The good abbess put her coffers at my disposal. I thanked her, but when wounded I’d had on me two hundred crowns or so, which was still in my purse, plus diamond rings and brooches worth ten thousand crowns at least.
And you were rich, so what use had I for money?
I left the abbey in early January, full of gratitude for the hospitality they’d given me. Alas! I had no idea how dearly that hospitality had cost me.
It was twenty-eight leagues to Narbonne, and I was still so weak that I could walk for only short distances—though perhaps I exaggerated my weakness a bit, so they’d underestimate me.
The first night, we lodged in Villepinte; the second, in Barbaira; the third, in Narbonne. The next day, they made arrangements to sail me to Marseilles. I was to be a sick prelate with ailing lungs ordered to take the air at Hyères or Nice.
I rested for a day at Narbonne and departed the next. With a good wind behind me, forty-eight hours later I was in Marseilles. There, I paid my boatmen, said farewell to the two servants of the abbess who’d come with me, and was once again perfectly free.
In the market I hired a coach to take me to Avignon, and from Avignon up the Rhône to Valence.
My cavalier airs might betray me, so I made myself an officer’s uniform of the Cardinal’s Guard. Wearing that uniform, I was sure I wouldn’t be bothered.
I left Marseilles and reached Avignon in three days. In Avignon, the wind was blowing up from the sea, ensuring good navigation, so I entrusted myself to the Rhône. When the wind died, we roped the boat to horses and were drawn along by a cable.
Early one day, I saw your château in the distance. It was there that you would be waiting for me—or, if what I’d been told was true and your father had taken you to Paris, it was there that I’d find news of you.
I wanted to be put ashore, the boat got on so slowly, but unfortunately I was still too weak. Oh, if only I’d arrived just one hour sooner! If only I’d seen you first! But it was not to be—we were doomed. . . .
I could only stand in the prow and await our arrival. Even so, half a league short of Valence, I disembarked. I could walk only slowly, but that was faster than the boat.
Moreover, the hope of seeing you revived my strength. From far off I saw your balcony, the one from which you’d waved goodbye as I turned the corner of the road—but the balcony was empty and the blinds were shut. There was something about the château, which I’d yearned to see for so long, something bleak and empty that chilled me.
Suddenly, I saw the main gate open. A procession marched out, turned toward the city, and disappeared.
I was still a quarter-league away, but without knowing why, I felt my heart sink and my strength fail me.
I leaned against a tree beside the road, sweat beading my forehead; I wiped it away and resumed my trek.
I came upon a servant. “My friend,” I asked, hesitating, “does Mademoiselle Isabelle de Lautrec still live in that château?”
“That’s right, mon officier,” he said, “Mademoiselle Isabelle de Lautrec. But half an hour from now, she’ll be called something else.”
“Something else! What will she be called?”
“Madame la Vicomtesse de Pontis.”
“Why the Vicomtesse de Pontis?”
“Because in half an hour she’ll be the wife of my master, the Vicomte de Pontis.”
I felt myself go pale and mopped my face with my handkerchief. “So,” I said, “the procession I saw leaving the château . . .?”
“Was that of the betrothed.”
“And at this moment . . .?”
“At this moment, they’re in the church.”
“No! It’s impossible!”
“Impossible!” said the servant. “Well, if you want to see it with your own eyes, Officer, there’s still time. Take this shortcut, and you’ll be at the church soon enough.”
I couldn’t believe the man’s story—I wanted him to be wrong, I wanted to see with my own eyes that there was no such terrible reality. For some reason he must be telling me a lie, a bald-faced lie.
I knew Valence, having lived there for three months. I quickly crossed the bridge, entered the town, and followed the streets that would take me most directly to the church. Besides, I was guided by the jubilant sound of the bells.
The cathedral square was crowded with people. Despite the pealing bells, despite the crowd of celebrants, I still couldn’t believe—I told myself the man had misled me, that someone else was walking to the altar.
But though I passed through a teeming crowd, I didn’t dare to ask anyone. If I hadn’t been dressed as one of the Cardinal’s Guard, I certainly couldn’t have pushed through to the front ranks, but the crowd parted at the sight of my uniform.
And then . . . oh, it takes all my strength to recount these terrible details—until yesterday I didn’t know for sure it was you who was writing to me, I hadn’t yet reopened this lethal wound. . . . You suffered through my death, but oh, I suffered through your betrayal.
Your betrayal . . . forgive me, Isabelle, forgive me, I know now it was only the appearance, but oh! For me, unhappy wretch, it was reality.
When I saw you, a cloud rose before my eyes like the one when I was shot from my horse by that officer. It was the same feeling, but more painful—because while the bullet struck my side, this pierced my heart.
I saw you appear: you were pale, but almost smiling. You walked with a firm stride across the square, seemingly in a hurry to get to the church.
I passed a hand over my eyes, stumbled, panting, muttering in a low voice that surprised those around me, “My God, my God, this can’t be true . . . my God, my eyes, my ears, all my senses must be deceiving me . . . ! But she’s alone, alone—she couldn’t wrong me, she couldn’t wrong me so.”
You passed no more than ten feet from me, but I was struck dumb, hoping you wouldn’t enter the church, that you would turn away, you would cry out that this was a violation of your love—and then I, I would rush forward, and though it cost my life I’d cry, “Yes, I love her! Yes, she loves me! Yes, I am the Comte de Moret, dead to everyone but her, Isabelle de Lautrec, my bride in this world and the next! Let me be with my fiancée!”
And I would have carried you away in the face of all of them, despite everything, because I felt I had the strength of a giant.
But Isabelle! O Isabelle! You didn’t speak, you didn’t stop, you went on into the church. A long cry, a heartbreaking wail rose from the depths of my breast as you disappeared through the doors . . . and then, before anyone could ask me why I moaned so, I turned, darted through the crowd, and disappeared.
I returned to the riverbank, I found my boat, I threw myself amid the boatmen, burying my hands in my hair and crying “Isabelle! Isabelle!”
They left me a while in my despair. Then they asked me where I wanted to go.
I pointed downriver. They loosed the boat, and the Rhône carried us away.
What more can I say? I must have survived the next four years, since today you find me, still alive and still in love. But before today, I didn’t exist.
I’ve been waiting to take my vows until the end of the term I’d imposed on myself. That term, you have brought to an end—thank you! Since I know you didn’t betray me, since I know you still love me, entering my vocation will be easier for me, and now I can go calmly to God.
Pray for your brother . . . as your brother prays for you.
—Three o’clock in the afternoon
XVIII
Half past five, the same day
What’s this you tell me? I don’t quite understand. You have found me; you’re sure I didn’t betray you; you know I love you; and this, you say, ends the term of waiting to take your vows, makes your vocation easier, makes you calm enough to consecrate yourself to God!
Good Lord! Would you continue with your strange project of renouncing the world?
Just listen to me: God is not unjust. When I dedicated myself to him, it was in the belief that you w
ere dead. But you live! God won’t require me to keep a vow made in despair, if the cause of my despair doesn’t exist. I’m free, despite my vows.
Yes, yes, it’s as you say: we nearly touched each other at the abbey, but had no way of knowing we were so close to each other. Oh, but I’m wrong, I belie my own heart, for an inner voice cried to me, “Stand firm, argue, insist—he is here.”
Yes, I understand, the poor abbess was terrified, afraid of what the hospitality she gave you would cost.
Oh, why couldn’t I have found you! I’d been proud of the mission God have given me to save the son of Henri IV. I wanted the pride and glory to be able to say “When the whole world abandoned him, I alone endured, I alone rescued him.”
Fool that I am! Saying that would have betrayed you, and you’d have been lost like the marshal-duke.
Better, then, for her to hide you from me so you should live—better that I should suffer, should despair, should die.
But why despair now? Why should I die? You’ve yet to take your vows, and I regard mine as invalid. Let’s leave, let’s go to Italy, to Spain, to the end of the world. I’m still rich—and besides, why do we need money? We love each other! Come! Let’s go!
Oh, answer me. Yes, tell me where you are, tell me how to find you.
Consider this: you doubted me—me, your Isabelle! You thought me deceitful, and you owe me expiation.
I wait, I wait.
XIX
Five in the morning
Your letter stirs the most secret depths of my heart.
Ah, for what was to have been ours! You offer me the happiness I sought, expected, desired all my life—and I cannot accept that happiness.
Isabelle! Isabelle! You are a lady, as I am a gentleman. Neither of us would betray a promise made to men, let alone an oath made to God.
Don’t try to deceive yourself: the vows you made are real, and God doesn’t admit of equivocation.
For us there is only one future, the one to which misfortune has led us. You showed me the sacred path, and you were the first to take it. I follow you—and we shall arrive together, since we have the same goal. I will pray for you, as you pray for me. We pray as one, not for ourselves, but for the eternal life and eternal love that we shall receive from the Lord, in place of worldly love and mortal life.
And don’t believe that, because I tell you this, I love you less than you love me. No, I can’t love you less, I know—I love you with the heart of a man much stronger since he fell from his heights to the depths, and who, having touched death with his hand, returns pale from the tomb bearing revelations of another life beyond.
Believe me, Isabelle, the more I love you, the more certain I am on this point. Don’t risk your eternal salvation on such sophistry. The life of this world is to eternity as a second is to a century. We live for a second on the earth, but we live forever with God.
And then, moreover, listen to this, my bride in this world and the next: though it was God who willed despair into your heart when it was deceived, that power to bind has the power to unbind. Urban VIII is pope, and your family has powerful allies in Italy. Use them to get a nullification of your vows. On that day, Isabelle, you truly can tell me, “I am free!” And then, then . . . oh, I dare not think of what blessed happiness, what bliss without remorse we would find!
XX
Two o’clock in the afternoon
Yes, you are right; there must be no shadow on our happiness. In our hearts shall be neither fear nor remorse, and our dark and stormy sky shall be followed by a firmament glittering with stars. Yes, I spoke to one who has listened to me; yes, she assures me she’ll find mercy for me; yes! I ask you for three months to go free myself, and if in three months our dove hasn’t borne you the ecclesiastical order that liberates me, then our only hope is in heaven.
Then you may give yourself to God as I did, bound by an unbreakable oath.
Oh, I couldn’t bear to know that you were free, when I am forever chained!
Tomorrow, I’ll be on my way.
XXI
Half past four in the afternoon
Go, and may God be with you!
June 1, 1638
It’s just a month since I received your last letter; a month I’ve spent watching for the coming of our dove; a month with no words about you, except those from my heart.
How the time passes! Now, minutes become hours; hours become days; days become years. Can I live like this for two more months?
Yes, because I will hold out hope until the very last day.
I write this letter without knowing if you’ll ever receive it—but I write for that day that shall separate us or bring us together. For you know, Isabelle, I think about you with every beat of my heart.
XXII
June 22, 1638
Fly, beloved dove, fly to my dear returned one, tell him it was his prayers that protected me—tell him I’m free, tell him we are happy!
Free! Free! Free!
Let me tell you, my beloved. . . .
I don’t know where to start, I’m so mad with joy!
As you may know, the same day I wrote my last letter to you, the good news came, officially confirmed, that the queen was pregnant. To celebrate the occasion, there were to be great festivals throughout France, and pardons granted by the king and cardinal.
I resolved to go and throw myself at the feet of the cardinal, who has, in ecclesiastical matters, all the powers of Rome.
That’s why I asked you for only three months.
The same day I wrote you, I departed, with the permission of our mother superior.
My neighbor in the next cell agreed to take care of our dove. I was so sure of myself, I left her without fear.
I departed—but despite my best efforts, I couldn’t get to Paris in less than seventeen days.
The cardinal was at his country estate in Rueil. I left for there immediately.
At first he was ill and couldn’t receive me. I took lodgings in the town and waited, after leaving my name with Father Joseph. On the third day, Father Joseph himself came to tell me that His Eminence was ready to receive me.
I rose at this news, but fell back in my chair, pale as death. My heart quivered, and my legs were too weak to hold me.
They say Father Joseph isn’t tender of heart—and yet, when he saw me collapse at the mere idea of an audience with the cardinal, he did his best to encourage me, telling me that if I had something to ask of His Eminence, the time was right, as the cardinal was better than he’d been for quite some time.
Oh, my entire life, and yours, depended on what was to happen between that man and me!
I followed Father Joseph, blind to my surroundings, my eyes fixed only on him and matching my pace to his, as if his movements directed mine.
We passed through the town and entered the estate. We went up an avenue of tall trees. I saw everything at once, all blurred together, so the details escaped me.
Finally, I saw before us an arbor of honeysuckle and clematis, and under it a man half lying on a couch. He was dressed in a white robe and wearing a red cap, the biretta of a cardinal. I pointed toward the man, and Father Joseph understood. “Yes,” he said, “that’s him.”
Just then I was passing a large tree; I paused and leaned against it, for I felt that if I took another step without support, I’d fall.
The cardinal saw my hesitation, the stagger that betrayed my weakness; he rose. “Approach without fear,” he said. An indescribable tone softened his usually gruff voice, and it was that change in his voice that suddenly filled me with hope. I regained my strength and, almost running, I threw myself at his feet.
He waved Father Joseph away, who obeyed, retreating out of earshot but still within view.
I bowed and extended my hands before me. “What do you want of me, my daughter?” asked the cardinal-duke.
“Monseigneur, Monseigneur, a blessing upon which depends not just my life, but my salvation.”
“Your name?”
&n
bsp; “Isabelle de Lautrec.”
“Ah! Your father was a loyal servant of the king—a rare thing in this time of rebellion. We had the misfortune to lose him.”
“Yes, Monseigneur. Is it permitted to invoke his memory in your presence?”
“Were he alive, I would grant him whatever he asked, except for those things that are in the purview of the Lord, for whom I am but a simple vicar. Speak: what do you wish?”
“Monseigneur, I have taken vows.”
“So I recall, because, at your father’s request, I opposed these vows with all my power, and instead of granting your wish to take them, asked you to delay for a full year. So you took these vows despite the year’s delay?”
“Alas, Monseigneur, I did!” I admired the prodigious memory of this great man of affairs who recalled so unimportant an event as a poor child he’d never seen taking the veil.
“Ah, and now you repent them.”
I preferred to blame my repentance on inconstancy rather than desire. “Monseigneur,” I said, “I was just eighteen years old, and the death of a man I loved had driven me mad.”
He smiled. “I see. And now that you are twenty-four, you’ve become more reasonable.”
I waited, hands clasped.
“So now,” he said, “you would break those vows, as with time the woman has overcome the holy sister. The memories of the world have pursued you in your seclusion, and though you swore your body to God, your soul, I perceive, remains on earth. O human weakness!”
“Monseigneur! Monseigneur!” I cried. “I’m lost unless you have mercy on me!”
“It was, however, freely and voluntarily that you took your vows.”
“Yes, freely and voluntarily. I repeat, Monseigneur—I was mad.” “And what excuse can you give God for this failure to keep your oath?”
My excuse—an excuse already well known to God, who had preserved your life, my beloved—that I couldn’t tell him, or all would be lost. I remained silent, but for a tiny moan.
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