The Red Sphinx

by Alexandre Dumas

  “What? Monsieur le Cardinal gave his servant’s wives pensions from the State that pay twelve to fifteen thousand a year! That’s good to know.”

  “I did not say a pension, Sire; I said a privilege.”

  “And what is this privilege that was granted to Madame Cavois?”

  “The right, shared with Monsieur Michel, to the monopoly on all sedan chairs on the streets of Paris.”

  The king thought for a moment, his eyes cast down. Cavois stood, motionless, his hat held in his left hand, his right hand stiff at the seam of his breeches.

  “And what if I offered you, Monsieur Cavois, the same high position in my guard that you have in the Cardinal’s Guard?”

  “You already have Monsieur de Jussac, Sire, an exemplary officer to whom I’m sure Your Majesty wishes no harm.”

  “I will promote Jussac to marshal.”

  “If Monsieur de Jussac, as I have no reason to doubt, loves Your Majesty as I do Monsieur le Cardinal, he will prefer to remain as a captain near to his king, rather than to become a marshal and leave him.”

  “But, if you leave our service, Monsieur . . .”

  “Such is my request, Sire.”

  “. . . Will you accept, as a reward for your time spent with His Eminence, a bonus of fifteen hundred or two thousand pistoles?”

  “Sire,” replied Cavois, bowing, “the time I spent with His Eminence has already been rewarded, for its merits and more. We’re going to war, Sire, and war takes money—lots of money. Keep the rewards for those who will fight, not for those who, like me, having devoted their fortunes to a man, will fall with that man.”

  “Are all the servants of Monsieur le Cardinal like you, Monsieur Cavois?”

  “I think so, Sire, though some are more worthy.”

  “So, you have no more ambitions or desires?”

  “Nothing, Sire, other than the honor to follow Monsieur le Cardinal wherever he goes, and continue to be part of his household, no matter how humble.”

  “Very well, Monsieur Cavois,” said the king, piqued at the stubbornness of a captain who refused everything. “You are free.”

  Cavois bowed and, backing out, ran into Charpentier as he came in.

  “And you, Monsieur Charpentier,” cried the king, “do you, like Monsieur Cavois, refuse to serve me?”

  “No, Sire. I was ordered by Monsieur le Cardinal to stay with Your Majesty until another minister was installed in his place, or His Majesty had a firm grasp of the work involved with the affairs of state.”

  “And when I have a grasp of our affairs, or another minister is installed, what will you do then?”

  “I will beg leave of Your Majesty to allow me to rejoin Monsieur le Cardinal, who is accustomed to my service.”

  “But what if I asked Monsieur le Cardinal to let you stay with me?” asked the king. “When I have a minister who, unlike Monsieur le Cardinal, doesn’t do everything himself, I’ll need an honest and intelligent man as aide, and I’m sure you qualify for the role.”

  “I have no doubt, Sire, that Monsieur le Cardinal would instantly grant the king’s request, as I am not worth causing dissension between my master and the king. But then I would have to throw myself at Your Majesty’s feet and say, ‘I have a father of seventy years, and a mother of sixty. Monsieur le Cardinal has provided for them and rescued them from misery. Once I am no longer at the side of Monsieur le Cardinal, my place is with them. Sire, allow a son to tend to his parents, and close their eyes when the time comes.’ And I’m sure Your Majesty would not only grant me my prayer, he would commend it.”

  “‘To honor your mother and father, all their lives,’” said the king, piqued even further. “The day a new minister is installed in place of Monsieur le Cardinal, you will be free, Monsieur Charpentier.”

  “Shall I give Your Majesty the key he entrusted me with?”

  “No, keep it. If Monsieur le Cardinal, who is so well served that the king must envy his servants, trusted you with it, I’m sure it couldn’t be in more honest hands. Remember, do not dispense any funds except at my written order, in my own handwriting.”

  Charpentier bowed.

  “Don’t you have here,” asked the king, “a certain Rossignol, who I’m told is clever at deciphering secret letters?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “I want to see him.”

  “If you knock three times on the panel, you can summon him. Would His Majesty like to knock himself, or shall I do it?”

  “Knock,” said the king.

  Charpentier knocked thrice on the panel and Rossignol came through the door. He had a paper in his hand.

  “Shall I stay or go, Sire?” asked Charpentier.

  “Leave us,” said the king.

  Charpentier left.

  “You are called Rossignol?” asked the king.

  “Yes, Sire,” replied the small man, while continuing to scan the paper.

  “They say you are clever at deciphering?”

  “In that regard, Sire, I don’t know anyone better.”

  “You can decode any code you are given?”

  “There is only one that, till now, has resisted me, but with God’s help, I hope to master it.”

  “What is the most recent letter you deciphered?”

  “A letter from the Duc de Lorraine to Monsieur.”

  “To my brother?”

  “Yes, Sire, to His Royal Highness.”

  “And what did the Duc de Lorraine have to say to my brother?”

  “Your Majesty wants the full account?”

  “Indeed!”

  “I’ll go get it.” Rossignol turned to go, and then asked, “The original, or the translation?”

  “Both, Monsieur.”

  Rossignol darted out with the speed of a ferret, albeit one with a furrowed brow, and returned almost immediately with two papers in one hand, while continuing to study the one in his other. “Here they are, Sire,” he said, presenting the original from the Duc de Lorraine and its translation.

  The king started with the original, and read, “‘If Jupiter . . .’”

  “Monsieur,” said Rossignol, interrupting the king.

  “‘. . . Is exiled from Olympus . . .’” continued Louis XIII.

  “The Louvre,” said Rossignol.

  “And why would Monsieur be exiled from the Court?” asked the king.

  “Because he conspires,” Rossignol said calmly.

  “Monsieur conspires? Against whom?”

  “Against Your Majesty and the State.”

  “Do you know what you are saying, Monsieur?”

  “I am saying that Your Majesty should continue reading.”

  “‘. . . He could,’” read Louis XIII, “‘take refuge in Crete.’”

  “In Lorraine.”

  “‘Minos . . .’”

  “Duc Charles IV.”

  “‘. . . Would take great pleasure in offering him hospitality. But the health of Cephalus . . .’”

  “The health of Your Majesty.”

  “He calls me Cephalus?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “I know who Minos was, but I’ve forgotten Cephalus. Who was Cephalus?”

  “A Thessalian prince, Sire, husband of a beautiful Athenian princess, who drove her from him because she had been unfaithful, but with whom he was later reconciled.”

  Louis XIII frowned. “So,” he said, “this Cephalus, husband of an unfaithful wife with whom he reconciles despite her infidelity—that’s me?”

  “Yes, Sire—that is you,” Rossignol calmly replied.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pardieu, yes! As Your Majesty will see.”

  “Where were we?”

  “‘If Monsieur is exiled from the Louvre, he can take refuge in Lorraine. Duc Charles IV would take great pleasure in offering him hospitality. But the health of Cephalus . . .’—that is to say, the king; that’s where you were, Sire.”

  “‘. . . Cannot last long.’ What does that mean, cannot last lo
ng?”

  “It means that Your Majesty is ill, very ill indeed—at least, such is the opinion of the Duc de Lorraine.”

  “Ah!” said the king, turning pale. “So I’m ill, very ill indeed!” He searched for and found a mirror, looked at himself, and then patted his pockets for medicinal salts. Finding none, he made an effort to pull himself together and, in an agitated voice, continued to read. “‘Why, in the case of his death, should we not marry Procris . . .’—Procris?”

  “That is, the queen,” said Rossignol. “Procris was Cephalus’s unfaithful wife.”

  “‘. . . Why should we not marry Procris to Jupiter?’ To Monsieur?” cried the king.

  “Yes, Sire. To Monsieur.”

  “To Monsieur!” Sweat sprang from the king’s forehead, and he wiped it with a handkerchief, then continued: “‘The rumor at Court is that Oracle . . .’”

  “His Eminence.”

  “‘. . . Wants to replace Procris with a marriage to Venus . . .’”

  The king looked at Rossignol, who continued, without replying to the king, to study the paper in his hand.

  “Venus?” repeated the king, impatiently.

  “Madame de Combalet, Madame de Combalet,” Rossignol hastily replied.

  “‘. . . To Cephalus,’” continued the king. “Marry me to Madame de Combalet? Me? Where do they get these ideas? ‘Meanwhile, Jupiter’—that is to say, Monsieur—‘continues to court Hebe . . .’”

  “Princesse Marie de Gonzague.”

  “‘. . . Feigning passion, as well as a falling-out with Juno.’”

  “The queen mother.”

  “‘It is important that, to this end, Oracle’—that is, the cardinal—‘must mistakenly believe that Jupiter loves Hebe. Signed, Minos.’”

  “Charles IV.”

  “Ah!” murmured the king. “That explains his apparent reluctance to sacrifice his great love in order to become lieutenant general. So, my health cannot last, eh? And when I am dead, you will marry my brother to my widow! But, thanks be to God, though I may be ill, ‘very ill indeed,’ as they say, I’m not dead yet. So, my brother conspires, and if his conspiracy is discovered, he can escape to Lorraine and find refuge with the duke! Does he think France couldn’t swallow a mouthful like Lorraine, duke and all? Isn’t it enough that they gave us the Guises?”

  Then, turning quickly to Rossignol, “And how,” the king asked, “did this letter come into the hands of Monsieur le Cardinal?”

  “He had it from Monsieur Senelle.”

  “One of my own doctors,” said Louis XIII. “Truly, I am well served!”

  “Foreseeing an intrigue between the Court of Lorraine and that of France, Monsieur Senelle’s valet had been suborned in advance by Father Joseph.”

  “This Father Joseph seems to be a clever man,” said the king.

  Rossignol winked. “He’s the shadow of His Eminence,” he said.

  “So Senelle’s valet . . .?”

  “Stole the letter and sent it to us.”

  “Where was Senelle, then?”

  “Not far from Nancy; the valet returned and said he’d inadvertently burned the letter with some other papers. The duke suspects nothing, and has sent a second letter to His Royal Highness Monsieur.”

  “And how has my brother Jupiter responded to the wise Minos?” asked the king, laughing nervously, mustache twitching as he awaited the reply.

  “I don’t yet know. This is his answer that I’m working on.”

  “What! You have his answer there?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “Your Majesty won’t understand it, given that I don’t understand it yet myself.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because after they lost the first letter, fearing some accident, they invented a new code.”

  The king looked at the letter and read these completely unintelligible words: “‘Astra-so be-the-amb in joy as L.M.T. wants to be.’ When will you know what this means?”

  “I’ll have it by tomorrow, Sire.”

  “This is not my brother’s handwriting.”

  “No, this time the valet didn’t dare steal the letter, lest he be suspected, so he copied it.”

  “And when was this letter written?”

  “Today at noon, Sire.”

  “And you already have a copy?”

  “Father Joseph handed it to me at two o’clock.”

  The king remained thoughtful for a moment, then turned again to the little man, who had taken back the letter and was working to guess its meaning. “You’ll stay on with me, won’t you, Monsieur Rossignol?” he asked.

  “Yes, Sire, until this letter is fully decrypted.”

  “What, only until this letter is decrypted? Are you planning to rejoin Monsieur le Cardinal?”

  “Yes, in fact, but only if he is once more a minister. If he isn’t a minister, he has no need for me.”

  “But I have a need for you!”

  “Sire,” said Rossignol, shaking his head so that his glasses nearly fell off, “I’m leaving France tomorrow.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because in serving Monsieur le Cardinal, and through him Your Majesty, in deciphering the codes invented for their intrigues, I’ve made terrible enemies of the Great Nobles, enemies against whom only the cardinal could protect me.”

  “But what if I protect you?”

  “His Majesty may have the intention, but . . .”

  “But?”

  “But he does not have the power.”

  “What?” The king frowned.

  “Moreover,” continued Rossignol, “I owe everything to Monsieur le Cardinal. I was a poor boy in Alby when it chanced that the cardinal learned of my talent with ciphers. He took me on and gave me a position paying a thousand crowns, then two thousand, then added twenty pistoles for each letter I decoded. For six years I’ve deciphered one or two letters a week, so I have a tidy sum saved away.”

  “Where?”

  “In England.”

  “So you’ll probably go to England and enter the service of King Charles?”

  “King Charles offered me two thousand pistoles a year and fifty pistoles per letter deciphered if I would leave the service of Monsieur le Cardinal. I refused.”

  “And if I offered you as much as King Charles has?”

  “Sire, the most pressing need of a man on this earth is to stay above it. With Monsieur le Cardinal in disgrace, even with Your Majesty’s royal protection—or perhaps because of it—I have less than a week to live. When he left this house, it took all of his authority to make me stay here as long as I have, but for Your Majesty, I am willing to risk my life . . . for another twenty-four hours.”

  “So you’re not willing to risk your life for me beyond that?”

  “We owe our devotion to our parents, and beyond that to a benefactor. Seek for devotion, Sire, from your parents, or from those for whom you have done good. I have no doubt Your Majesty will find it there.”

  “You have no doubt. Well, I have reason to doubt it!”

  “Now that I have told His Majesty why I have stayed, that is, to perform a service—now that he knows the risks I run to remain in France even this long, I beg His Majesty not to oppose my departure, for which everything is prepared.”

  “I will not oppose it, but on the express condition that you vow not to enter the service of any foreign prince who might use your talent against France.”

  “I give Your Majesty my word.”

  “Go. Monsieur le Cardinal is very lucky to have servants such as you and your colleagues.” The king looked at his watch. “Four o’clock. I will be back here at ten in the morning; make sure the translation of the new letter is ready by then.”

  “It will be, Sire.”

  As the king was reaching for his hat, Rossignol asked, “Wouldn’t His Majesty like to speak with Father Joseph?”

  “Of course, of course,” said the king, “and when he comes, ask Charpentier to
send him in.”

  “He’s right here, Sire.”

  “Then have him enter, and I’ll speak to him at once.”

  “Here he is, Sire,” said Rossignol, withdrawing to defer to His Gray Eminence.

  The monk appeared, and stood humbly waiting on the threshold of the study. “Come, come, mon Père,” said the king.

  The monk approached with every appearance of humility, head down and hands crossed on his breast. “Here I am, Sire,” said the Capuchin, stopping four paces from the king.

  “You were waiting, Father,” said the king, looking at the monk with curiosity, because for him a whole new world was opening before his eyes.

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “How long?”

  “For an hour or so.”

  “And you waited that long without anyone letting me know you were there?”

  “A humble monk has nothing better to do, Sire, than to await orders from his king.”

  “I am told you are a man of great ability, mon Père.”

  “My enemies may say that, Sire,” replied the monk, eyes piously downcast.

  “You helped the cardinal to bear the burden of his ministry?”

  “As Simon of Cyrene helped Our Lord carry his cross.”

  “You are a great champion of Christianity, are you not, mon Père? If it was the eleventh century, you would, like Peter the Hermit, preach the crusade.”

  “I preach the crusade even in the seventeenth century, Sire, albeit without success.”

  “Indeed? How so?”

  “I wrote an epic poem in Latin entitled the Turciade to inspire the Christian princes to take up arms against the Muslims. But much time has passed, and they show no signs of being inspired.”

  “You rendered great service to Monsieur le Cardinal?”

  “His Eminence was blocked at every turn, but I helped as I could, according to my limited abilities.”

  “How much did His Eminence grant you per year?”

  “Nothing, Sire. It is forbidden for our order to receive anything but alms. His Eminence paid only for my carriage.”

  “You have a carriage?”

  “Yes, Sire, but not in gratification of pride. I formerly rode an ass.”