The Red Sphinx

by Alexandre Dumas

  So it was a blessing that you were dead, and had died on the battlefield. That captain I’d seen and interrogated, that killer whom I’d cursed and whose pale face haunted me in my dreams, that murderer had saved you from the scaffold.

  I listened, sadly and somberly, to my father. His mind was made up: the Comte de Pontis, who had fought in the army of Marshal Schomberg, was in the royal favor. It was my father and him against me and the cardinal.

  On my side, I did what I could. I asked my father for three months: if, after that time, I’d had no news of you, or your death was confirmed, I would go to the church with the Vicomte de Pontis.

  On October 30, Monsieur de Montmorency was executed. Then I almost blessed your murderer, for I knew that if you’d had to suffer like the poor duke, it would have killed me.

  There was no doubt about your fate—everyone said you’d been killed. I was a widow who’d never been married!

  Three months passed. On the last day of the third month, my father came to the château with the Vicomte de Pontis.

  I knew how punctual my father was, and didn’t want to keep him waiting. When he arrived, he found me already in my bridal gown.

  The clock struck eleven. The priest awaited us at the church. I rose and rested my arm on my father’s. The Comte de Pontis walked behind with his son. They were followed by five or six mutual friends, a few dozen relatives, and the servants.

  We made our way toward the church.

  My father didn’t speak, only looked at me. He seemed surprised to find me so quiet.

  Like a martyr marching to her death, my face lit up as I approached the place of execution.

  As we entered the church, I was pale but smiling, like a castaway fighting a storm who sees the safety of port.

  The priest was waiting at the altar; we approached, and all went down on their knees. I’d been afraid that when I arrived at this point, my strength would fail me. But I was still strong, and I thanked the Lord for it with all my heart.

  The priest asked the Vicomte de Pontis if he took me for his wife. “Yes,” he replied.

  He gave me the same question, asking if I took Monsieur de Pontis as my husband. “My husband in this world and the next,” I replied, “is my divine savior Jesus, and I shall never have another.”

  I made this response in a tone so calm and firm that no one in the church missed a word.

  Monsieur de Pontis looked at me with a frightened air, as if I’d gone mad. My father took a step forward.

  But I, I passed through the gate that separated me from the altar, raised my arms to heaven, and cried in a loud voice, “From this moment, I belong to God, and only God has a right to claim me!”

  “Isabelle!” my father shouted. “Would you defy my authority?”

  “There is an authority higher and holier than yours, my father,” I replied respectfully. “It’s the authority of the one who sustained my faith while on the road to misfortune. Father, I am no longer of this earthly world—pray for me. As I will pray for all of you.”

  My father moved to pass the gate and snatch me from the altar, but the priest held his arms out to block him. “Woe!” said he. “Woe to he who would impede this call to vocation, or try to prevent it! This girl has given herself to God, and I receive her in his name. The house of God is a holy sanctuary where no one, not even her father, has a right to take her against her will.”

  My father might not have been stopped by this warning, but the Comte de Pontis dragged him away. The viscount and the rest of the entourage followed the old man out, and the door closed behind them.

  The priest asked me where I wished to retire. I had myself driven to the Ursuline convent.

  My father went to Paris at once, to appeal to the cardinal. But all he got from the cardinal was an order that I was not to take my vows for the term of a year.

  That year passed. After a year and a day, I took the veil.

  That was four years ago. For four years, not a day has passed without my praying for you, kissing the feathers of the hat I’d picked up on the battlefield at Castelnaudary, the only relic of you I had.

  Now, you know everything.

  And now, in your turn, tell me all, in detail; tell me by what miracle you live; tell me where you are; tell me how I can see you. And tell it all quickly, before I go mad!

  —17 May, four in the morning

  XVII

  Six in the morning, immediately after your letter

  For a moment, God turned his eyes away from us—and in that moment, the angel of evil passed over us and touched our heads.

  Listen in your turn.

  You know what pledges I’d made to my brother Gaston. I’d hoped that, by making good on one, I’d account for them all.

  The king’s prime minister seemed to think only of the king, not of the rest of us. Such tyranny was intolerable to the Sons of France; every time the cardinal employed the king’s name, and used his seal, without consulting him, was a mark against his minister. Daily he gave orders in the house of Henri IV without regard for his sons, including the one who was on the throne.

  And meanwhile, as he gathered a fortune of two hundred million, barely a third of France’s people could get decent bread; another third lived on coarse oat bread, while the final third, like filthy farmyard animals, sustained themselves on acorns and mash.

  Across the realm he’d been granted control of numerous royal fortresses and domains. He had Brouage, Oléron, Ré, La Rochelle, Saumur, Angers, Brest, Amboise, Le Havre, Pont-de-l’Arche, and Pointoise, at the very gates of Paris. He was master of the province and citadel of Verdun. In addition to the garrisons of all these towns, forts, and citadels, he was Admiral of the Navy. He had his own personal company of guards. He held in his hands all the keys to France.

  The rest of France, gathered against him, wasn’t enough to raise an army to oppose his own. The prisons had become graves to bury the true servants of the king, and the crime of lèse-majesté no longer applied to those who rebelled against the king or the State, but to anyone who lacked the zeal and blind obedience to follow the will and purposes of his prime minister.

  I had to say all this, first and foremost, because it’s my excuse for leaving you and taking the side of one who, later, would deny us all, alive or dead.

  It was the trial and execution of the old Maréchal de Marillac that decided everything for me. I had been in correspondence with my brother Gaston and with Queen Marie de Médicis, who had always been perfectly friendly to me. I determined to join my fortune to theirs.

  Do you remember how melancholy I was at that time? Do you remember my emotion, my voice breaking into sobs when I told you that my future was less certain than that of the new leaves on the tree under which we sat? Do you remember how I asked you for three more months before making you my wife, while saying that my happiest day would be the day I became your husband?

  In fact, from that moment, I was privy to all the affairs of my brother Gaston and acted as intermediary between him and poor Montmorency.

  You ask me not to leave out any details. And I won’t forget or omit anything, if only to justify myself to you—and to me.

  We had to have the Spanish and Neapolitans on our side. And in fact, when Montmorency declared for us, the Neapolitans did indeed appear off the coast of Narbonne, but they didn’t dare to land. As for the Spaniards, they mustered at Urgel on their side of the border, but never crossed to ours.

  You saw the insurrection rise all around you. You heard the cries of revolt in Bagnols, in Lunel, in Beaucaire, and in Alais. One morning I received—with a heavy heart, because I knew it betokened our separation—one morning there came the manifesto in which my brother Gaston declared himself Lieutenant General of France.

  Shortly thereafter, as you learned in a letter from the king to your father, ordering him to Paris, Gaston returned to France with eighteen hundred horse, who burned the outlying suburb of Saint-Nicolas and the houses of the members of parliament who’d tried
and condemned Marillac.

  A day later, in my turn, I too received a letter. My brother wrote to me from Albi and summoned me to keep my oath to him.

  That was the day I took leave of you, August 14, 1632—a fatal date, burned as deeply into my heart as yours.

  Oh, all your details of my departure are true! Your depiction of that night is perfect, except I could see you for longer than you could see me. You were on the balcony of your room, lit from behind, while I plunged into deepening darkness. But eventually the road reached a turn, beyond which I’d see you no more.

  At that point, I halted my horse, wondering if it wouldn’t be better to forget all my oaths and commitments, sacrificing honor to love to return to you.

  But your window closed, your light went out, and I thought it a warning from God to continue on my path. So I dug my spurs into my horse, wrapped my head in my cloak, and rushed forward into the darkness drowning the horizon, while urging myself “Forward! Forward!”

  Two days later, I was in Albi, where I nearly caught up to my brother, who’d left five hundred Polish horse as my command and marched on to Béziers. On August 29, I received orders from the marshal-duke to join him. I went with my five hundred, and reached him on the night of August 30.

  On the 31st, we met to consider our position. We believed Monsieur de Schomberg was marching on Castelnaudary, and marched there in our turn. But Schomberg got there first and occupied a house only ten minutes from the field, where he formed up a corps of Guards.

  It was then September 1, at eight in the morning. The marshal-duke was apprised of the situation; he took five hundred men to scout Schomberg’s army in force; and when he reached the house, he charged it.

  Those within soon abandoned their posts. Monsieur de Montmorency left a hundred and fifty men to guard the house, and returned to us quite pleased with this initial success.

  He found us gathered in the largest house in town: my brother Gaston, Monsieur de Rieux, Monsieur de Chaudebonne, and me. Approaching my brother, Montmorency announced, “Monsieur, today you will triumph over all your enemies, today the son will be reunited with his mother. But,” he added, gesturing with his bloody sword, “only if by tonight your sword is like mine, that is to say, red to the hilt.”

  My brother doesn’t care for swords, especially when they’re bloody, and he turned away. “Eh, Marshal!” he said, “Do you never tire of boasting? Always you promise me great victories, but these hopes are never fulfilled.”

  “In any case,” said the marshal, “assuming you’re still with me and I, as you say, have given you hope, today that’s more than anyone’s done for your brother the king—for there’s not just hope at stake here, there’s life itself.”

  “Why, Marshal!” Gaston said with a shrug. “Do you really suppose the life of the heir apparent is in play? No matter what happens, I’m sure to make my peace, as I did the last three times.”

  The marshal smiled sourly and, turning from the prince, approached the rest of us. “Well, now we come to the bout,” he said, “and our man already has a nosebleed. He says he, at least, will get away clean. But I think if he does, neither I, nor you, Monsieur de Moret, nor you, Monsieur de Rieux, will be part of his escort.”

  We said we certainly would not.

  “Very well,” the marshal-duke continued, “then come with me—because we swore that when this day came, we’d meet it sword in hand.”

  Just then, the report came that Schomberg’s army had left the woods and was marching toward us. “Come, gentlemen,” the marshal-duke said, “the time has come—every man to his post.”

  We had to pass over a river on a small bridge where they might have disputed our crossing, but no one did. On the contrary, Monsieur de Schomberg’s plan was to draw us forward into an ambush on that sunken road where you found my poor squire.

  The bridge crossed, I took my position on the left wing, which was under my command. It was, as you know, my first battle. I was eager to show that, though of the same blood as Monsieur, my blood ran hotter than his.

  Ahead, I saw a troop of fusiliers detached as forward skirmishers: I charged them. I particularly noted the officer you met on the night after the battle. He was a brave gentleman, as calm under fire as if he were on parade. I spurred straight at him and discharged my pistol which, as you said, trimmed the feather from his hat. He returned fire. I felt a blow to my left side; I put my hand to it without knowing what I’d find, and drew it away covered with blood.

  I didn’t feel much pain at the time, but something like a red cloud passed before my eyes, and the earth spun beneath me. My horse shied, a movement I didn’t have enough strength to control. I felt myself slipping from the saddle. I cried, “To me! For the Bourbons!” And I saw a vision of you.

  As my eyes closed, I seemed to hear a volley of musketry, and a curtain of flame unrolled before me.

  Doubtless my Poles bore me away, because from that moment until I recovered my senses, a mile or two from there, I was unaware of what happened to me.

  I was in terrible pain when I came to. I opened my eyes, to see a curious crowd peering in from around the carriage. I tried to figure out where they were taking me.

  I remembered the sister of my friend Monsieur de Ventadour was the abbess of a nearby convent. With an effort, I put my head out the door, and gave orders to take me to Madame de Ventadour.

  You see, your dedicated pursuit put you on the right trail, and it isn’t your fault you didn’t catch up with me.

  The pain that had awakened me then plunged me back into unconsciousness. I don’t know quite how I was brought before Madame de Ventadour, but when I awoke I found myself lying on an excellent bed. However, I was in some sort of underground vault. The doctor of the convent was near at hand, but someone beside me, seeing my eyes open, whispered to me, “Don’t say who you are.”

  You’d been my final memory, and you were my first thought. I looked for you, but you weren’t there. I saw only unknown faces, and a man with rolled-up sleeves and bloody hands. It was the doctor who’d tended to me.

  I closed my eyes.

  Later that night you came to the abbey but, due to their fear of the cardinal, they told you they hadn’t seen me. So you didn’t know I was there, and I didn’t know you’d come. We came so close, but missed each other.

  I have little sense of what happened during the two weeks after I was wounded. It was less a recovery than a pause at the door of the tomb.

  Finally, my youth and strength of will prevailed; I felt life return to my feverish and languid limbs, and from that moment, the doctor declared I had turned the corner.

  But I was forbidden to leave my bed, or be taken outdoors. I was still at risk of my life for another four to six weeks.

  It was during this time that they tried and executed the marshal-duke. That execution only reinforced the terror of the poor sisters who were tending me. They had no doubt that even a prince of the blood would be treated like Monsieur de Montmorency. For hadn’t Montmorency allied with the traitorous Marie de Médicis?

  Outside, everyone decided I must be dead, and as it was in everyone’s interest to believe it, the news of my death soon spread.

  After two months, I could get up. Though I’d remained hidden in the vaults beneath the convent until then, now my recovery required fresh air. It was November, but Languedoc’s mild winter didn’t prevent night-time walks. I was allowed to take the night air in the convent garden.

  Along with thought and feeling—though not yet strength, because I was so feeble, I couldn’t go up or down stairs—my love for you, numbed till then by the nearness of death, returned with full force. I spoke only of you, longed only for you.

  As soon as I could hold a pen, I asked to be able to write to you. They gave me what I asked for, and a messenger took my letter away—but as a message would reveal that I still lived, and as Madame de Ventadour was terrified that such news would result in their persecution, imprisonment, perhaps even death, the messenger
just stayed in the area for two weeks, then returned to say that your father had taken you to Paris, and he’d delivered my letter to those of your women who seemed most devoted to you.

  That reassured me. I was certain my appeal to your love would bring a prompt reply.

  A month passed; every day that went by was another blow to my confidence, a wound to my hope.

  It was three months since the Battle of Castelnaudary. I ached to know the current news. Wounded at the outset of the fight, I knew nothing of the result.

  They hesitated to tell me the news until I threatened to go find out for myself. Finally they told me everything: the loss of the battle, Gaston’s flight and reconciliation—his fourth, as he’d said—the trial and death of Montmorency, the confiscation of my property, the loss of my rank and my dignity.

  I took this news better than they expected. Certainly the death of the poor marshal was a heavy blow. But after the execution of Monsieur de Marillac, we’d foreseen that death was a possibility for both Monsieur de Montmorency and myself, and had discussed it more than once.

  As for the loss of my rank, my dignity, and my fortune, I met that with a contemptuous smile. Men had taken from me everything that could be given by men—but they’d left me with what God had given me: your love.

  From that moment, your love for me was the one hope I had left in life. It was the only star shining in the sky of the future, which had become as dark as that of the past had been radiant.

  The messenger hadn’t found you—so I resolved to be my own messenger. Your response had never come, so I decided to seek an answer for myself.

  But leaving the convent wasn’t going to be easy. They kept a close watch on me, afraid I might be seen and recognized. I therefore told them I proposed to leave, not just the convent, but France itself.

  For the abbess, this was the best proposal I could possibly make. It was agreed that I would disguise myself as a fisherman and travel among others as far as Narbonne, where I would leave them. At Narbonne Abbey, I would dress in ecclesiastical garb and continue in the abbess’s carriage. I’d never been to that area, and besides, everyone thought I was dead, so it was unlikely that I’d be recognized.