The Red Sphinx

by Alexandre Dumas

My companion told me the lights were probably those of soldiers out to bury the dead. I asked him to make one last effort to follow me; I dug my spurs into my horse, itself ready to fall, and rode past the first campfire.

  I was just passing the village of Saint-Papoul on my right when my horse reared. I bent down to see a shapeless mass: a dead soldier. I had found the first corpse.

  I jumped from my horse and left it to its own devices. We had arrived. The gardener ran toward the nearest group of torches. I sat on a grassy hillock and waited.

  The sky was still strewn with dark clouds, and thunder continued to rumble in the west, the occasional flash lighting the battlefield.

  The gardener returned, carrying a torch and followed by some soldiers. He had found them digging a large pit, and looked to check for bodies, but none had yet been thrown in.

  Finally, I began to get some positive news. Monsieur de Montmorency, though wounded twelve times over, was not yet dead, but he was definitely a prisoner; he had been captured and then carried to a farm a quarter of a mile from the battlefield, where he’d made his confession to Monsieur de Schomberg’s chaplain. Then his wounds had been dressed by the surgeon of the light horse, and he’d been brought to Castelnaudary on a litter.

  Monsieur de Rieux had been killed, and his body positively identified.

  As for you, you’d been seen falling from your horse, but after that no one could say what had become of you. I asked where you’d been seen to fall, and was told it was at the ambuscade.

  The soldiers wanted to know who I was. “Look at me,” I said to them, “and guess.” Sobs choked my voice, and tears streamed down my face.

  “Poor woman,” one of them said, “she loves him!”

  I seized the man’s hand—I could have kissed him. “Come with me,” I said, “and help me find him, dead or alive.”

  “We’ll help you,” said two or three soldiers. “Follow us,” one of them said. The one I’d chosen to be our guide took the torch and lit the way. I came after.

  One of them offered to let me lean on him. “Thank you,” I said, “but I’m strong enough.”

  In fact, I felt no fatigue, and it seemed to me I could go to the end of the world if I had to.

  We walked three hundred paces. Every ten steps there was a body, and I wanted to check to see if it was you, but the soldiers drew me forward, saying “It wasn’t here, Madame.”

  Finally we came to a little ravine beneath some olive trees, where a path ran along a stream. “Here,” the soldiers said.

  I passed my hand over my forehead and staggered, feeling faint for a moment. Then we began the search, starting down from the crest. I took the torch from the guide and bent low to the earth. One after another, I checked every body. Two were face-down, one dressed as an officer, with dark hair like yours. I turned him on his back and parted his hair: it wasn’t you.

  Suddenly I cried out—I’d spotted your hat! I stooped and picked it up. There were the plumes I’d put on it myself—there was no mistaking it.

  This was where you had fallen. But had you fallen dead, or only wounded? That was the question.

  The soldiers who’d come with me were speaking in low voices. I saw one of them gesture toward the stream. “What are you saying?” I asked.

  “We were saying, Madame,” replied the one who’d gestured, “that a wounded man, especially one who’s shot, is always thirsty. If the Comte de Moret was only wounded, perhaps he crawled to the stream at the bottom of the ravine to drink.”

  “Oh! It’s a hope!” I cried. “Come!” I darted through the olive trees.

  The slope was steep, but I barely noticed. Ceres, torch in hand, seeking for lost Persephone, could have gone no quicker, goddess though she was. In an instant, I was beside the stream.

  In fact, two or three of the wounded had tried to reach it. One had died on the way; the second had gotten his hand into the stream, but no more; the third had his head in the water, and had died while drinking.

  One of the three sighed; it was the man who had reached the edge of the stream and then passed out. The coolness of the night air, or some miracle, had brought him around.

  I knelt beside him, lit his face with the torch—and uttered a cry. It was Armand, your squire.

  At the sound, he opened his eyes and looked at me, confused.

  His eyes focused on my face. “Water,” he croaked.

  I fetched water in your hat and brought it to him. One of the soldiers stopped me. “Don’t let him drink,” he said in my ear. “Sometimes they die while drinking.”

  “Water!” the dying man repeated.

  “Yes,” I said, “I’ll let you drink, but first tell me what happened to the Comte de Moret.”

  He looked more closely at my face, and recognized me. “Mademoiselle de Lautrec!” he murmured.

  “Yes, Armand, it’s me,” I said. “I’m looking for your master. Where is he? Where is he?”

  “Water!” he demanded, voice fading.

  I remembered I had a vial of smelling salts in my pocket. I held it to his lips, and he seemed to revive a little.

  “Where is he, in heaven’s name?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he replied.

  “Did you see him fall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dead or wounded?”

  “Wounded.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “On the banks.”

  “Which side?”

  “The side toward Fendeille.”

  “Among the king’s troops, or Montmorency’s?”

  “Montmorency’s men.”

  “And then?”

  “That’s all I can remember. I was wounded myself, my horse was killed, I fell. Night came, and I crawled, because I was so thirsty. I nearly reached the stream, but I fainted. Water! Water!”

  “Let him drink now,” the soldier said. “He’s told us all he knows.”

  I cupped water from your hat. The soldiers raised the wounded man’s head, and I brought the water to his lips. He drank three or four sips, greedily, and then leaned back, sighed, and stiffened.

  He was dead.

  “You see, you had to make him talk before letting him drink,” said the soldier. He released poor Armand’s head, and it fell heavily to the ground.

  I stood for a moment, wringing my hands anxiously.

  “What do we do now, Madame?” asked the gardener.

  “Do you know which way is Fendeille?” I asked him.

  “Yes.”

  “Then we go toward Fendeille.” I turned to the soldiers and asked, “Who will come with me?”

  “All of us!” they said.

  “Then let’s go.”

  We followed the path up out of the ravine, then over into a meadow, where we saw an officer at the head of a dozen soldiers. My companions spoke softly to each other. “What are you saying?” I asked.

  “We say that officer might be able to give you some information.”

  “Which one?”

  “That one.” They pointed at the captain leading the patrol.

  “Why do you think he could give me information?”

  “Well, because he fought here.”

  “Let’s go to him, then.” And I walked quickly toward the officer.

  One of my soldiers stopped me. “Pardon,” he said, “but you see . . .”

  “Why do you stop me?”

  “Are you sure you want to know what he has to say?” the soldier asked.

  “At all costs!”

  “No matter what he tells you?”

  “No matter what.”

  “Then I’ll call him over.” He stepped forward. “Captain Bitéran?”

  The officer paused, peering toward him through the darkness. “Who calls?” he asked.

  “We’d like to speak with you, mon officier.”

  “Who is that?”

  “A lady.”

  “A lady! On the battlefield, at this hour?”

  “Why not, Monsieur—if
that lady comes to the battlefield seeking one she loves, to treat him if he’s wounded, or bury him if he’s dead?”

  The officer approached; he was a man of about thirty. Seeing me, he removed his hat, to reveal a noble and distinguished face framed by blond hair. “Whom do you seek, Madame?” he asked me.

  “Antoine de Bourbon, the Comte de Moret,” I replied.

  The officer looked at me more closely. Then, paling slightly, voice altered, he repeated, “The Comte de Moret? You seek the Comte de Moret?”

  “Yes, the Comte de Moret. These good men tell me that you, better than anyone, should be able to tell me what happened to him.”

  He looked at my soldiers, grimaced and frowned. “Mon Capitaine!” one of them said. “It seems this lady is his fiancée, and she wants to know what’s become of him.”

  “Monsieur, in heaven’s name!” I cried. “You saw the Comte de Moret, you know something about him. Tell me what you know.”

  “Madame, here’s what I know: I was sent with my company of fusiliers to hide in ambush there in the ravine. We fired a volley, then pulled back to draw the enemy in. The Comte de Moret, who never refused a fight and was quick to show his courage, charged recklessly at us, and fired his pistol at . . . well, Madame, I won’t lie . . . at me. His bullet cut the feather from my hat. I shot back, but more accurately, I’m sorry to say.”

  I uttered a cry of terror. “It was you?” I said, drawing back.

  “Madame,” the captain said, “it was a fair fight. I thought I was dealing with just another officer of the marshal-duke’s army. If I’d known that he who charged me was a prince, and moreover the son of Henri IV, I’d certainly have forfeited my own life before taking his. But it was only when I heard him shout ‘To me! For the Bourbons!’ that I realized what a catastrophe I’d caused.”

  “Oh, yes!” I cried. “A terrible catastrophe! But, tell me, was he killed?”

  “I don’t know, Madame—just then, their musketeers opened fire. My fusiliers replied in good order. We withdrew, and I saw them standing over the body of the count, bloody and hatless.”

  “Oh! His hat, it’s here!” I crushed it passionately to my lips.

  “Madame,” the captain said, with genuine pain, “give me your orders. After causing such a calamity, how can I . . . I won’t say atone, but at least help you in your search? Tell me, and I’ll do everything in my power to help.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur,” I said, trying to get hold of myself, “but the only thing you can do is tell me in which direction the count was carried away.”

  “Toward Fendeille, Madame,” he replied; “but for safety’s sake, follow the path that starts a hundred paces to your right. After a mile, you’ll come to a house where they should know something.”

  “Very well,” I said, and then, to the gardener, “You understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “I could offer the lady my horse,” the officer said timidly.

  “Thank you, Monsieur,” I replied. “I asked you for all I needed, and you gave me all I asked.”

  I passed a handful of crowns to my three soldiers. Two went off, but the third insisted on escorting me to the house of which we’d been told. However, I couldn’t resist the desire to take one last look at the ground consecrated by your blood; I turned, and saw the captain standing where I’d left him, staring at me like a man stunned by misfortune.

  On the way to the house, we found corpses all along the path, but I was used to them by then and walked with a firm step through bloodstained grass that rose to my knees.

  We reached the house, which was overflowing with wounded from both sides, some lying outside on ground strewn with straw. I came into this asylum of pain to question the dying with my voice, and the dead with my eyes. At my questions, one dying man raised himself on his elbow. “The Comte de Moret?” he said. “I saw him go past in the carriage of Monsieur.”

  “Dead or wounded?” I asked.

  “Wounded,” said the dying man, “but he was like me, more dead than alive.”

  “My God!” I cried. “Where were they taking him?”

  “I don’t know—but I did hear them mention a name as the carriage turned at the crossroad.”

  “Whose?”

  “That of Madame de Ventadour.”

  “Yes, that makes sense—Madame de Ventadour is nearby, at the Abbey of Prouille. That’s it! Thank you, my friend.”

  And, leaving a few crowns beside him, I went out and told the gardener, “He’s at the Abbey of Prouille.”

  Prouille Abbey was about two miles from there. The gardener’s horse was exhausted, and I’d left mine in the meadow of the battlefield. It was impossible to find a carriage, or even a farmer’s cart, and to search for one would have wasted valuable time. I felt no fatigue, so we set out on foot.

  We’d gone barely a mile when the threatened storm finally broke and it began to rain. But all I could think of was you—I didn’t feel the rain, I couldn’t hear the storm, I marched through torrents of water on a path intermittently lit as bright as day. We came to a large oak; the gardener begged me to shelter there a while and wait until the storm had passed, but I shook my head and continued on my way without answering. A minute later, lightning struck the oak and shattered it to splinters.

  I paused long enough to point out what had happened. “Yes, Madame,” the gardener said, “you’re protected from the sky, so, for as long as God gives you strength, let’s go on.”

  We went on for another hour or so, until the lightning showed us the abbey where we were bound. I doubled our pace; and soon after, we arrived.

  In the abbey, all were asleep, or pretending to sleep. I made enough noise to awaken them from the deepest slumber: gatekeeper, sisters, and the abbess herself.

  After a thousand precautions, they finally opened up. They’d clearly heard me knocking, but seemed to fear the assault of some rapacious horde. I hastened to identify myself, and immediately asked for news of you.

  The sister gatekeeper knew who I meant, but claimed not to have seen you, or even to know you’d been wounded. I asked to speak to Madame de Ventadour, and they took me to her.

  I found her in full habit—having heard the noise I’d made, she’d arisen and dressed. I thought she looked pale, and seemed to tremble. She dismissed this as signs of the fear she’d felt when she heard me knocking, afraid it was rogue soldiers at the gate.

  I reassured her, and told her I’d come from Saint-Pons, how I’d gone to the battlefield, and found the place where you’d fallen. I showed her your hat, still clenched in my hand; I told her what I’d learned from the dying soldier, and begged her, in the name of heaven, to tell me what she knew about you.

  She replied that he must have been mistaken, or that the coach, after turning on the path to the abbey, must have gone another way, either right or left, and taken another route. In any event, she hadn’t seen you, and had no news of you.

  I dropped my pleading hands and slumped onto a nearby settee—my strength had left me, along with my hope.

  The abbess summoned her women, who stripped me of my soaking clothes, still stuck to me from the drenching rain. I’d lost my shoes somewhere in the muddy road, and had walked at least a mile in bare feet. They brought a bath and placed me into it, where I lapsed into a stupor, almost unconscious.

  As I slowly came around, I heard them talking about someone having seen a carriage take the road to Mazères. I questioned them: the information came from a peasant who had brought the convent their evening milk.

  The abbess offered me her own carriage and horses, if I wanted to continue my search. I accepted.

  They brought me my clothes, for, seeing the first light of day streaming in, I didn’t want to lose a moment before taking up the trail. It was quite possible they’d taken you to Mazères, as Mazères was a château that had stood on the side of Montmorency.

  Madame de Ventadour lent me her personal driver, and
we departed.

  At Villeneuve-le-Comtat, at Payra, at Sainte-Camette, we sought information, but not only had nobody seen anything, but in those villages they didn’t even know the Battle of Castelnaudary had taken place.

  We continued on the road to Mazères. There, somebody would have to know something: the gates would be guarded by sentries loyal to Monsieur de Montmorency, who would have no reason to conceal the presence of the Comte de Moret.

  We arrived at the gates: they hadn’t seen a carriage, didn’t know the Comte de Moret was wounded, and their first news of the Battle of Castelnaudary came from us.

  We soon had proof that this was the truth, as an officer galloped up at full speed, announcing that Monsieur de Montmorency was a prisoner, Monsieur de Rieux was dead, all was lost, and it was every man for himself.

  After that, everyone was too busy to answer more questions.

  I had completely lost track of you! We began to search at random, casting around the theater of events in a great circle, as hunters do when tracking game. We visited Belpech, Cahuzac, Fanjeaux, Alzonne, Conques, Peyriac; in none of these places was there any hint of your passage. Somewhere between Fendeille and the abbey, your carriage had disappeared like a mirage.

  At Peyriac, I found the steward of our house in Valence. My father had sent word that he would spend two or three months at our château there. They implored me to come home, and that put an end to my search.

  After three weeks of looking, I’d lost all hope of finding you. I went to the château.

  My father arrived the next day. He found me despondent. After a word from the steward, everyone in the château was very considerate, and no one mentioned my journey.

  My father came and sat by my bedside. He was a very serious, even severe man, as you know. I’d told him of my love for you, and your promise to be my husband. The honor of such an alliance was so great that he’d given up his favorite project, that of my marriage to the Vicomte de Pontis, the son of his oldest friend. But with your death, that project once again was his foremost desire.

  Besides, Louis XIII had had words with him about his daughter’s love for a rebel. As you were his brother, the king was particularly angry with you. Your property and domains were all confiscated, and if you hadn’t been presumed dead, you would have been tried and treated just as Montmorency had been, king’s son though you were.