The Red Sphinx

by Alexandre Dumas

  Richelieu didn’t reveal his suspicions about Montmorency, for he knew Latil was attached to the duke and to the Comte de Moret, but he asked a number of probing questions about this shadowy cavalier glimpsed in the dark.

  Latil described what he’d seen: a young man aged seventeen or eighteen, wearing a large plumed hat and wrapped in a dark blue or black cloak, whose horse was as black as the night with which it had merged.

  After Latil left, the cardinal sent to ask what orders the sentries had followed between eight and ten that night, and was told that no one could enter or leave the Susa garrison without the password, which that evening was “Susa and Savoy.” Of course, the password was known to all the high officers: Marshals Schomberg, Créqui, and La Force, the Comte de Moret, the Duc de Montmorency, and so forth.

  The cardinal called the sentries in and questioned them. From Latil’s description, one of them recognized a youth who had gone out, giving the correct password. He’d left by the gate toward France rather than the gate to Italy, but that didn’t mean anything: once outside the gate and into the town, he could easily have changed direction.

  So they discovered at daybreak, when they found the tracks of a horse. The trail went out the France gate, around the town of Susa, and joined the road to Italy a mile beyond.

  The cardinal lost no time in delays. The day before, he’d declared war to Victor-Amadeus; so by ten o’clock, his investigations having been concluded, he gave the order to march, and the drums and trumpets sounded.

  The cardinal watched as the army passed, four corps commanded by Schomberg, La Force, Créqui, and the Duc de Montmorency. Among the officers standing near him was Latil. Montmorency was accompanied, as always, by a large entourage of gentlemen and pages. Among these pages was Galaor, wearing a wide plumed hat and mounted on a black horse. As the young man passed, Richelieu touched Latil on the shoulder. “Maybe,” said the latter, “but I couldn’t swear to it.”

  Richelieu frowned, and his eyes flashed in the direction of the duke. Putting his horse into a gallop, he rode to the head of the column, preceded only by the vanguard known as the enfants perdus. He was dressed in his usual wartime attire, a steel breastplate over a richly embroidered golden doublet. A feather floated from his broad felt hat. As they might meet the enemy at any moment, two pages went before him, one carrying his gauntlets and the other his helmet. At his side, two other pages led a rare and powerful war-horse. Cavois and Latil, the captain and lieutenant of his guards, followed close behind.

  After an hour’s ride, they reached a small river which the cardinal had had scouted out the previous day. Confident of his information, he was the first to ride into the water, and arrived without accident on the other side.

  A heavy rain began to fall as the army crossed the river, but the cardinal, nothing daunted, continued his march. It would have been impossible to shelter an army in the few isolated houses that lined the road, but the soldiers, disregarding the possible, began to complain and wish the cardinal to the Devil. These complaints were loud enough that the cardinal could scarcely miss them.

  “Well!” said the cardinal, turning to Latil. “Do you hear that, Étienne?”

  “What, Monseigneur?”

  “What those clowns are saying about me.”

  “Well, Monseigneur,” said Latil, laughing, “it’s the custom of suffering soldiers to wish their commanders to the Devil—but the Devil has no hold on a Prince of the Church.”

  “Perhaps, when I’m wearing my red robes—but not when I wear the uniform of His Majesty. Ride down the ranks, Latil, and advise them to be more patient.”

  Latil passed down the ranks, and then returned to his place by the cardinal. “Well?” asked the cardinal.

  “Well, Monseigneur, they’ve decided on patience.”

  “Because you told them I was unhappy with them?”

  “Not exactly, Monseigneur.”

  “What did you tell them, then?”

  “That Your Eminence was grateful for how they endured the hardships of the road, so much so that when they arrive at Rivoli, they’ll be issued a double ration of wine.”

  The cardinal gnawed at his mustache for a moment. “You may have hit on the answer,” he said.

  And indeed, the murmurs had subsided. Besides, the weather was clearing, and under a sunbeam in the distance, they could see the shining roofs of Rivoli Castle and the village that clustered around it.

  Marching without pause, they arrived at Rivoli in just three hours. “Would Your Eminence like me to direct the distribution of wine?” Latil asked.

  “Since you promised these buffoons a double ration, we must give it to them—but it must be paid for in cash.”

  “Indeed, they must have it, Monseigneur, but . . . cash?”

  “Why, yes. Everything costs money.”

  The cardinal stopped, drew a tablet from his saddle, and wrote on the top sheet: The Treasurer will pay Monsieur Latil the sum of one thousand livres, charged to my account. Then he signed it.

  Latil took the note and went on ahead.

  When the army entered Rivoli three quarters of an hour later, the soldiers were struck dumb to see, in every tenth doorway, an open wine barrel surrounded by glasses. Their mute astonishment changed to loud satisfaction, the complaints about water were converted to cheers for the wine, and cries of “Vive le cardinal!” rang down the ranks.

  Amid this ovation, Latil rejoined the cardinal. “Well, Monseigneur?” he said.

  “Well, Latil, I think you understand soldiers better than I do.”

  “Pardieu! Each to his own! I know soldiers because I’ve lived among soldiers. Your Eminence understands churchmen, having lived among men of the Church.”

  “Latil,” said the cardinal, placing his hand on the swashbuckler’s shoulder, “if there’s one thing I’m learning by living among soldiers, it’s that the more one lives among churchmen, the less one knows about anything.”

  Having arrived at Rivoli Castle, the cardinal summoned his principal commanders. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I think this castle is large enough to provide quarters for all of you. Messieurs Montmorency and Moret were guests here of the Duke of Savoy, and can show you around. In one hour, we’ll convene for a war council. Be prompt; we have important matters to discuss.”

  The marshals and high officers, soaked to the bone and as eager to warm up as the soldiers, promised to be punctual and hurried away.

  One hour later, the seven high commanders were gathered before Cardinal Richelieu in the audience chamber that just the day before had belonged to the Duke of Savoy. These seven were the Duc de Montmorency, the Marshals Schomberg, Créqui, La Force, and Thoiras, Monsieur d’Auriac, and the Comte de Moret.

  The cardinal stood, gestured for silence, rested both hands on the table, and said, “Gentlemen, we have an open gate into Piedmont. This gate, Susa Pass, was unlocked with the price of our blood. However, when dealing with a man as devious as Charles-Emmanuel, one gate isn’t enough—we need two. Here is my plan of campaign: before pushing further into Italy, I want to open another gate between Piedmont and Dauphiné so we can bring in further reinforcements, and in case we need a route for a withdrawal. For this purpose, I propose to seize Fort Pinerolo.

  “You know, gentlemen, how the feeble Henri III ran afoul of the Duke of Savoy in his youth. Charles, the Duke of Mantua, whose claim we cross the Alps to support—his father, the old Duc de Nevers, Governor of Pinerolo and general of the armies of France in Italy, used his powers of eloquence to persuade Henri III to agree to a terrible mistake. Nevers foresaw the day that his son might lay claim to the Duchy of Mantua, and would want to control the passes to France. So he persuaded Henri III to trade away the governorship of Pinerolo in hopes it would fall to Mantua—despite the fact that this was not in France’s best interest.

  “So, Messieurs, it falls to us to return Fort Pinerolo to the crown of France. Should we attempt this by force, or by deception? If we choose force, it will cost us both
time and troops. So I prefer deception.

  “Philip of Macedon said there’s no fort so impregnable it won’t open its gates to a mule loaded with gold. I have the mule, and I have the gold, but I lack the man or the means to get it inside. Help me out: we need a way to turn a million in gold into the keys to this fortress.”

  As usual, the question was opened up to the floor, everyone having the opportunity to answer in order of seniority. Each commander asked for twenty-four hours to think about it, until they reached the Comte de Moret, who was youngest and therefore the last to speak. No one expected him to say anything, so he surprised everyone when he stood up, bowed to the cardinal, and said, “If Your Eminence will prepare the mule and million, I’ll undertake to get those keys. All I’ll need are three days.”

  LXXI

  The Foster-Brother

  The day after the council at Rivoli Castle, a young peasant named Gaetano, aged about twenty-four, dressed like a mountaineer from Aosta Valley and speaking with a Piedmontese accent, appeared at the gates of Fort Pinerolo at about eight in the evening. He said he was the brother of the Countess of Espalomba’s chambermaid, Signora Jacintha, and asked to see her.

  When informed of this by a soldier of the garrison, Signora Jacintha gave a little squeal of surprise that could easily have been mistaken for a cry of joy. Then, as if she had first to get her mistress’s permission in order to respond to a summons of family at the fortress gate, she ran into the countess’s bedroom. Five minutes later, she left by the door she’d gone in, while the countess darted out the opposite door and down the stairs to a charming little private garden, which happened to be overlooked by the windows of Jacintha’s room.

  Once in the garden, the countess made her way to its most secluded corner, a bower shaded by lemon, orange, and pomegranate trees.

  Meanwhile, Jacintha ran down to the courtyard like a sister in a hurry to see her beloved brother, tenderly crying out “Gaetano! Dear Gaetano!”

  The young man threw herself into her arms, just as Count Urbain of Espalomba returned from reviewing his sentries. He was in time to see the happy embrace of the young people, as they exclaimed that they hadn’t seen each other for nearly two years, ever since Jacintha had left her mother’s house to follow her mistress.

  Jacintha approached the count with a pretty curtsy and asked permission to host her brother. He had, it seemed, some urgent business in the area, though he hadn’t yet had time to explain it.

  The count asked to speak with Gaetano and, after a few words, satisfied with the lad’s demeanor, gave permission for him to stay in the fortress. Gaetano assured him that he wouldn’t be there long, forty-eight hours at the most. Then the count, deciding he’d spent enough time with these commoners, dismissed them and went inside to his chambers.

  Gaetano remarked that the count appeared to be in a sour mood, a fact that seemed to interest him more than one might expect from a farmer who had little to do with the affairs of the great nobles. Jacintha told him Urbain was angry with his sovereign, on two counts. First, for the arrogant way the Duke of Savoy had courted his wife in the very presence of her husband; and second, for the abrupt order to shut himself up in this citadel and defend it to the death against all comers. Count Urbain had said to his wife, in Jacintha’s presence, that no noble of Spain, Austria, or France would stand for what he had to suffer in Piedmont—and neither should he.

  Gaetano seemed so pleased with this news that, when they turned a dark corner of the corridor, as if in a surge of affection for his sister, he took Jacintha in his arms and gave her a big kiss on each cheek.

  Jacintha’s chamber was off that very corridor; she opened her door, ushered her “brother” inside, and shut it behind him. Gaetano said happily, “Here I am at last! And now, dear Jacintha, where is your mistress?”

  “What? I thought you’d come to see me!” the young woman laughed.

  “For you . . . and for her,” said the Comte de Moret, for it was indeed him. “But mostly for her. I have political matters to arrange with your mistress, and, as you’re the maid of a woman of affairs, you know business comes first.”

  “And where would you like to arrange these important matters?”

  “Here in your room, if it’s all right with you.”

  “What! In front of me?”

  “Well, no. We have full confidence in you, my dear Jacintha, but some matters are too dangerous to share.”

  “Then what am I to do?”

  “You, Jacintha, will sit outside your mistress’s bed, where the curtains are drawn due to her sudden indisposition, keeping watch to make sure her husband doesn’t intrude and wake her.”

  “Ah, Monsieur le Comte,” Jacintha said with a sigh, “I had no idea you were such a clever diplomat.”

  “But I am, as you see. And for a diplomat, nothing is more precious than time, so tell me quickly—where is your mistress?”

  Jacintha sighed even more deeply, opened the window, and said, “See for yourself.”

  The count then remembered the private garden Matilda had told him about, where she so often dreamed of him. She had spoken of a bower of pomegranate, orange, and lemon trees, where it was shady even in daytime, and more so at night. Jacintha had scarcely opened the window before he’d leaped to the ledge and down into the garden. Then, as Jacintha wiped away a tear she’d been unable to keep back, she watched him disappear into the little wood whispering, loudly, “Matilda! Matilda!”

  At the sound of her name, Matilda instantly recognized the voice that spoke it and darted toward it, crying “Antoine!”

  As the lovers met, they threw themselves into each other’s arms, embracing against an orange tree, which rained a flurry of blossoms on their heads. There they remained for a time, if not silent, at least not quite talking, just uttering the vague murmurs that, on the lips of lovers, say so much without saying a word.

  Finally both, as if awaking from a lovely land of dreams, said at the same time: “It’s you!” And in a single kiss, both answered, “Yes!”

  Then, as reality returned, the countess cried, “My husband?”

  “All taken care of as planned—he took me for Jacintha’s brother and has admitted me into the fortress.”

  Then they sat down side by side and hand in hand. The time had come for explanations.

  Between lovers, explanations can take a long time. They started them in the garden but then took them into Jacintha’s room, while Jacintha, as arranged, spent the night in her mistress’s bedroom.

  Around eight the next morning, a gentle knock sounded on the door of Count Urbain’s bedchamber. He was already up and dressed, having been awakened at six o’clock by a message from Turin announcing that the French were at Rivoli and appeared to be in preparations to besiege Pinerolo.

  The count was anxious, and showed it in the abrupt way he barked “Enter!”

  The door opened, and to his amazement it was the countess. “It’s you, Matilda!” he said, rising. “Have you heard the news? Is it to that that I owe the pleasure of this unexpected early visit?”

  “What news, Monsieur?”

  “Only that we’re probably about to be besieged!”

  “Yes, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “How and when did you learn this news?”

  “Just last night, as I’ll explain. It kept me awake all night long.”

  “As I can tell from your complexion, Madame—you look tired and pale.”

  “I was waiting impatiently for morning so I could speak to you.” “Couldn’t you have awakened me, Madame? The news was important enough.”

  “But it stirred up such a tumult of doubts and worries, Monsieur, that I wanted to talk with you about the situation before sharing what I’d heard.”

  “I don’t understand, Madame, and I confess that I can’t think how a woman heard secret news about a matter of politics and war. . . .”

  “Oh, I know you think we’re not clever enough to think about such things.�
��

  “And you think that’s wrong,” said the count, smiling.

  “I do, because women are capable of good advice.”

  “So, if I asked for your opinion on our situation, what advice would you give me?”

  “First of all,” the countess said, “I’d remind you of how shabbily the Duke of Savoy has treated us.”

  “No need of that, Madame—his disrespect was plain and clear, and I’ll never forget it.”

  “I’d remind you of the festivities for the ambassadors at Turin, during which our sovereign made proposals to me that were an insult to both of us.”

  “I remember them, Madame.”

  “I would remind you of the brusque and uncivil way in which he ordered you to leave Rivoli and go to Pinerolo to be butchered by the French!”

  “I haven’t forgotten it, and I’m waiting for the chance to prove it to him.”

  “Well, that chance has come. You, Monsieur, are in one of those situations where a decisive man can be the arbiter of his own destiny and choose between two futures: servitude under a harsh and arrogant master, or freedom with dignity and an ample fortune.”

  The count looked at his wife in astonishment. “I confess, Madame, I have no idea where you’re going with this.”

  “I will speak clearly about the matter. Jacintha’s brother is in the service of the Comte de Moret.”

  Now the count was doubly astonished. “The natural son of King Henri IV?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “And so, Madame?”

  “So, the day before yesterday, Cardinal Richelieu declared before the Comte de Moret that he’d give a million in gold to anyone who would bring him the keys to Pinerolo!”

  The count’s eyes narrowed with greed. “A million,” he said. “I’d like to see that.”