The Red Sphinx

by Alexandre Dumas

In Which the Reader Meets an Old Friend

  Victor-Amadeus had scarcely left when the cardinal approached a table and wrote the following letter:

  Sire,

  If Your Majesty, as God gives me to hope, has fortunately completed transport of our materiel over the mountains, I humbly beg you will order the artillery, caissons, and all machines of war brought immediately to Chaumont. We pray the king will have the kindness to proceed here without delay, as the day of hostilities is to be Wednesday—subject to the will of Your Majesty, though it were best not changed without good reason.

  I eagerly await Your Majesty’s response—or, better still, Your Majesty himself.

  I send a reliable man upon whom His Majesty can depend for anything, even as an escort should His Majesty choose to travel incognito by night.

  I have the honor to be,

  For Your Majesty,

  Your most humble subject and most devoted servant,

  —Armand, Cardinal de Richelieu

  Once the letter was written and folded, the cardinal called, “Étienne!”

  At once the door of the room opened, and on the threshold appeared our old acquaintance Étienne Latil, last seen entering the cardinal’s study in Chaillot, pale, knees trembling, supporting himself against the wall, and feebly offering his devotion. But now with head high, mustache bristling, a spring in his step, hat in his right hand and the left on the pommel of his sword, he was once again that captain who might have stepped out of a sketch by Callot.

  It had been fully four months since, struck at the same time by the Marquis de Pisany and by Souscarrières, he had fallen unconscious to the floor of Maître Soleil’s inn. However, if a wound isn’t fatal, it’s not long before a man put together like Étienne Latil is back on his feet, more hale and hearty than ever.

  The imminent hostilities lent a gaiety to his face that did not escape the cardinal. “Étienne,” he said to him, “mount your horse this instant—unless you’d prefer, for your own reasons, to travel by foot—but however you wish, this letter, which is of the highest importance, must reach the king before ten this evening.”

  “Would Your Eminence tell me what time it is?”

  The cardinal drew his watch. “It is nearly noon.”

  “And the king is in Oulx?”

  “Yes.”

  “Unless I plunge down the Doire, the king will have his letter by eight.”

  “Try not to plunge down the Doire, as that would cause me grief; whereas if the king receives his letter, I’ll be pleased.”

  “I shall hope to satisfy Your Eminence on both points.”

  The cardinal knew Latil for a man of his word, so judging that it was pointless to insist, he merely made a gesture of dismissal.

  Latil ran to the stable to choose a good horse, stopping at the smithy only long enough to have it shod with crampons; that business finished, he sprang on its back and launched himself down the road to Oulx.

  He found the track in better condition than he’d expected. With the aim of making it passable for the cannons and other equipment, the engineers had done everything feasible to improve it.

  By four o’clock Étienne was at Saint-Laurent, and by half past seven he was at Oulx.

  The king was at supper, served by Saint-Simon, who had succeeded Baradas in his favor. At the foot of the table was his fool and confidant, l’Angely. A message from the cardinal was announced, and immediately the king ordered that the messenger be brought before him.

  Latil was fully conversant with all forms of etiquette, having spent his time as a page of the Duc d’Épernon, and thus was no man to let himself be intimidated by royal majesty. He entered boldly into the room, advanced toward the king, placed one knee on the ground, and presented him his hat with the cardinal’s letter balanced atop it.

  Louis XIII watched this with a certain astonishment: Latil had followed the rules of etiquette of the old-time court. “Ouais!” he said, taking the note. “Where do you come by these fine manners, my master?”

  “Is not this the fashion, Sire, in which one presented letters to your illustrious father, of glorious memory?”

  “Indeed! But the mode is a trifle passé.”

  “The respect is the same, Sire, so it seemed to me the etiquette should be the same.”

  “You seem well versed in etiquette for a soldier.”

  “I started out as page to Monsieur le Duc d’Épernon, and in that time I more than once had the honor to present a letter to Henri IV in the manner I have now had the honor to repeat to his son.”

  “Page to the Duc d’Épernon,” repeated the king.

  “And like him, Sire, I was on the running board of the carriage on May 14, 1610, in the Rue de la Ferronnerie, when Henri IV was slain; Your Majesty may have heard that it was a page who stopped the assassin by holding on to his cloak despite the knife-blows that slashed his hands.”

  “Yes. . . . This page, would he be you, by any chance?”

  Latil, still on one knee before the king, drew off his deerskin gloves, revealing hands furrowed by scars. “Sire, see my hands,” he said.

  The king looked at the man with visible emotion, and said, “These hands are the hands of loyalty. Give me your hands, mon brave.” And taking Latil’s hands in his own, he gripped them. “Now, rise,” he said.

  Latil rose. “A great king, Sire, was King Henri IV,” he said.

  “Yes, and God give me the grace to resemble him.”

  “The opportunity is here, Sire,” replied Latil, indicating the note he had brought.

  “Let us see,” said the king, opening the letter.

  “Ah!” he said, after reading it. “Monsieur le Cardinal says that he has engaged our honor, and that whether we disengage it or not, the matter will not wait. . . . Saint-Simon, inform Messieurs Créqui and Bassompierre that I must speak with them this very moment.”

  The two marshals were lodged in a house adjacent to that of the king, and were alerted within minutes; of the two other commanders, Monsieur de Schomberg was at Exilles, Monsieur de Montmorency at Saint-Laurent.

  The king conveyed the contents of Richelieu’s letter to the two marshals, and ordered them to get the artillery and munitions to Chaumont as quickly as possible, declaring that everything must be at Chaumont by the end of the next day.

  As for the marshals, he expected them by Tuesday evening so they could take part in a council of war, in which they would decide the mode of attack for the following day.

  At ten o’clock that evening, in a murky night swirling with snow, without moon or stars, the king departed on horseback for Chaumont accompanied only by Latil, Saint-Simon, and l’Angely. Having prepared his own horse for ice, Latil now took the same precautions with the king’s horse. Then he set out on that route for the third time, leading on foot and probing the road.

  Never had the king displayed such a bold demeanor, nor been so satisfied with himself. If he didn’t have the strength of character for actual grandeur, he at least had a sense of it. He wore his hat with the black plumes, and thought of the white plumes his father Henri IV had worn during his great victory at Ivry. If his son could change his black plume for a white plume, why couldn’t Susa be his Ivry?

  Latil marched before the king’s horse, sounding the road with an iron-shod staff, stopping from time to time to find better footing, taking the horse by the bridle and leading him over bad spots. At each guard post the king was recognized, and he gave the order to prepare the troops to march on Chaumont, enjoying in their obedience one of the sweetest prerogatives of power.

  Just short of Saint-Laurent, Latil had an intimation, from the sharpness of the north wind, of the approach of one of those sudden whirlwinds that are dubbed in the mountains a “snowplow.” He invited the king to dismount and take shelter between Saint-Simon, l’Angely, and himself, but the king wanted to stay on his horse, saying that if events called for him to be a soldier, he would act like a soldier. He wrapped himself in his cloak and waited.

  T
he whirlwind didn’t keep them waiting long; it came on with a whine.

  L’Angely and Saint-Simon pressed themselves in on either side of the king, who was wrapped in his cloak. Latil seized the horse’s bit with both hands and turned his back to the hurricane.

  It arrived, terrible and howling.

  In an instant, the road was covered with snow two feet deep. The riders felt their horses tremble between their legs: in such cataclysms of nature, the animals share the fright of man. The silk ribbon which held on the king’s hat parted, and the black felt with its black plumes disappeared into the darkness like a night-bird.

  Upon arrival at Saint-Laurent, the king asked to be led to Monsieur de Montmorency’s quarters. It was one o’clock in the morning; Montmorency had thrown himself fully clothed onto his bed. At the first word of the king’s presence, the duke sprang back up and stood in his doorway, awaiting the king’s orders.

  Such promptness pleased Louis XIII, and though not overly fond of Monsieur de Montmorency, who had at one time been enamored of the queen, he saluted him.

  The duke offered to accompany the king and provide him with an escort. But Louis XIII replied that he was on the ground of France; and so long as he was on the ground of France, he felt safe; the escort he had seemed sufficient, being entirely devoted. He merely asked Montmorency to make his way to Chaumont in time for the council of war to be held at nine o’clock the following evening.

  The only thing he agreed to accept was another hat. When placing it on his head, he realized that it had three white plumes, and once again he recalled Ivry. “It’s a good omen,” he said.

  Upon leaving Saint-Laurent, the snow was so deep that Latil invited the king to come down from his horse. The king dismounted. Latil led, taking the king’s horse by the bridle; l’Angely came after, then Saint-Simon. Louis XIII thus had a path to follow leveled for him by three men and three horses.

  Saint-Simon, who was grateful to the cardinal for the favors he’d done him, praised to the king all the precautions Richelieu had taken and all the foresight he had shown. “Yes, yes,” answered Louis XIII, “Monsieur le Cardinal is a good servant; I doubt that my brother, in his place, would have taken so many pains for me.”

  Two hours later, the king arrived without incident at the door of the Golden Juniper in Chaumont, as proud of his lost hat as of a wound, as proud of his night march as of a victory. He remarked that no one need awaken the cardinal.

  “His Eminence is not asleep,” replied Maître Germain.

  “And what is he doing at this hour?” asked the king.

  “I work for the glory of Your Majesty,” said the cardinal as he appeared, “and Monsieur de Pontis aids me with all his power in this glorious task.”

  And the cardinal invited the king into his room, where he found a large fire to warm it, and an immense map of the country, drawn up by Monsieur de Pontis, unrolled on a table.

  LX

  In Which the Cardinal Finds the Guide He Needs

  One of the great strengths of the cardinal was not to believe King Louis XIII had virtues that he lacked, but to make the king think he had them regardless.

  Lazy and languid, he made the king believe he was active; timid and distrustful, he made the king believe he was brave; cruel and bloodthirsty, he made him believe he was just.

  Richelieu said that, though the king’s presence wasn’t urgently required in Chaumont at that hour of the night, still he had exalted his glory and that of France by having made the trek, in such peril, on such roads and in the middle of such deep darkness, to answer the call of the nation. However, now the king must take to bed on the instant, as the day just beginning and the one to follow remained ahead of him.

  By daybreak, the orders had been given all along the route, so that the troops bivouacked in Saint-Laurent, in Exilles, and in Séhault were all under way toward Chaumont.

  These troops were under the command of the Comte de Sois-sons, the Ducs de Longueville, de la Trémouille, d’Halliun, and de La Valette, the Comtes d’Harcourt and de Sault, and the Marquises de Canaples, de Mortemar, de Tavaune, de Valence, and de Thoiras.

  The four top commanders were the Duc de Montmorency and the three Marshals: Créqui, Bassompierre, and Schomberg.

  The genius of the cardinal had planned it all; he conceived, the king commanded.

  Since we’ve already told the story of the siege of La Rochelle, that glorious climax of the reign of Louis XIII, in our book The Three Musketeers, we are permitted to dwell here at some length on the famous forcing of the Pass of Susa, about which the official historians have made much ado.

  Upon leaving Richelieu, Victor-Amadeus, to cover his exit, as they say in the theater, had announced he was heading to Rivoli where the duke, his father, awaited him, and that in twenty-four hours he would announce Charles-Emmanuel’s decision; but when he arrived in Rivoli, the Duke of Savoy, whose only goal was to draw things out, had already departed for Turin.

  Thus around five in the evening, instead of Victor-Amadeus it was Savoy’s prime minister, the Count of Verrue, who was announced at the cardinal’s door. At this, the cardinal turned to the king. “Would Your Majesty,” he asked, “prefer the honor of receiving him, or will you leave this burden to me?”

  “If it was Prince Victor-Amadeus, I’d receive him; but since the Duke of Savoy sees fit to send me his prime minister, it’s only right that my prime minister should answer him.”

  “Then does the king give me carte blanche?” asked the cardinal.

  “Entirely.”

  “I’ll leave the door open,” continued Richelieu, “so Your Majesty will hear the entire exchange, and if anything I say displeases him, he’ll be able to enter and contradict me.”

  Louis XIII gave a nod of assent. Richelieu, leaving the door ajar, went into the chamber where the Count of Verrue awaited.

  This Count of Verrue should not be confused with his famous grandson, husband of the celebrated Jeanne d’Albert de Luynes, mistress of Victor-Amadeus II and known as the “Lady of Pleasure”—this Count of Verrue, whom history barely mentions, was a man of forty years, acute, discerning, and of proven courage. Charged with a difficult mission, he brought an essential candor to the tortuous negotiations required of an emissary of Charles-Emmanuel.

  Seeing the grave figure of the cardinal, with that eye that saw to the bottom of hearts, faced with this genius who alone held in check the other sovereigns of Europe, he bowed deeply and respectfully. “Monseigneur,” he said, “I come in place of Prince Victor-Amadeus, who is needed at the side of the duke, his father, who has fallen seriously ill. When his son, after having left Your Eminence, arrived last night at Rivoli, he found that his father had been taken to Turin.”

  “Then, Monsieur le Comte,” said Richelieu, “you come charged with the full powers of the Duke of Savoy?”

  “I come to announce that I precede his arrival, Monseigneur; ill as he is, the Duke of Savoy wants to plead his case to His Majesty in person. He is being carried here in a sedan chair.”

  “And when do you think he will arrive, Count?”

  “His Highness’s state of weakness, and the slowness of his means of transport, means that, in my opinion, he can be here no sooner than the day after tomorrow.”

  “At about what hour?”

  “I wouldn’t dare to promise before noon.”

  “I am in despair, Monsieur le Comte: I told Prince Victor-Amadeus that on that day at daybreak we would attack the entrenchments of Susa—and at daybreak we will attack.”

  “I hope Your Eminence will not be so inflexible,” said the Count of Verrue, “since you know that the Duke of Savoy does not intend to deny passage.”

  “Ah, well, then,” said Richelieu, “if we’re in agreement, there’s no need for further talk.”

  “It is true,” said Verrue with some embarrassment, “that His Highness has one condition . . . or rather, one hope,” added the count.

  “Ah-ha!” said the cardinal, smiling. “And t
hat is?”

  “His Highness the Duke hopes that, due to the great sacrifice he is making, His Most Christian Majesty will cede from the Duchy of Mantua the same part of Montferrat that the King of Spain was allotting to Savoy if he prevailed—or if he does not want to grant it to the duke, that he will make a gift of it to Madame, your king’s sister and our prince’s wife. On this condition, the pass will be open tomorrow.”

  The cardinal looked for a moment at the count, who could not sustain his regard and lowered his eyes. Then, as if that was what he awaited, Richelieu said, “Monsieur le Comte, all Europe has such a high opinion of my master the king’s regard for justice, that I don’t know how His Highness the Duke of Savoy could imagine that His Majesty would consent to such a proposition. Personally, I’m certain that he would never accept it. The King of Spain may well grant part of what does not belong to him in order to engage Savoy to support an unjust usurpation; but God prevent that the king my master, who crosses the mountains to come to the aid of the oppressed Duke of Mantua, would treat his ally so. If the Duke of Savoy forgets what a King of France is capable of, the day after tomorrow he will be reminded.”

  “But may I hope at least that these final proposals will be presented by Your Eminence to His Majesty?”

  “Useless, Monsieur le Comte,” said a voice from behind the cardinal. “The king has heard, and is quite astonished that a man who must know better should make a proposal that would compromise France and stain its honor. If tomorrow the pass is not opened without condition, the next day, at daybreak, it will be attacked.” Then, drawing himself up and placing a foot before him with that majesty which he could sometimes assume, King Louis XIII added, “I will be there in person, and you’ll be able to recognize me by these white plumes, as my august father was recognized at Ivry. I hope that His Highness the Duke will adopt a similar sign to identify him in the heat of battle. Take him my words, Monsieur: they are the only response I can and must make.”

  And he dismissed the count with a gesture, who responded with a deep bow and withdrew.