The Red Sphinx

by Alexandre Dumas

  The Comte de Moret knew he shouldn’t stay long in Mantua. He had promised the cardinal he would return to take part in the campaign—but against this, the duke urged him to lend his name to the defense of Mantua until it could be relieved by the king’s forces. The situation in Mantua was so grave, the Baron de Lautrec almost regretted that he’d summoned his daughter into it.

  The day after their arrival, her father summoned Isabelle for a private talk. He told Isabelle the commitments he’d made regarding her to the Vicomte de Pontis—and in return, Isabelle told him quite openly of the vow made to her by the Comte de Moret. Despite the excellence of the Monsieur de Pontis’s birth and family, they were no match for that of Antoine de Bourbon, who outranked anyone of less than royal birth. The baron contented himself with bringing the Comte de Moret into his office to ask him about his intentions. Moret replied with his usual frankness, confessing that the cardinal had already forced his hand, and endorsed his commitment—so long as first he discharged his duty to the cardinal.

  The Baron de Lautrec accepted this commitment, with the proviso that if the count was killed, or contracted to another, he would resume his authority to bestow his daughter’s hand where he would. Barring that, he had no reason to resist the young count’s suit for Isabelle.

  The evening after this double discussion, the young couple, walking along the banks of the river Virgil, related to each other the talks they’d had with the baron. Isabelle made her lover promise not to get killed, he promised never to take another for his wife, and both were satisfied.

  We must emphasize this promise “never to take another for his wife,” because with every son of Henri IV other than Antoine de Bourbon, this would certainly have been a Jesuitical promise, adhered to in fact but not in spirit. There was certainly no ulterior motive in the promise not to get killed, but this promise to take no other wife but Isabelle de Lautrec—did it extend to mistresses, or those moments when the Devil might otherwise tempt him? The most faithful of lovers have such moments, even those who aren’t sons of a freethinker like Henri IV. Could the young Basque Jac-quelino resist the sultry attractions of his beautiful cousin Marina, whose hot eyes shot him flaming glances that set his heart afire?

  What if another evening came like that after Marie de Gonzague’s soirée, when La Fargis, her kiss still burning on his lips, was stepping into her chair—what if Satan tapped him on the shoulder and urged him to join her? Was he strong enough to send Satan back to Hell?

  We can’t say that, for Antoine de Bourbon, the words he’d spoken to Isabelle de Lautrec outweighed the attractions of Madame de Fargis, that Venus Astarte who whispered burning words of forbidden love into the ears of her lovers. What we can say is that the Comte de Moret felt the need of a witness other than the river the pagans called the Mincio, and other lights than those of Venus, Jupiter, Saturn, and Cassiopeia. And so he asked Isabelle to join him in a Christian church and, in the presence of God, reaffirm the solemnity of his oath.

  Isabelle, like her compatriot Juliet, promised everything her lover asked, repeating to him the words of the English poet: “My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”

  The next day at the same hour, that is to say, about nine in the evening, two shadows, one walking a few steps behind the other, slipped into St. Andrew’s Church through a side door. By the light of the ever-burning lamps and votive candles offered in memory of the many miracles commemorated there, they made their way toward the altar of Our Lady of the Angels, which was also known by the even more charming name of Our Lady of Love, since its first dedication in that name a half-century before had exposed the amorous susceptibility of a bishop.

  First came a young woman, who knelt before it. The young man who followed knelt beside her, on her right. Both, radiant with youth and beauty, were bathed in the flickering light of the lamp, she with her head down, eyes moist with tears of joy, he with his face raised, his eyes sparkling with happiness.

  Each said a silent prayer—though by “each,” we really mean “Isabelle de Lautrec.” For the words that overflowed her heart formed a prayer on her lips to the dear Mother of God. But men only know how to pray in misfortune; in happiness, their words are but a babble of desire amid sighs of passion.

  Then, their first surge of love expressed, their trembling hands sought each other’s grasp. Isabelle gasped with a joy that was almost pain, and then, with no thought of where she was, cried, “Oh, my love—how much I do love you!”

  The count looked up at the Madonna. “See!” he cried. “The Madonna smiles! And so do I, for how much do I love you, my dearest Isabelle.”

  And their heads dropped to their chests, crushed beneath the weight of their happiness.

  The count pressed Isabelle’s hand against his breast, then gently pulled his hand from hers and pressed her fingers against his lips. And then, pulling the ring from the smallest of his fingers, he placed it on the second finger of her hand, saying “Holy Mother of God, patron saint of love both human and heavenly, you whose celestial smile echoes our own, be witness that I hereby pledge to have no wife but Isabelle de Lautrec. If I break that oath, may you punish me as I deserve.”

  “Oh, no, Virgin Mother,” Isabelle cried, “never punish him!”

  “Isabelle!” said the count, taking her fiercely in his arms, then gently releasing her before the holiness of the place.

  “Madonna, holy and all-powerful,” she said, “be witness in my turn to my oath. I swear here at your altar, before whose divine feet I kiss, that from today I belong body and soul to the one who just placed this ring on my finger, and that, even were he to die, or, worse, betray his oath, I will be no one else’s wife, unless it be that of your divine son.”

  With this final word, Isabelle’s lips were closed by a kiss. The sainted Madonna smiled down at the count’s kiss and at Isabelle’s gasp, as she remembered that she’d been called Our Lady of Love before she was called Our Lady of the Angels.

  LVIII

  The Journal of Monsieur de Bassompierre

  As the Duke of Mantua learned from the envoy, the cardinal and the king had left Paris on the fourth of January and, on the fifteenth, they dined at Moulins and supped at Varenne, which is not to be confused with that Varennes in the Meuse later made famous by the arrest of a king.

  For this commencement of the campaign, we have a reliable guide in the journal of Monsieur de Bassompierre. It is to him we turn for the historical part of our story.

  The king, after making his fateful pact with Richelieu, left His Eminence’s office, and outside encountered Monsieur de Bassompierre, who had come to pay his respects to the cardinal. Seeing him, the king paused and turned to Richelieu, who was escorting him to the door of the street. “Look, Monsieur le Cardinal—here’s someone we can trust to go with us, and who will serve me well.”

  The cardinal smiled and nodded. “That is the marshal’s way.”

  “Your Majesty will pardon me for asking, but where are we going?”

  “To Italy,” said the king. “I go in person to raise the siege of Casale. So prepare to depart, Monsieur le Maréchal. We’ll take Créqui as well—he knows that country, and hopefully will tell us all about it.”

  “Your servant, Sire,” Bassompierre replied with a bow. “I’ll follow you to the end of the world, and even to the Moon, should you choose to mount so high.”

  “We go neither so far nor so high, Marshal. We rendezvous in Grenoble. If anything delays you from joining us there, please inform the cardinal.”

  “Sire,” said Bassompierre, “with God’s help, nothing will go amiss—especially if Your Majesty will order that old scoundrel La Vieuville to pay me what I’m owed as Colonel-General of the Swiss Guard.”

  The king laughed. “If La Vieuville won’t pay you,” he said, “the cardinal will.”

  “Is that so?” Bassompierre seemed skeptical.

  “Quite so, Marshal. In fact, if y
ou’ll give me your bill now, you can leave here with the money. We depart in three or four days and have no time to lose.”

  “Monsieur le Cardinal,” said Bassompierre, with that air of grand nobility unique to him, “I never carry cash with me when I go to play cards with the king. I’ll leave the bill with you, if I may, and send a lackey around later to pick up the money.”

  The king departed. Bassompierre wrote out his bill for the cardinal, and sent for the money the next day.

  The same evening that the cardinal had told Louis XIII that a king must always be true to his word, he sent one hundred fifty thousand livres to the Duc d’Orléans, sixty thousand to the queen mother, and fifty thousand to Queen Anne. Also, l’Angely received the thirty thousand livres the king had offered him, and Saint-Simon the appointment of King’s Squire, with its fifteen thousand livres per year. As for Baradas, we know that he had been surprised to receive a bearer bond from the king for thirty thousand livres, and had collected it the same day.

  The cardinal had also settled his accounts. Charpentier, Rossignol, and Cavois all shared in his success—but the payment to Cavois, generous though it was, was small consolation to his wife. For her, the cardinal’s resignation had brought about a welcome return to quiet nights without disturbance, which was all she’d been praying for—with, as we’ve seen, the aid of the children. Unfortunately, Man, in creating a personal God who could respond to every person, had so overwhelmed the Deity with entreaties that sometimes even the holiest and most reasonable requests were overlooked. Poor Madame Cavois fell into this category, and, following His Eminence, Cavois once again left her a widow. Fortunately, he left her once again pregnant.

  The king had previously bestowed on Monsieur the title of lieutenant general; but from the moment the cardinal rejoined the king, it was apparent that it would be Richelieu who would manage the conduct of the war, and that the office of lieutenant general would be an empty formality. So, though Monsieur sent his train by way of Montargis and then followed it beyond Moulins, upon arrival at Chavagnes he changed his mind and announced to Bassompierre that, considering the insult he had been offered, he was withdrawing to his principality of Dombes where he would await the orders of the king. Bassompierre implored him to reconsider, but to no end.

  No one was surprised by Monsieur’s decision, most seeing in it cowardice rather than wounded pride.

  The king marched quickly to Lyon, where he found the plague was raging, and went on to stop in Grenoble. On Monday, February 19, he sent to the Marquis de Thoiras in Vienna to come join the army and oversee the passage of the artillery over the mountains.

  The Duc de Montmorency had, on his part, informed the king that he would come by Nîmes, Sisteron, and Gap, joining the king at Briançon.

  It was there that the real troubles began. The two queens, on the pretext that they feared for the health of the king, but actually to subvert the influence of the cardinal, had left Paris with the aim of joining the king in Grenoble. But he had ordered them to stop in Lyon, and they dared not disobey. However, in Lyon they made all the trouble they could, diverting Créqui’s attention from preparing for the passage of the mountains, and delaying Guise from joining the fleet. However, nothing discouraged the cardinal: so long as the king was his ally, the king was his strength. He hoped that the king, by taking the personal risk of crossing the Alpine passes in winter, would attract from the neighboring provinces the help they needed—and it had been working before the two queens began to interfere.

  When they got to Briançon, it was clear that the two queens’ meddling had been so successful that nothing that was supposed to be there had arrived: no food, no mules, almost no ammunition, and no more than a dozen cannon.

  Worse, there were only two million livres left of all the millions the cardinal had borrowed.

  All this while, opposing the king was the Duke of Savoy, the most wily and deceitful prince of his time. He held Susa Pass, the way across the Alps to Casale and Mantua.

  None of these obstacles stopped the cardinal for a moment. He convened their most skillful engineers and sought with them the means of doing everything men’s effort could do. Charles VIII had been the first to carry cannon across the Alps, but that had been in good weather; it was hard enough to cross these almost inaccessible mountains in the summer, let alone in the winter. They affixed cables to the artillery and attached them to pulleys and winches; some men cranked winches, others hauled cables by hand. The cannon balls were hoisted up in baskets; barrels containing ammunition, powder, and more balls were loaded onto mules, bought at a ruinous price.

  In six days, all this equipment was brought over Mont Genèvre and down to Oulx. The cardinal pushed on to Chaumont, where he hastily gathered what information he could and checked it against the intelligence sent on by the Comte de Moret.

  It was there that, upon reckoning all the ammunition, he was told that there were only seven cartridges per man. “What of that,” Richelieu replied, “so long as Susa is taken with the fifth?”

  Meanwhile rumors of these preparations reached the ears of Charles-Emmanuel, the Duke of Savoy; but the king and the cardinal were already in Briançon when Savoy thought them still in Lyon. Consequently he sent his son, Victor-Amadeus, to call on King Louis XIII in Grenoble; but once in Grenoble, he learned that King Louis had already left and was at that hour crossing the mountains.

  Victor-Amadeus set out at once in pursuit of the king and the cardinal. He caught up with Louis XIII at Oulx and asked for an audience, just as the last pieces of artillery were descending from the pass.

  The king received him, but refused to listen to him and sent him on to the cardinal. Victor-Amadeus left immediately for Chaumont. There the Prince of Savoy, raised by a master of the ruse, hoped to use on the cardinal the methods familiar to himself and his father—but this time he was outfaced, a serpent against a lion.

  The cardinal understood from the prince’s first words that the Duke of Savoy had but one reason for sending his son, and that was to gain time. But where the king might have been taken in, the cardinal saw clearly the negotiator’s intentions.

  Victor-Amadeus had come to ask for time so his father could find a way out of the promise he’d made to the Governor of Milan not to allow French troops to cross his domain. But even as he began to articulate his request, the cardinal brought him up short. “Your pardon, My Prince,” he said, “but His Highness the Duke of Savoy asks for time to repudiate a promise he was in no position to give.”

  “How is that?” asked the prince.

  “Because, in his recent negotiations with France, he agreed to allow my master the king passage through his domain, if needed to support his allies.”

  Victor-Amadeus was taken aback. “I must beg pardon of Your Eminence, but I’ve seen this clause nowhere in the treaties between France and Savoy.”

  “And you’re well aware why you haven’t seen it, Prince. It was a verbal agreement, and out of respect for the duke, your father, we were satisfied with his word of honor and didn’t require that clause in writing. According to him, the King of Spain would take offense if he granted such a privilege to France and wouldn’t give him a moment’s rest until he’d obtained a similar right.”

  “But,” ventured Victor-Amadeus, “the duke my father does not refuse passage to the king your master.”

  “Then,” said the Cardinal, smiling as he recalled the details of the letter received from the Comte de Moret, “is it to honor the King of France that His Highness the Duke of Savoy has closed the pass of Susa with a demi-lune bastion large enough for three hundred troops, backed up by barricades with room for three hundred more, and on top of this the Fort of Montabon, built between two redoubts with outworks placed to create a crossfire? Is it to facilitate the passage of the king and the army of France that, in addition to blocking the valley, boulders so large that no engine could move them have been rolled down into the road? Is it to plant trees and flowers along our path that for the last six
weeks, three hundred workers have plied pickaxe and spade at work that has attracted visits from both you and your august father?

  “No, Prince, let us not mince words: speak frankly, as rulers should. You delay in order to give the Spanish enough time to take Casale, whose garrison is heroically dying of hunger. Eh bien! As it is in our interest, and is our duty, to rescue this garrison, we say to you that your father, His Highness the Duke, owes us this passage, and your father the duke will give it to us.

  “We need two days for the rest of our materiel to arrive.” The cardinal drew his watch. “It is now eleven in the morning. Eleven in the morning, the day after tomorrow, will be on Tuesday; at dawn on Wednesday, we attack. You may take it as written. Now, whether you go to open the pass, or to prepare to defend it, you have no time to spare for reflection, so I won’t keep you. A frank and open peace, Monseigneur—or a good war.”

  “I fear it will be the good war, Monsieur le Cardinal,” said Victor-Amadeus, rising.

  “From the Christian point of view, and as a minister of the Lord, I hate war; but from the political point of view and as a minister of France, I think that war, though never a good thing, is sometimes a necessary thing.

  “France is within its rights and will have them respected. When two states come to blows, bad luck comes to he who champions deceit and perfidy. God sees us; God will judge.”

  The cardinal saluted the prince, making it clear that further talk was futile. France would march on Casale, and no matter the obstacles, that was the path they’d chosen.

  LIX