The Red Sphinx

by Alexandre Dumas

  “Well, don’t we have Gustavus Adolphus to oppose him?”

  The king thought for a moment. “You are a canny chess player, Monsieur le Cardinal,” he said. “My brother Monsieur shall have his hundred and fifty thousand. But as for my mother, she’ll never see her sixty thousand livres.”

  “Sire, Her Majesty the Queen Mother has been in need of money for quite a while; she asked me for a hundred thousand livres, and at the time I was only able to give her fifty. But at that time we were strapped for cash, whereas now we are flush.”

  “Cardinal! Do you forget all you said to me yesterday about my mother?”

  “But didn’t I say she was still your mother, Sire?”

  “Yes. Unfortunately for me, and for France, she is.”

  “Sire, you committed to give Her Majesty the Queen Mother sixty thousand livres.”

  “Maybe, but I didn’t sign anything.”

  “A royal promise is far more sacred than a written contract, Sire.”

  “Then have it come from you instead of from me. Maybe then she’ll give you some respect and leave the both of us alone.”

  “The queen mother will never leave us alone, Sire. She was born with the meddling spirit of the Médicis, and she’ll spend the rest of her life pursuing the two things she cannot have: her vanished youth and her lost power.”

  “All right, I give in on the queen mother. But what about the queen, who wants me to pay Monsieur d’Émery for a string of pearls—just one example of her continual demands!”

  “That proves to us, Sire, that the queen recognizes she has no power without the king. And since the king has the key to a box holding four million livres, we might as well remind her of it. So the queen owes someone twenty thousand? Then I’m sure Her Majesty will appreciate receiving fifty thousand! Send her fifty thousand as a sign of good faith, on condition that twenty thousand of it goes to Monsieur d’Émery. The Crown of France is pure gold, Sire, and must shine on both the king and the queen.”

  The king rose and held out his hand to the cardinal. “Monsieur le Cardinal, you are not only a great minister and a good counselor, you are a generous enemy. I authorize you, Your Eminence, to pay out the various sums we have discussed.”

  “It is the king who promised, and the king who will deliver. The king will sign vouchers to present to the treasury, where they’ll be covered—but it seems to me His Majesty is forgetting another reward he promised.”

  “Which one?”

  “I thought I heard that, in an hour of generosity, he’d promised his fool Monsieur l’Angely the same amount he’d given his favorite, Monsieur Baradas: thirty thousand livres.”

  The king flushed. “L’Angely turned it down,” he said.

  “All the more reason, Sire, to show your generosity. Monsieur l’Angely turned it down because that was the crazy thing to do, and a fool has to act crazy to deserve a place with Your Majesty. But the king has two real friends he can depend on: his prime minister, and his fool. He shouldn’t appear ungrateful to the one while rewarding the other.”

  “That’s so. You’re right, Your Eminence; the little clown has suffered so from my bad moods the last three months. . . .”

  “Three months, Sire, that can be recompensed at a rate of ten thousand a month. Show him that the King of France remembers his friends, as well as his favorites.”

  “A favorite, who abandons me for Marion Delorme, a girl who is . . . who is . . .”

  “Who is very useful, Sire, as she gave me the warning that I was about to be disgraced, and thus I was able to prepare a way to recoup my fortunes. Without her, Sire, I would have been caught unaware, and been unprepared to engage Your Majesty’s wisdom while absent. Put Monsieur Baradas in command of a company of troops, Sire, and give him the opportunity to prove to Your Majesty that the student can give faithful service to his teacher.”

  The king thought for a moment. “Monsieur le Cardinal,” he asked, “what do you think of this friend of his, Saint-Simon?”

  “I think I should recommend him, Sire, as a person of goodwill and propriety who could fill the place left vacant by the ingratitude of Monsieur Baradas.”

  “And besides,” the king added, “he really plays the horn quite beautifully. I’m glad you recommend him, Cardinal. I’ll see what I can do for him. By the way, what shall we tell the King’s Council?”

  “Will Your Majesty be at the Louvre tomorrow at noon? By then, I’ll be prepared to explain my plan of campaign, so we can propose something more practical than crossing rivers upon Monsieur’s finger.”

  The king stared at the cardinal, astounded that he should be so well informed even when away from Court. “My dear Cardinal,” he said with a laugh, “you must have actual demons in your service! Unless—as I’ve thought more than once—you’re the Devil himself.”

  L

  The Avalanche

  Just as the King’s Council, convened this time by Richelieu, came to order in Paris, at around eleven in the morning a small caravan, which had left the French town of Oulx at dawn, and then passed through Exilles, now approached the outlying houses of the small town of Chaumont, just short of the Piedmont border.

  This caravan was composed of four people, two men and two women, mounted on mules. Both men wore Basque outfits, but rode with their faces uncovered, and it was easy to see that they were young, the eldest about twenty-three, the youngest only eighteen. As for the two women, determining their ages was harder, as over their dresses they wore capes with hoods that completely hid their faces, something that might just as easily be attributed to the cold as to a desire to go unrecognized.

  Then as now, the Alps were crossed by magnificent roads from Simplon, from Mont-Cenis, and from Saint-Gothard, but one could also reach Italy by way of trails so narrow, it was sometimes necessary for travelers to march single-file, leading their mules. These animals were perfectly comfortable with the dramatic terrain, both well trained and amenable.

  At the moment, the elder of the two cavaliers led the way on foot, holding the bridle of the mule ridden by the younger of the women. Seeing no one on the road but a kind of traveling merchant who preceded the caravan by five hundred paces, whipping along a little mule loaded with bales, she drew back her hood to reveal a head of soft blond hair and a face with a complexion so wonderfully fresh, it could belong to no one over the age of eighteen.

  The other woman followed, her face completely covered by her hood. Head bowed, whether in thought or by fatigue, she seemed completely oblivious of the way her mount picked its way along the trail, the snow-covered mountain on one side, sheer cliff on the other. But the mule seemed to know its business, choosing its way carefully, occasionally turning its head and eyeing the abyss, as if it understood quite clearly the dangers of a misstep.

  This danger was quite real; so, as a distraction, or to stave off the beckoning demon of vertigo, the fourth traveler, a young man with blond hair, a compact well-made figure, and the bright flashing eyes of youth, sat his mule side-saddle like a woman, his back to the abyss. A mandolin hung from his neck by a sky-blue ribbon, and as he rode he played it and sang, apparently to the fourth mule which, freed of its rider, followed contentedly along at the rear. And here is his song:

  Venus has a thousand names

  And a hundred thousand nicknames

  Poor outraged lovers cry

  These iron-heart ladies

  Are creatures of Hades

  Who make them want to die

  Love for one is worry and tears

  For another it’s all pain and fears

  For a third it’s agony and defeat

  But me, when I think of

  The woman that I love

  She’s nothing to me but sweet!

  As for the elder of the two young men, he neither played the viola nor sang—he was too busy for that. All his attention was concentrated on the young woman he was leading and the dangers that threatened her and her mount on the narrow and winding path. All the while, s
he gazed at him with that sweet and charming regard with which a woman looks at a man who not only loves her, but is devoted to her, body and soul—and for whom devotion to the second outweighs even devotion to the first.

  After a moment, at one of the kinks in the path, the small caravan halted. There was a serious issue to be resolved. As we said, having passed Exilles two hours earlier, they were approaching the town of Chaumont, the last town in France, which meant they were only half a league from the checkpoint that separated the French province of Dauphiné from the Italian province of Piedmont.

  Beyond that point, they would be in enemy territory, not only because Charles-Emmanuel, the Duke of Savoy and Piedmont, knew of the cardinal’s preparations for war, but also because he’d been officially notified by the French government that if he didn’t allow their troops to march through his domain to raise the siege of Casale, it would be regarded as an act of war.

  So the serious issue was this: should they try to ride openly through Susa Pass, risking recognition and arrest by Charles-Emmanuel, or should they find a guide who could take them, by some other circuitous route that might avoid Susa and even Turin, and get them across into Lombardy?

  The young woman, with the charming confidence of a woman who loves a man who loves her in return, abandoned all these concerns to her lover; she looked at him with her lovely dark eyes and sweet smile and said, “You know better than I what to do—I leave it in your hands.”

  The young man, anxious about the safety of the woman he loved, turned to question the woman whose face was hidden by her hood. “And you, Madame?” he asked. “What do you think?”

  At these words the hood was raised, and one could see the face of a woman of forty-five or fifty, aged, emaciated, and ravaged by long suffering. The only part of her face that seemed alive was her eyes, which shone with a piercing force as if trying to see beyond the world and into the unknown. “What’s that?” she asked. She hadn’t been listening, and had only looked up because they’d stopped.

  The young man raised his voice, for the noise of the cascading Doire tumbling through the canyon made normal speech impossible. He repeated his question.

  “As long as you’re asking,” she said, “what I think is we should stop at the next town because, since it’s on the border, we should be able to find out what you want to know. If there’s a back way across the mountains, someone in the village will know about it, and if we’re looking for a guide, that’s where we’ll find him. A few hours spent in discreet inquiry won’t make any difference; what’s important is that we, or rather you, aren’t recognized.”

  “My dear Madame,” the young man replied, “you are wisdom incarnate, and we shall do exactly as you say.”

  “So?” asked the young woman.

  “So now we go on. But what are you looking at?”

  “Something amazing on the mountain. That is amazing, isn’t it?”

  The young man looked to where she was pointing. “What is?” he asked.

  “That there should be flowers blooming at this time of year!”

  And indeed, just below the snow line, bright red flowers danced in the breeze.

  “Up here, dear Isabelle, there are no seasons,” the young man said. “It’s always winter here, but life can’t be quenched. Even in winter this flower grows in the snow, which is why we call it the Alpine Rose.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Isabelle said.

  “Would you like one?” the young man said. And before the young woman could answer, he leaped up the slope, clambering over the rocks toward where the flowers grew.

  “Count, Count!” cried the young woman. “In heaven’s name! Don’t be so foolish! I can’t bear even to look!”

  But he who was honored with the title of “count,” and who we have no reason not to recognize as the Comte de Moret, had already reached the ledge, picked the flower, and like a true montagnard slid back down the slope—though he, a man who prepared for every contingency, had, like his companion, a rope coiled around his waist, in order to help with ascents and descents.

  He presented the Alpine Rose to the girl who, blushing with pleasure, raised it to her lips, then slipped it inside her bodice.

  At that moment, a sound like thunder rolled down from the peak of the mountain above. A cloud of snow billowed into the air, and a mass of white began racing like lightning down the slope, increasing in speed and force as it came.

  “Look out! Avalanche!” cried the younger of the two cavaliers, leaping from his mule. His companion wrapped Isabelle in his arms and leaned back against the overhanging rock face. The pale older woman drew back her hood so she could see what was happening. And suddenly, she screamed.

  The avalanche swept across the path about five hundred paces ahead of the small caravan, and though it was a minor one, the travelers felt the earth shake under their feet as the wind of death blew past. But the pale woman’s scream hadn’t been a cry of personal terror, as Galaor, the younger man, and the Comte de Moret, worried about Isabelle, had both thought; it was because she’d seen the devastating tempest sweep the merchant and mule ahead of them down into the abyss.

  The Comte de Moret and Galaor thought they’d escaped all danger, and weren’t sure why she’d screamed, so they turned to look. But they saw only the pale woman pointing and crying, over and over, “There! There! There!”

  Then their eyes focused on the narrow path ahead. The peddler and his mule were gone, and the road was empty. Suddenly Moret understood everything. “Follow us slowly and carefully,” he told Isabelle, “and you, my dear Madame de Coëtman, follow Isabelle. Galaor and I will run ahead—maybe there’s something we can do to save the poor fellow.”

  And, leaping ahead with the agility of a mountain goat, the Comte de Moret, followed by Galaor, rushed to the place indicated by Madame de Coëtman—whom Cardinal Richelieu, confident though he was that Moret would respect Isabelle’s chastity, had sent along as a chaperone as a concession to worldly propriety.

  LI

  Guillaume Coutet

  Arriving at the spot indicated, the two young men gripped each other and peered down into the terrible abyss.

  They saw nothing at first, for they were looking too far out. Then they heard, from directly below them, words spoken as clearly as possible, given the profound terror of he who was speaking. “If you are Christian men, for the love of God, save me!”

  Turning their eyes toward the voice, they saw, ten feet below them, on a precipice over a drop of more than a thousand feet, a man hanging from a tree, half uprooted and bending under his weight. His feet rested on a shifting rock, but it was clear that it wouldn’t support him once the tree came loose, which could happen at any moment.

  The Comte de Moret grasped the situation at a glance. “Quick! Cut a staff eighteen inches long,” he cried, “thick enough to support a man’s weight.” Galaor, a mountaineer like Moret, understood what the count wanted. He drew a broad poniard from his sleeve and attacked a broken oak, and in a few moments hacked off a limb that could serve as a rope-ladder rung. Meanwhile, the count had unwrapped the rope from around his waist, to a length twice that of the distance to the man they hoped to rescue, and attached the rung to the loose end. Looping the rope around a protruding rock, he immediately began to let himself down toward the man suspended between life and death, meanwhile calling out encouragement.

  Moret passed the man the wooden rung on the other end of the rope, and he grasped it just as the tree’s roots pulled from the earth and it tumbled into the abyss.

  They weren’t safe yet: the rock supporting them was sharp, and was fraying the rope as they climbed. Fortunately, the two women arrived, bringing the mules with them. One mule was willing to approach near enough to the edge that they were able to pass the rope over its saddle. While Isabelle prayed, Madame de Coëtman, with indomitable determination, hauled the mule by the bridle until, with its help, Moret made it back over the edge. Then, drawing the rope over the saddle like a pulley, after a
few seconds appeared the pale face of the peddler who’d so miraculously escaped death.

  A cry of joy greeted his appearance, to which Isabelle added, “Courage! Courage! You are saved!”

  The man got to his feet, stumbled forward, dropped the rope, and draped his arms over the mule. The mule shied away, and the man, at the end of his strength, threw his arms up with a wordless cry and fainted into the arms of the Comte de Moret.

  Moret opened a bottle of one of those invigorating liquors they distill in the Alps, held it to the man’s lips, and made him drink a few drops. It was apparent that the strength that had sustained him while he was in danger had abandoned him once he’d realized he was saved.

  The Comte de Moret set him down, leaning him against the rock, while Isabelle held a bottle of smelling salts under his nose. The count untied the rung from the rope and threw it away, with a man’s disdain for something useful whose use was over, and re-coiled the rope around his waist. Galaor, for his part, slapped his poniard back into its sheath with the recklessness of youth.

  In a few moments, after two or three convulsive twitches, the man opened his eyes. The expression on his face showed no recollection of what had happened to him, but gradually the memory returned. He realized he owed his life to those around him, and his first words were of thanksgiving and gratitude.

  The Comte de Moret, whom the man took for a simple montagnard, asked him about himself. “My name is Guillaume Coutet,” the man replied. “I have a wife who was almost a widow, and three children who were nearly orphaned. If there’s anything I can do for you, by my life or my death, you have only to ask.”

  Then he got to his feet with the help of the count, and, subject to the retroactive terror that accompanies, or sometimes precedes, such an accident, he approached the precipice and gazed shuddering down at the broken tree roots below. Then he looked beyond at the shapeless chaos of snow, ice, boulders, and broken trees piled at the bottom of the valley, where the tumbling Doire backed up against this sudden unexpected obstacle to its course.