The Red Sphinx

by Alexandre Dumas

  “Mon Dieu! But what about the stars I was gazing at, and what the Italian sage told you?”

  “He told me something you’re going to deny, though I think it’s the absolute truth.”

  “I would never deny anything you tell me, my love.”

  “Have you ever lived by the side of the sea?”

  “I’ve been to Marseilles twice.”

  “And what did you think was the most beautiful time of day?”

  “Sunset.”

  “Wouldn’t you have sworn that it was the Sun who moved across the sky, and then rushed down beyond the edge of the sea?”

  “I would, and I still swear it.”

  “I’m afraid you’re wrong, Isabelle: it’s not the Sun that moves, it’s the Earth.”

  “Impossible!”

  “I told you you’d deny it.”

  “But if the Earth was moving, I’d feel it.”

  “No, for everything moves with it, including the atmosphere around us.”

  “But even if we’re the world that’s moving, we would still see the Sun.”

  “You’re right, Isabelle, and your quick wit is almost the equal of science. But the Earth not only moves, it rotates; at this moment, for example, the Sun illuminates the Earth on the side away from us.”

  “If that’s the case, why aren’t we upside-down with our feet in the air?”

  “In a relative sense, we are! But the atmosphere I mentioned surrounds us and sustains us.”

  “I don’t understand a word of this, Antoine, and would prefer to talk about something else.”

  “What shall we talk about?”

  “The thing I was thinking about when you asked me what I was thinking about.”

  “And what was that?”

  “I was wondering if all these worlds scattered across the sky had been created as homes for our souls after death.”

  “Dear Isabelle, I never would have believed you were so ambitious.”

  “Ambitious? Why?”

  “Only two or three of those worlds are smaller than ours: Venus, Mercury, the Moon—three in all. Others are eighty times, seven hundred times, even fourteen hundred times bigger than the Earth.”

  “If you mean the Sun, then certainly—it’s the principal star of all the stars. From it we have everything that gives us existence: warmth, power, and the glory of the world around us. The Sun is not just in the beat of our hearts, it’s the heartbeat of the Earth.”

  “Dear Isabelle, you just said more with your imagination and poetry than my Italian sage with all his knowledge.”

  “But,” Isabelle demanded, “how can these points of light in the sky be bigger than the Earth?”

  “Leaving out those we can barely see because they’re so far from us, like Uranus and Saturn—do you see that golden star, there?”

  “I see it.”

  “That’s Jupiter; it is four hundred and fourteen thousand times larger than the Earth, and it has four moons that bathe it in eternal light.”

  “But how does it seem so small when the Sun seems so big?”

  “Partly because the Sun is five times the size of Jupiter, and partly because we are only thirty-eight million leagues from the Sun, but we are one hundred and seventy million leagues from Jupiter.”

  “But who told you all this, Antoine?”

  “My Italian sage.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Galileo.”

  “And you believe what he told you?”

  “Firmly.”

  “Well, my dear Count, you frighten me with your vast distances. I don’t think my soul could ever make such a journey!”

  “Assuming we have souls, Isabelle.”

  “Can you doubt it?”

  “I’ve not seen it demonstrated.”

  “We’ll not talk about that; Italian sage or no, I much prefer to believe I have a soul!”

  “If you believe in your soul, I’ll try to believe in mine.”

  “Well, suppose you have one, and after death you were free to choose between a temporary stay here, or eternity on another world. Which would you choose?”

  “But you, my dear Isabelle: where would you go?”

  “I admit that I lean toward the Moon, for it’s the star of unhappy lovers.”

  “That would be a good choice insofar as it’s the closest, Isabelle, being a mere ninety-six thousand leagues away, but it’s the planet where your soul would fare the worst.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s uninhabitable, even for a soul!”

  “Oh, how unlucky! Are you sure?”

  “Judge for yourself. Currently, the best telescopes in the world are in Padua. When trained on your favorite planet, they see nothing but absolute sterility and solitude, at least on its visible hemisphere; no atmosphere, and thus no river, lake, or ocean; no vegetation; no life. It’s true that the side we can’t see may have everything that the near side lacks. But I doubt it, so I advise you not to send your soul there, because mine has to follow wherever yours goes.”

  “You seem to know all these worlds as if you’d lived there, my dear Count! In all these stars and constellations, these planets and these moons, where should I go, if your soul is determined to follow mine?”

  “As to that,” said the count, “I wouldn’t hesitate for a moment: to Venus!”

  “From a man who claims not to be a pagan, that’s a bit compromising. So why is Venus the planet of your choice?”

  “See there, dear Isabelle? That blue flame in the sky is Venus; it’s the forerunner of the night, and the harbinger of the dawn, the most radiant planet in our system. It’s only twenty-eight million leagues or so from the Sun, and receives twice as much heat and light as the Earth; it has an atmosphere much like ours, and though barely half the size of our planet, it has mountains reaching an altitude of a hundred and twenty thousand feet. Now Venus, unlike Mercury, is almost entirely enveloped in clouds, so it must be home to the streams and rivers that are missing from the Moon. Souls that walk along those banks would hear the water murmur with a lovely freshness.”

  “Very well: we go to Venus,” said Isabelle.

  This pact had just been concluded when they heard a sound rapidly approaching. The travelers instinctively stopped and turned to see where the sound came from. A man was running toward them at full speed, but he didn’t cry out, just waved his hat wildly. They could see him clearly, as the Moon was sailing through a gap in the clouds, like a boat on a deep blue sea.

  It was apparent that this man had something important to convey to the travelers. When he got close enough, he gasped out Guillaume’s name. Guillaume got down from his mule and ran to meet the man, who was one of the two smugglers who had given up his place by the fire to the Comte de Moret and Galaor.

  The two men met at about fifty paces away, exchanged a few words in an undertone, and then came toward the caravan. “Bad news, friend Jacquelino,” said Guillaume, affecting an air of familiarity with the count that was meant to deceive his smuggler friend as to Moret’s rank, a rank which the man seemed to guess nonetheless. “They’re coming after us. We need to find a place to hide so we can let them go past.”

  LVI

  The Giacon Bridge

  Here, in fact, is what happened in the smugglers’ lodge after the Comte de Moret, Galaor, and Guillaume Coutet left the common room. The front door reopened, and the face of the Spaniard who had fled after slaying the German reappeared there. The room was so quiet, it was as if nothing unusual had happened. “Hey!” he called. “You Spaniards!”

  All the Spaniards got up at the summons of their compatriot and went toward him. A local smuggler, the friend of Guillaume Coutet, suspecting the Spaniards were up to no good, went out the back door and circled around the lodge until he could get close to the conspirators. He heard the murderer tell his compatriots that, through the window of the kitchen, he’d seen two women, one of whom looked like an aristocrat. These ladies, he said, seemed to be part of Guillaume’s
caravan. And that was an opportunity too good to pass up.

  The murderer had little difficulty in persuading his comrades to seize the chance. There were ten Spaniards; they ought to be able to overwhelm three men without too much trouble, especially since one was a guide who probably wouldn’t stick his neck out for people he didn’t know. The gang went to gather their weapons.

  The smuggler, meanwhile, took to his heels and raced up the road, hoping to reach the caravan before the Spaniards could come upon them. And indeed, he arrived ahead of them, but not by much.

  Guillaume and the smuggler talked it over quickly. They were both intimately familiar with the local terrain; but where there’s no foliage, it’s not easy to hide five travelers and their mules. The two smugglers grimaced, and then both said “The Giacon Bridge.”

  The Giacon Bridge was a high stone arch across a mountain canyon that carried the road over a tumbling tributary of the Po. Beyond, the road forked, one path climbing toward Venaux, the other bending back toward Susa, approaching it from behind. When they arrived at that point, the Spaniards would just have to guess which way their prey had gone, and if they picked the wrong direction, the travelers might escape—especially since the Spaniards had no idea the little caravan had been warned of the pursuit. They would probably just pick one fork or the other and continue on.

  Ten minutes’ ride brought them to the Giacon Bridge. Guillaume took Isabelle’s mule by its bridle, his comrade led the mule of Madame de Coëtman, and so they crossed the narrow span. Providence was on their side, for a sea of dark clouds, which eclipsed the constellations which the count and Isabelle had admired, were also about to swallow the Moon and its light. In five more minutes, it would be dark as pitch.

  The smuggler let go of the bridle of the Lady Coëtman’s mule, walked fifty paces away, dropped, and pressed his ear against the ground. The little caravan held still. After listening for a few seconds, the smuggler jumped up and ran back. “I heard them,” he said, “but they’re still six hundred yards behind us. In a minute, the Moon will disappear behind the clouds. There’s not a moment to lose.”

  They resumed their ride. The clouds swept across the sky and the Moon disappeared; looking back, the travelers saw their pursuers arrive at the bridge just as darkness fell. Guillaume, who led the first mule, turned abruptly to the left, leading them onto a path cut into the rock that led down toward the tumbling torrent below.

  This path, such as it was, must have been cut so that, in the heat of summer, mules could be led down to cool water. It was a steep descent, but they managed it without accident. At the bottom, the smuggler again pressed his ear against the stone. “They’re coming,” he said. “If one of our mules neighs and they spot us, leave it to me—I’ll take that mule and lead them away.”

  Guillaume led the travelers under the arch of the stone bridge, where they bound kerchiefs around the mouths of the mules. Meanwhile his comrade went ahead to scout along the road to Venaux. Soon all the travelers could hear the Spanish bandits as they crossed the bridge. But as the travelers were doubly concealed by the darkness and the bridge, they were completely invisible, unless some unforeseen accident revealed their hiding place.

  After crossing the bridge, the Spaniards fell to arguing about whether they should take the fork that went on toward Venaux, or back toward Susa. The discussion became heated, and those among the fugitives who understood Spanish could clearly hear the whole debate.

  Suddenly, they heard a male voice rise in song from beyond the bridge. Guillaume placed a finger against the Comte de Moret’s lips—he had recognized the voice of his comrade.

  The song interrupted the debate at the fork in the road. Four of the Spaniards stepped forward to meet the singer. “Hey, you!” they called out in broken Italian. “Did you see any mounted travelers go by?”

  “I saw two men and two women led by Guillaume Coutet, a merchant from Gravière,” he said. “Is that who you mean?”

  “Exactly!”

  “Well, they’re only about five hundred yards ahead along the road to Venaux,” the smuggler said. This settled the argument, and the bandits rushed off down the road to Venaux.

  The travelers peered warily out from the shadows beneath the bridge. As for the smuggler, he took the road toward Susa, gesturing to the travelers to follow him. The sound of the bandits receded into the distance, and after five minutes’ wait, the caravan, led by Guillaume, went back up the steep path to the bridge. Five hundred yards down the Susa road, they caught up with the smuggler, who, unwilling to return to the lodge after misleading the bandits, asked if he could join the travelers’ party. Permission was instantly granted, and the Comte de Moret promised him that, once they were over the border and into Piedmont, he would be well rewarded.

  They continued on their way, pressing the mules for speed, which was easier as they approached Susa, where the road was better. As they got closer, the two guides advised caution, but the path they were following was so little known and even less frequented that the Savoyards had set no sentries on it, though it approached the northern ramparts.

  The ramparts, when they reached them, were deserted, as the entire defense of the town of Susa was concentrated in the pass, a mile further ahead. Eventually, by following the rampart around to the east, they came down off the mountain and onto the road to the town of Malavet, where they spent the night.

  The next morning, they took counsel. They could descend into the plain and go down to Lake Maggiore by way of Rivarolo and Joui, but that would be risking a danger of capture even worse than falling into the hands of Spanish bandits. It was true that the Comte de Moret had been charged upon his departure from France to carry a letter from Queen Anne to Don Gonzalès de Cordova, the Governor of Milan, and thus could pretend to be on a mission for the two queens to Rome or Venice. But that ruse would have galled him, as he was a true son of Henri IV and hated to lie.

  Besides, that would have shortened the journey, which Antoine de Bourbon wished to prolong as much as possible. And since his advice carried the most weight, his will prevailed.

  So they decided to go the long way around, through Aosta, Domodossola, and Sonovre, and by bypassing the Lombard basin make their way to Verona, where they’d be safe. After a couple of days of rest in Verona, the party would separate, the women continuing on horseback to their destination, Mantua.

  At Ivrea, the smuggler who had joined their caravan went on his way, after being rewarded for his devotion with a money pouch that persuaded Guillaume Coutet all the more that he was guiding a nobleman who was traveling incognito. And to be fair we must say that it was to confirm this suspicion that he was determined to accompany the travelers to the end of their journey. As it happened, that confirmation wasn’t hard to come by: if Guillaume Coutet had sworn to serve the count because the latter had saved Coutet’s life, Antoine de Bourbon felt the strong sympathy and connection of the savior for the saved.

  After twenty-seven days of travel, and a series of unimportant incidents we will spare the reader by omitting, as they lacked the drama of previous events, the party arrived in Mantua by way of Tordi, Nogaro, and Castellarez.

  LVII

  The Oath

  No letter, word, or message had forewarned the Baron de Lautrec of the arrival of his daughter. As a result, though he wasn’t always the most attentive of fathers, the first moments of their reunion were an outpouring of paternal and filial love.

  It was several moments before the baron could acknowledge his daughter’s traveling companions, and read the letter sent to him by Cardinal Richelieu. From this letter, he learned the name of the young man charged with the care of his daughter, and from that just how much the cardinal cared for his Isabelle.

  Altogether he had more than enough reason to immediately notify Charles de Gonzague, the new Duke of Mantua, of the arrival of his daughter, and of the illustrious escort who’d brought her to his door. So he sent a servant to the Château de Té to tell the duke the news, which was
bound to pique his interest, since the Comte de Moret, as the natural brother of Louis XIII, must be privy to the intentions of the cardinal and the king.

  When he heard that the count requested an audience, the Duke of Mantua responded by mounting a horse and coming himself, accompanied only by one of his most faithful servants. He found that the Comte de Moret, despite being the son of Henri IV, refused to cover his head and take a seat before the duke did.

  As it happened, the duke already knew, from an envoy, the news from Paris as of January 4, 1629—that is to say, several days after the departure of the Comte de Moret and Isabelle. The cardinal, on the strength of the king’s promise to him, had conveyed France’s full support to the Duke of Mantua, which had gone a long way to relieve him of his fears. And now here came not a mere courier, but an emissary from Richelieu himself, to assure him that the cardinal—and the king—were on their way.

  History tells us that on Thursday, January 15, the king dined at Moulins and spent the night at Varenne. We don’t know his exact whereabouts between January 15 and February 5—but we do know that in that time the plague, which had broken out in Italy, had crossed the Alps and reached Lyon. Would the king have enough courage, in the face of bitter cold and this deadly scourge, to carry him through Lyon and up into the frigid mountains?

  For anyone who knew how changeable the king was, this was a real concern. But for those who knew the steadfast character of the cardinal, there was hope. The Comte de Moret could only repeat to the Duke of Mantua what he’d been told by the cardinal: that the French intended to raise the siege of Casale and bring immediate relief to Mantua.

  There was no time to lose. Charles, the Duc de Nevers, knew from a reliable source that Prince Gaston, in a moment of anger, had sent a message reaching out to Wallenstein in Germany. Thus Monsieur unwittingly drew toward France those new Huns under their new Attila. For the last three months, two generals of these barbarians, Aldringen and Gallas, past masters of destruction and pillage, had been sacking their way through Worms, Frankfurt, and Swabia. To the poor Duke of Mantua, it was as if they were already looming across the Alps, more terrible than the savage tribes of the Cimbri and Teutons, who had sledded down mountains and across frozen rivers on their shields.