the foremost general of our age, will resign in protest. The king will accept the inevitable!”

  By ten in the morning, the royalty in the Louvre was awaiting the cardinal’s decision, waiting impatiently but, strange to say, in perfect harmony. These royal personages were the king, the queen mother, Queen Anne, and Monsieur.

  Monsieur pretended to find a reconciliation with the queen mother as insincere as their quarrel had been. However, no matter how he appeared to get along with others, well or ill, Monsieur despised everyone equally; his cowardly and treacherous heart knew that, despite others’ smiles and praise, he was held in contempt, and he returned their contempt with hatred.

  The four were gathered in Queen Anne’s boudoir, wherein we last saw Madame de Fargis, with the casual depravity of her corrupt and lascivious nature, giving Her Majesty such good advice.

  In the chambers of the king, of Marie de Médicis, and of Monsieur le Duc d’Orléans, their accomplices stood awaiting their orders: Vieuville, Nogent-Bautru, and Baradas, now ascended to the height of his power, in the king’s suite; Cardinal Bérulle and Vautier in the queen mother’s rooms; while in the Duc d’Orléans’s suite waited Doctor Senelle, who had penned the letter in cipher wherein Monsieur was invited, in the event of disgrace at Court, to take refuge in Lorraine—Senelle, the man whose letter had been sold to Father Joseph, His Gray Eminence, by his valet who, having been well rewarded for his betrayal, stood ready to betray him again.

  As for Queen Anne, she had her own confederates at hand: Madame de Chevreuse, Madame de Fargis, and the little dwarf Gretchen who, it will be remembered, had been a gift of the Infanta Claire-Eugénie, and who, thanks to her small stature, could be employed to go where those of ordinary size could not.

  At around half past ten—the time, we recall, when the cardinal was expected—his messenger arrived. As the king ordered he be admitted to the queen’s chambers, and as the cardinal had ordered him to deliver his letter directly to the king, he saw no reason to delay and immediately executed his mission.

  Everyone stared anxiously at the envelope which contained the fate of all their ambitions and hatreds, while the king took the letter with visible emotion, saying to the messenger, “Did His Eminence charge you with anything to tell me in person?”

  “Nothing, Sire, except to present his humble respects to Your Majesty, and to deliver this message to you personally.”

  “Very well,” said the king. “Go!”

  The messenger departed.

  The king opened the letter and prepared to read it. “Aloud, Sire, aloud!” cried Queen Marie, in a voice strangely combining command and appeal.

  The king appeared to consider whether reading it aloud was a good idea. “Sire,” said Queen Anne, “do we not all share the same interests?”

  A twitch of his brow seemed to indicate that the king did not entirely agree—but whether in deference to his mother, or for reasons of his own, he began to read the letter aloud. Our readers have already heard it, but the effect it produced on the listeners is worthy of attention.

  “Sire. . .”

  As he said this word, the room fell so silent that Louis looked up from his letter as if to make sure his listeners had not vanished like ghosts.

  “We’re listening, Sire,” the queen mother said impatiently.

  The king, the least impatient of the four, perhaps because only he bore the weight of the monarchy and understood the gravity of this event, resumed, slowly and with a slight tremor in his voice:

  “I could not be more flattered by this new mark of esteem Your Majesty wishes to bestow. . . .”

  “Oh!” cried Queen Marie de Médicis, unable t
o contain her impatience. “He accepts!”

  “Listen, Madame,” said the king. “There is a but.”

  “Then read on, Sire, read on.”

  “If you want me to read on, Madame, do not interrupt me.” And he continued, with the grave lethargy he applied to everything:

  “. . . But unfortunately, I cannot accept it.”

  “He refuses!” cried Monsieur and the queen mother together, unable to contain themselves.

  The king frowned irritably.

  “Excuse us, Sire,” said the queen mother, “and carry on, please!”

  Anne of Austria, though as faithless as Marie de Médicis, but with more self-control, given what she had to hide, laid her white hand, trembling with emotion, on her mother-in-law’s black satin skirts, enjoining caution and silence.

  The king continued:

  “My health, always fragile, was taxed by the siege of La Rochelle, which by the grace of God we concluded with success. But the effort has exhausted me, and my doctor, my family, and my friends all plead with me to avail myself of the absolute rest I can find only in the solitude of the country.”

  “Ah!” said Marie de Médicis, with a sigh from deep within her voluminous chest. “Such a rest will be for the good of the realm, and indeed, for all of Europe.”

  “Mother! Mother!” hissed the Duc d’Orléans, who saw the flash in the king’s eyes.

  Anne pressed down firmly on Marie’s knee. But the latter, incapable of self-control, said, “Oh, my son! You have no idea how that man has affronted me.”

  “Not so, Madame,” said Louis XIII, frowning. “I know.” And he continued, somewhat peevishly:

  “Thus I mean to set aside all business, Sire, and withdraw to the house in Chaillot that I purchased for my retirement. I beg you, Sire, to please accept my resignation, while continuing to believe me the most humble, and especially the most devoted, of all your subjects.

  “Armand, Cardinal Richelieu”

  The listeners all stood at once, believing the reading at an end. Both queens kissed the Duc d’Orléans and approached the king to kiss his hand.