I was sent up Montmoron Peak to announce the arrival of the duke, and there I saw they’re building a new fort to match the one across on Montabon. This confirmed my opinion that Susa Pass cannot be forced directly, only turned by a flanking maneuver.
Tonight, at about three in the morning, taking advantage of a bright moon, we intend to leave Chaumont, led by the man whose life we saved, and who will conduct us by little-known paths around the Duke of Savoy’s fortifications.
As soon as Mademoiselle de Lautrec is safe with her parents, I will leave Mantua and travel by the shortest path to join you, Monsieur le Cardinal, to take my place in the ranks of the army, and ensure Your Eminence of my deepest respect and admiration.
—Antoine de Bourbon, Comte de Moret
And in fact, by three in the morning the little caravan was leaving Chaumont in the same order it had entered it, but for the addition of Guillaume Coutet as a guide. All five were riding mules, though Coutet had warned them that in certain spots they would have to dismount.
The travelers went straight toward Gélasse, which loomed in the darkness like the giant Adamastor—but, five hundred yards ahead of the great rock, Guillaume Coutet led them onto a narrow path that branched off to the left. After a quarter of an hour, they heard the sound of rushing water ahead. A torrent ran across their path, one of the thousand tributaries of the Po; it was swollen by the rains and presented an unexpected obstacle.
Guillaume paused on the bank, looking upstream and down for an easier crossing—however, before he even had time to think, the Comte de Moret, burning with the knowledge that two loving eyes were upon him, goaded his mule into the stream. But in less time than it takes to tell it, Guillaume Coutet caught hold of his mule and halted it, and then said, in that tone that guides take in the presence of real danger, “This is my business, not yours. Wait here!”
The count obeyed. Isabelle dismounted and came down the embankment to stand by her young man. Galaor and the Dame de Coëtman stayed on the path. Madame Coëtman, even paler in the moonlight than she was by light of day, regarded the torrent the same way she’d peered into the abyss: with the impassivity of a woman who had lived for ten years with death at her side.
Guillaume, on his mule, began to pick his way through the stream, but about a third of the way across, the current began to take the animal. For a moment, the mule was swimming wildly, out of its master’s control, but the smuggler was not new to this sort of emergency and kept his cool. He managed to keep the mule’s head up and out of the water, and after being carried downstream twenty-five or thirty yards, it reached the other bank, dripping and panting, and carried its rider ashore.
Isabelle, seeing this, seized Moret’s hand and gripped it with a force that showed, not her fear for the guide, or what danger she might experience herself, but fear for what her lover would have risked if he’d followed his first intentions.
Having arrived on the far bank, Guillaume came back to a point opposite the rest of the party. He motioned for them to wait, and then went upstream another fifty paces. Then he went back into the water, probing for a better place to ford, with happier results this time, as the mule didn’t lose its footing, though it was in water up to its belly.
Reaching the shallows on the party’s side, Guillaume gestured to them to come, and they hastened to join him; meanwhile he turned around and took careful note of his position, not wanting to lose sight of the route, lest one of his followers slip into a deep spot and be swept away.
The provisions were carried across the torrent, and then the two women. First, Isabelle, mounted on her mule, was placed between Guillaume and the Comte de Moret, so she had someone to lend a hand on either side of her. Then Guillaume crossed the torrent for the fourth time, and came back with the Dame de Coëtman on one side and Galaor on the other. The lady agreed to this arrangement with her usual disinterested nod of the head. Thus everyone reached the further side without mishap.
The Comte de Moret, despite his long boots, was drenched up to his knees and had no doubt that Isabelle was in the same condition. Worried she would take injury from the icy water, he asked Guillaume where they could stop and build a fire. Guillaume said that about an hour ahead there was a mountain lodge where smugglers often stopped; there they would find a hearth and everything else they might need.
The terrain was easy for a mile or two, so they put the mules into a trot until they arrived at the first slopes of the ridge. There they were forced to dismount and lead the mules up the path in single file. Guillaume, as usual, took the lead, followed by Isabelle, the Comte de Moret, Madame Coëtman, and Galaor. The rain had tamped down the snow, so they were able to walk without slipping, and at the end of an hour, as Guillaume had promised, they were at the door of a broad lodge.
The door was open, and within they could see a mixed company of rough-looking men. Isabelle hesitated, and asked if they could keep going, but Guillaume assured her there was enough space within that she wouldn’t have to come in contact with anyone whose looks troubled her.
Besides, their party was well armed: they had hunting knives—like we saw Galaor wield when cutting an oak limb into a ladder rung—and in addition each of the cavaliers had a pair of wheel-lock pistols. Guillaume, for his part, had a pistol in his belt in between a hunting knife and a dagger, and a carbine slung over his back, of the type used in the Tyrol for hunting chamois.
They stopped at the door, where Guillaume dismounted and went in.
LIV
An Episode in the Mountains
After a moment, Guillaume came back out, put his finger to his lips, took his mule by the bridle, and beckoned to the travelers to follow him. They went around the lodge into a sort of stable-yard, where they put the mules into a shed that already housed a dozen more of the animals.
Guillaume helped the two women dismount, and then invited them to follow him. Isabelle turned to the count. A woman’s loving heart takes some of the trust once placed in God and transfers it to the one she loves. “I’m afraid,” she said.
“Don’t be,” said the count. “I’ll watch out for you.”
“Anyway,” said Guillaume, who’d overheard, “if we had something to fear, it wouldn’t be in this place; I have too many friends here.”
“What about Galaor and me?” asked the count.
“Leave your pistols in your belts—you won’t need them inside, though you might while we’re traveling. Wait here.” He untied the women’s baggage from the mules and, followed by the ladies, approached the lodge.
A woman who was waiting by the back door led the way into a kitchen area, where a great fire crackled in a hearth. “Abide here, Madame,” Guillaume said to Isabelle. “You’re as safe as in the Golden Juniper Inn. I’ll go take care of the gentlemen.”
The Comte de Moret and Galaor had followed Guillaume’s directions and had dismounted, shoved their pistols into their belts, and unstrapped their baggage. Guillaume’s guarantee of safety covered the travelers, but didn’t extend to their saddlebags.
The three walked around to the entrance to the lodge, but paused for a moment at the threshold: there was a reason why Isabelle had taken fright at the sight of the company within. But the two young cavaliers were less timid; they shared a look and a nod, smiled, touched their pistol grips, and fearlessly followed Guillaume inside.
As for him, a lifelong smuggler and poacher, he appeared to be in his element. With his elbows and shoulders he opened a path to the huge fireplace around which, smoking and drinking, a dozen men were gathered. Their mismatched outfits didn’t seem to indicate any particular occupation, but rather all occupations at once.
Guillaume went up to the fireplace and spoke a few words into the ears of two men who were sitting there. They got up at once, without seeming bothered about it, and gave up their seats on a pair of hay bales. The Comte de Moret and Galaor set their luggage on the bales, and set themselves on their luggage. Then they finally had a chance to take a good look at the company th
at surrounded them—a look that fully justified Mademoiselle de Lautrec’s fears.
Most of the men, like Guillaume, were apparently members of the honorable fraternity of smugglers, but the others were a mixed lot: poachers on the lookout for any kind of game, highwaymen, condottieri, mercenaries from all over—Spaniards, Italians, Germans—it was a strange mixture. They spoke loudly in every language at once, and in terms so outlandish and lurid, even a skilled linguist would have had trouble sorting it out. These rougher types, instead of joining comfortably with the pack, seemed determined to keep their status as lone wolves, each trying to look more dangerous than the next. Only those few who were related to each other hung together.
Spaniards predominated. Most had come from the siege of Casale, where the besieged were dying of starvation; they were deserters fleeing Italy in the guise of irregular soldiers who, once they reached the mountains, turned to one of those nocturnal pursuits for which, in every country, the mountains are the theater. There these men flowed together, mingling to form a river that ran toward the edge of the abyss. Around their heads swirled the vapors of tobacco, mulled drinks, and alcoholic breath. A few smoking candles on the walls or tables added their fetid fumes to the atmosphere, which they lit no better than the moon in a stormy sky.
From time to time, voices rose in shrill disagreement, as shadowy figures raised menacing arms in the gloom; if the argument turned into a fight between, say, a Spaniard and a German, all those who spoke Spanish or German rallied to the one who spoke their language. If both parties were of equal strength, the mêlée became general, but if one side was weaker than the other, the original opponents were left to settle the quarrel on their own, with either a handshake or a knife.
The two young cavaliers had just sat down and started to warm their hands when one of these quarrels, which were always ready to break out anew, flared up in a corner of the room. German and Spanish insults were exchanged, denoting the nationalities of the opponents. Immediately, a dozen men charged through the smoke toward the conflict, but as nine were Spaniards and only three Germans, the Germans quickly retreated to their benches, saying “It’s nothing”—at which the Spaniards stood down, saying “Let them be.”
Left on their own, the two disputants soon became combatants. Violent words turned to violent actions, and knife blades flashed in the candle light; curses bespoke wounds, their level of obscenity indicating the seriousness of the injuries. Finally a cry of pain rang out, stools and chairs were overturned as someone ran for the door, and a death rattle came from under the corner table.
As soon as he saw the knives flashing, the Comte de Moret had moved as if to intervene, but an iron hand gripped his arm and held him down on his luggage. It was Guillaume who was doing him this favor. “By Christ,” he said, “sit still!”
“But . . . it’s murder!” said the count.
“What business is that of yours?” Guillaume said quietly. “Let them be.”
And, as we’ve seen, he did let them be. As the one who’d dealt the death wound escaped out the door, the one who’d received it slid down the wall until he fell beneath a table, where he gasped out his life.
Once the fight was over and the killer gone, there was no objection to providing some relief to a dying man. As it was the German who was dying, two or three of his compatriots lifted him up from under the table and laid him on the top.
The fatal wound was an upward stab, inflicted by one of those Catalan blades with a needle point that widens toward the hilt. It had gone in between the seventh and eighth ribs, right into the heart, and after the wounded man was set on the table, he gave a final spasm and quickly expired.
In the absence of friends and relatives, his compatriots acted as his heirs and, nobody objecting, his effects were claimed by his three fellow Germans. After searching the body, they divided his money, his arms, and his clothes, as if this were the most routine matter in the world. That accomplished, the three Germans dragged the corpse outside, in its shirt and breeches, to a place where the road overlooked a thousand-foot cliff. There the body was slid over the edge, just like the body of a dead sailor cast overboard from a ship sailing the high seas. Except that in this case, a few seconds later they heard the thud of the body striking the rocks below.
The dead man’s father, mother, family, and friends were all unknown, and no one gave them a single thought. What was his name? Where was he from? Who was he, really? It no longer mattered. He was one less atom in the infinite, and only the eye of God counted him among the countless atoms of humanity. His death left no more mark on Creation than the swallow who, at the approach of winter, departs for the south, leaving only a whisper in the air, or the ant that a passing traveler unknowingly crushes beneath his tread.
However, the Comte de Moret was appalled by the thought that Isabelle was separated from this terrible event by nothing more than a thin wall. He rose stiffly and made his way to the door of the kitchen where she was hiding, and found the hostess sitting on the threshold. “Never fear, my handsome young man,” she said. “I’m on watch.”
At that moment, as if Isabelle had sensed right through the wall that her lover had come looking for her, the door opened, and she graced him with that sweet, angelic smile that brought Paradise to wherever it shone. “Welcome, my dear,” she said. “We’re ready, and waiting on your signal.”
“Then close the door, dear Isabelle. Don’t open it except to my voice. I’ll tell Guillaume and Galaor.”
The door was closed. Turning around, the count found himself face to face with Guillaume. “The ladies are ready to go,” he said. “We should leave as soon as we can—this place makes my blood run cold.”
“Good. But we’ll make a gradual exit, and not go off all at once. You and the lad go first; in a couple of minutes, I’ll follow with the luggage.”
“Do you think there might be trouble?”
“There are all sorts here tonight—and you’ve seen the low value they place on a man’s life.”
“Why did you bring us in here, if you knew we’d find bandits like this?”
“I haven’t passed this way for two months. Two months ago they weren’t fighting in Italy yet. Where there’s war, there are deserters, and deserters become dangerous bandits. If I’d known what awaited us, we would have kept going.”
“All right. Send me Galaor. We’ll prepare the mules and get ready to put this place behind us.”
“I’m on my way.”
Five minutes later, the four travelers and their guide left the smugglers’ lodge as covertly, and most of all as quietly, as they could, and resumed their interrupted journey.
LV
Souls and Stars
Upon leaving the stable yard, Guillaume showed the count the long trail of blood that reddened the snow up to the edge of the precipice where the body had been thrown over. No words were necessary; the count looked around warily and instinctively placed his hand on his pistol.
Isabelle, who had heard nothing inside, saw nothing outside. The count had asked her to stay quiet, and so she was.
The moon cast its cold light on the snow-covered terrain and disappeared, from time to time, behind dark clouds that rolled across the sky like great waves.
The road was smooth enough that Isabelle was able to leave the mule in charge of following the path, and turn her eyes up to the celestial infinity. In winter in the mountains, when the air is crisp and cold, and the viewer is above the mists of the lowlands, the stars shine down with a pure and sparkling light. In a dreamy and melancholic mood, Isabelle was soon lost in contemplation.
Worried about her silence—because lovers worry about everything—the Comte de Moret hopped down from his mule. He took her mule by the bridle with one hand, while offering her the other. “What are you thinking about, beloved?” he asked her.
“What should I think about, my dear, when I gaze into the starry firmament, but the infinite power of God, and the tiny place we occupy in this universe that our prid
e leads us to believe was made just for us.”
“What would you think, my dear dreamer, if you knew the actual size of those worlds rolling through the heavens, compared to the reality of our own globe?”
“You think you know, do you?”
The count smiled. “At Padua,” he said, “I studied astronomy under a great Italian master, a professor who took me into his confidence. He told me a secret he hasn’t yet dared to reveal, fearing it would be dangerous for him to do so.”
“Can a scientific secret be dangerous?”
“It can be, if it contradicts the holy books!”
“One must have faith first and foremost! In the heart of the religious, faith takes precedence over science.”
“But remember, dear Isabelle, you’re talking to a son of Henri IV, whose father converted to the church under the duress of politics. His last words about me before he died—alas, he died so quickly he couldn’t spare me any more thought than this—his final words were ‘Let him study, let him learn, and let him make up his own mind.’”
“You mean you’re not a Catholic?” Isabelle asked with some anxiety.
“No, I am—don’t worry about that,” said the count. “But my tutor, who was an old Calvinist, taught me to consider every belief in the light of reason, and to reject religious dogma if it required suppressing the mind in favor of faith. So I study, and learn, and am reluctant to accept any teaching that requires blind belief. But that doesn’t stop me from glorying in the greatness of God, in whose mercy I would seek shelter if disaster ever struck me.”
“That’s a relief,” Isabelle said, smiling. “I was afraid I’d fallen for a pagan.”
“You may have fallen for worse than that, Isabelle. A pagan might agree to be converted, but a thinker seeks enlightenment. And enlightenment, as it approaches universal truth, moves farther from dogma. Had I lived in Spain in the time of Philip II, dear Isabelle, I’d probably have been burned as a heretic.”
The Red Sphinx Page 49