The Red Sphinx

by Alexandre Dumas

  “So, you have no excuse,” said the duke.

  I wrung my hands in agony.

  “Well, then, I must find one for you,” he said, “however mundane.”

  “Oh, help me, Monseigneur, aid me, and I’ll bless you till the last breath of my life!”

  “H’mm! As minister to King Louis XIII, I don’t wish a name as loyal and good as yours to perish. Your house is one of the true glories of France, and the true glories of France are dear to me.”

  Then, gazing at me, he asked, “You love someone?”

  I bowed my head into the dust.

  “Yes, that’s it,” the duke continued. “I guessed as much: you love someone. And the one you love is free?”

  “Yes, Monseigneur.”

  “He knows of your request, and expects it?”

  “He is waiting.”

  “Very well. You shall be free, and this man shall join his name, whatever it is, to that of Lautrec, so that the name of the victor of Ravenna and Brescia shall not perish.”

  “Oh, Monseigneur!” I cried, kissing his feet.

  He lifted me, breathless with joy, and beckoned to Father Joseph, who approached. “Escort Mademoiselle Isabelle de Lautrec back where you found her,” the cardinal said, “and in an hour you can bring her the order that releases her from her vows.”

  “Monseigneur, Monseigneur, how can I thank you?”

  “That’s easy enough: when you’re asked your opinion of me, say that I know both how to punish and how to reward. Living, I punished the traitor Montmorency; dead, I reward the loyal Lautrec. Go, my daughter, go.”

  I kissed his hands ten times over, and then followed Father Joseph. An hour later, he brought me the order that nullified my vows.

  I left at once, without losing a minute, the precious order next to my heart, which was even more devoted to God since God had released me from my words.

  My return trip took only thirteen days, and here I am, writing to you, beloved—not telling all I have to say, because that would take a book, and it would be a week before you knew that I’m free, I love you, and we shall be happy!

  I hasten to finish because I don’t want to delay this wonderful news a single minute. I’m keeping the horses harnessed—at the return of the dove, I’m ready to go. Just tell me where you are, and wait there for me.

  Go, my dove: I’ve never had such need for your wings. And then return!

  Do you hear, my beloved: tell me nothing but where I need to go to find you. I don’t want to delay our reunion by even so long as it takes to write—

  I love you!

  Ten minutes later

  Oh, woe! Woe is upon us! That man is fatal to us, beloved—perhaps even more so the second time than the first.

  Listen, listen, although you can’t hear me. Listen, although you may never know what I must tell you.

  Listen!

  I attached my letter as usual to the leg of our dove, this letter in which I told you everything, this letter that bore our whole future happiness. I had released little Iris, and followed her with my eyes as she sprang into the sky—when suddenly, from the other side of the cloister walls, I heard a gunshot, and saw our dove stop in its flight, flutter, and fall.

  I gave so agonized a shriek, I feared my soul would leave my body. Frantic, I immediately rushed from the convent. It was so obvious that I was in distress that no one tried to stop me.

  I’d seen in which direction the dove had fallen, and ran that way.

  Fifty paces beyond the walls of the cloister, I saw an officer dressed for the hunt. It was he who had shot the dove; he held it in his hands, gazing with astonishment and some regret at the letter attached to its leg.

  I approached him with outstretched hands, unable to say anything but “Woe! Woe! Woe!”

  Four steps away I stopped, faint, struck to the heart as if by lightning—this hunter, this officer, who had just shot our dove, was the same I’d seen that night on the Castelnaudary battlefield. It was that same Bitéran who shot you from your horse!

  We recognized each other.

  Oh, I tell you, his pallor was almost equal to mine; he saw me dressed as a nun, and realized who it was beneath the sister’s habit. “Ah, Madame,” he whispered, “I am truly desolate!”

  And he handed me our poor dove, who struggled in his hand and fell to the ground. I picked it up—fortunately, it had only a broken wing.

  But she holds the secret of your location, my beloved. And this secret she keeps to herself. How can I find you if she can’t fly to you? Fly to tell you where to find me, that I’m free, that we should be happy!

  Oh, beyond doubt, that poor little creature has a soul. If you’d only seen, my beloved, how she looked at me as I carried her into the convent.

  Meanwhile, motionless and speechless, the assassin’s eyes followed me, as they’d followed me when I’d walked away through the bloodstained meadow grass of that battlefield. I don’t know if this man will ever be able to make good all the evil he’s done, but if there’s no redress for this, I’ll curse him until my final hour!

  I laid the dove in a basket, and placed the basket in my lap. Fortunately, the wound hadn’t injured her body, just the end of her wing.

  I detached the blood-spattered letter from her leg. My God! My God! If not for this sudden accident, by now it would almost have reached you.

  Where are you? Where are you? Who will tell me where to find you?

  Ah, I’d sent for the convent’s doctor, and here he comes. . . .

  Four hours later

  The doctor is a fine man, a good man; he understands that existence is mysterious and strange, and sometimes the life of a dove is as precious as the life of a king.

  He understood when he saw my despair, and when he saw the blood-spattered letter.

  The injury, he said, was minor, and the dove would survive—once he took off her wing.

  I snatched her back, and then fell to my knees, saying “If you take her wing, you take my life. She must fly! She must fly!”

  “To save the wing is much harder,” he said, “and I can’t answer for its success—but I’ll do everything I can. If all goes well, in only two or three weeks, she’ll fly once more.”

  “So it will take up to three weeks—but she’ll fly! She’ll fly!”

  You understand, my love: all my hope is in this.

  He bound her wings against her body. She seems to understand, poor thing—she can’t move, but she looks at me. I put grain and water within reach of her beak, but she will only take food from my hand.

  What to do while I wait? How can I tell you what happened? What messenger can I send to find you? How should I know, like a castaway lost at sea, in which direction to send my distress signal?

  Why wasn’t it one of my arms that was broken, instead of her wing?

  June

  Yes, you were right, my beloved: if I hadn’t gotten a release from my vows, there would always have been a shadow of remorse on our happiness—or, rather, we’d have had no happiness at all, for it would not have been sanctioned by God!

  When I told you “I’m free, let’s go off together, we’ll be happy,” I wanted that to be so, but deep in my soul was a voice of regret that, no matter how strong my love, could not be silenced.

  Today I’m very sad, because I don’t know how to find you or see you, but my conscience is clear; and when I say, when I repeat, “I love you, my husband,” I no longer feel the hollow in my heart I’d felt when I said, “Don’t worry, my beloved, we’ll be happy.”

  I have cared for our poor dove as I would have watched over an ailing sister. She suffers, and sometimes I can see the pain in her eyes. Then I bathe her wing in ice water, and it seems to do her good. She strokes me with her pink beak, as if to thank me.

  Poor dove! She has no idea how much selfishness there is in the care I give her.

  But you, you! My God! What must you be thinking?

  XXIII

  July 1, 1638

  Two month
s have passed, and still no news. My eyes are worn out from scanning the horizon, vainly seeking our beloved dove.

  Each black dot I see in the sky, I think “This is it” . . . and then, after a moment, I realize my mistake, and my chest, which had heaved with hope, deflates with a sigh.

  No matter: I still wait, I still hope. You live; you love me; why am I so desperate for happiness?

  But . . . the time passes. It’s now two months since you left. If I calculate correctly, it’s eight or ten days since you should have returned.

  O my God! My God! Would you deny me, and turn this heart to bronze? Even though she said she still loves me?

  Lord my God, do not abandon us!

  XXIV

  July

  Oh! If you knew, poor beloved of my heart, everything I’ve written to you in the last fortnight! In there, you’d see a whole world of thoughts, desires, hopes, regrets, and memories!

  If we’re ever reunited—God willing, as I ardently pray every day, and more so at night!—if we’re ever reunited, you’ll read all of it, and then, only then, I swear to you, will you understand how much you were loved!

  If we never meet again . . . oh, all the tortures of hell are wrapped up in that fear . . . well, it is I who will reread these letters, it is I who will daily add another note more desperate than that of the day before, it is I who, until I die, will still write “I love you!”

  Each day I think I’ve exhausted all the anguish and joy in my heart—and then I feel that ahead there are still depths of joy or pain I’ve not yet glimpsed!

  Tomorrow! Why does my hand shake so when writing that word?

  It’s because tomorrow will be the day that decides my life; tomorrow, I’ll see if our dove can fly. It’s already three days since she left the basket; she moves about the room, she stretches her wings, she flits from the door to the window. She seems to understand, poor thing, how important it is for us that she finds the strength to fly.

  Tomorrow! Tomorrow! Tomorrow!

  I will write a short note for her to carry, so as not to load her with unnecessary weight. Just a few words, but enough to tell you everything. Tomorrow, my beloved! I’ll spend the night in prayer. I won’t even try to sleep, it would be useless.

  What are you doing to us, God? Do you doubt how much I love, and how much I suffer?

  July 6

  It’s dawn, beloved, and as I told you, I haven’t slept for a moment. I spent the night in prayer; I hope God has heard me, and that today you’ll know where I am, that I’m free and waiting for you.

  The dove is even more anxious than I; it beats against the window with its beak and its wings.

  We’ll open that window, little one! God grant that your wing is strong enough for the trip you’re about to take.

  I interrupt this long letter to write the short note she will carry to you—or perhaps, alas, only try to carry to you!

  Four in the morning, July 6

  If our dove happens to reach you, my beloved, read this post and leave without losing a second—as I would do myself, if only I knew where to find you.

  I’m free, I love you, and I await you at the convent of Montolieu, between Foix and Tarascon, on the banks of the Ariège.

  You’ll see why I don’t write more, why this note is so short, and the paper so thin.

  You’ll know all this and a thousand things more, all our misfortunes, our fears, our hopes, if our beloved messenger reaches you—for if that happens, you’ll set out at once, won’t you?

  I await you, my beloved, as the blind await the light, as the dying hope for life, and as the dead await resurrection.

  Go, beloved dove, go!

  July 6, five in the morning

  We are accursed!

  Oh, my beloved, what have we come to? There’s nothing left for me but to die in tears and despair.

  She cannot fly; after a hundred paces her wing faltered, and she landed in the topmost branches of a poplar she was trying to fly over—but she flew right into it and, branch by branch, fell to the ground.

  I ran to her, arms outstretched, heart breaking—I ran with a moan that became a cry of pain. I picked her up, and she rested a moment, and again tried to fly—and again she fell!

  And I fell beside her in despair, rolling on the ground, tearing at the grass with my hands and my teeth.

  My God! My God! What will become of me? I was too proud, too happy, too certain of bliss, I had it all in my grasp, and then fate struck me down and my dearest treasure is gone. O my Lord! Send me an inspiration, a light, a hope!

  Lord, Lord, help me! Pity me, O Lord! I’m going mad. . . .

  Wait. Wait.

  Divine goodness, you hear me! You answer me!

  Listen, listen, beloved, hope has revived in my heart, hope that comes to me from on high.

  Listen! From my window, I’ve often watched the flight of our dove, from when she departs to a distance of, if I’m not mistaken, two or three leagues. She passes over the sources of the broad stream that flows into the Ariège at Foix. She flies over the small wood of Amourtier, then above the Salat between Saint-Girons and Oust.

  Well, here’s what I’ll do:

  I’ll don a pilgrim’s cloak, and then begin looking for you, starting at the small village of Rieupregan. I always lose sight of the dove near that village; once I’ve passed it, I’ll find which way to go from her. She can fly about a hundred paces at a time. So, I’ll let her fly a hundred paces, rest for a while, and then fly another hundred. She’ll be my guide, and I’ll follow her like the Hebrews followed the column of flame by night and the column of smoke by day—because I, too, am in search of the Promised Land, and I’ll find it, or die of pain or exhaustion along the way.

  Alas, I know the road will be long! Poor dove, forgive me for how I’ll make you suffer, a martyr to our love! The dear thing won’t be able to go more than one or two leagues a day—but no matter, my beloved, for if it takes the rest of my life to find you . . . oh! Then I’ll seek you for the rest of my life.

  So I’m leaving—today, immediately.

  I’ve told our mother superior everything—everything, except your name. She’s a worthy woman, a holy woman, who’s suffered along with my pain and cried along with my tears. She offered to send someone to accompany me, but I refused. I don’t want anyone; what I must do I understand, instinctively, involves only heaven and myself. But I promised to write to her if I found you. If I don’t write, she’ll know I’ve died, or gone mad, or hidden myself away in the corner of some wood or along a back road on the bank of a lonely river.

  I go, carrying with me all these letters I’ve written that you haven’t received, that perhaps you’ll never receive. Oh, if one day I can drop them all at your feet and tell you, “Read! Read, my beloved!” You will see, on that day, how I’ve suffered—but on that day, how happy I’ll be!

  I go now; it’s three o’clock in the afternoon, and I hope to make it to Rieupregan before the end of the day.

  July 7, at night

  Before leaving, I passed through the chapel, in order to bring God, as it were, along with me. I prostrated myself before the altar, pressed my forehead on the carved stone where the sculptor had carved a cross, and I prayed.

  Oh, it’s true: there is a comfort in prayer. Prayer is the green knoll where one sits and rests after a tiring journey. Prayer is the cool stream where one finds refreshment in the middle of the desert.

  I left the chapel full of strength and hope, feeling like God had attached angel’s wings to my shoulders. It has always been prayer that lifted me from the earth and carried me to the Lord.

  This is only a test, Lord, is it not? You haven’t cursed me, have you, my Lord? That’s not what I’ll find, will I, Lord, at the end of this road I’ve only just begun?

  Wait for me, beloved, wait for me, because I swear, one day soon I’ll get there.

  I’ve paused for a moment to lean on the sill of a window that looks out toward the village of Boussenac. That villag
e is along my road, and I’ll reach it tomorrow, unless our dove takes me a different way. A dog is sadly howling, probably lost in the small wood I see to my right, a dark blot on the landscape.

  I said to myself: “If the dog stops howling, it will be a good omen, a sign that I’ll find him.”

  And the dog fell silent.

  One is superstitious when suffering, don’t you think, my heart’s beloved? Are you suffering, too?

  Dear God, what a beautiful night! I imagine you’re at your window as I am at this one, looking toward me as I look toward you, thinking about me and God, as I think about God and you.

  Did you see that lovely shooting star that carved a fiery furrow across the sky? How many miles did it cover in just a second?

  Oh, if only I had the power to reach you in a second, even if, as I arrived, I sparked and burned out! I would embrace such a bright second of happiness, even if what followed was eternal night.

  Tomorrow, my beloved—tomorrow, I hope, I will be nearer to you than ever.

  July 9

  I’ve stopped at a small village named Soulan. Dear God, what a storm! What had the Earth done for the Lord to menace it in such a terrible voice?

  The water fell in torrents and swelled the Salat, making it impossible to ford. I’d have to go back to Saint-Girons to find a bridge, and that would cost me two days.

  I’ve been told that tomorrow, once the river ebbs to its usual level, I should be able to resume my journey.

  Oh! A day lost! A day during which you await me! A day in which, perhaps, you’ll lose hope in me!

  July 12, evening, in the village of Alos

  A farmer agreed to be my guide, and I crossed the river on his mule. In the river there was a moment, only a third of the way across, when all was almost lost—the beast stumbled in its footing, and I looked up to heaven, crossed my hands on my chest, and said, “If I die, my God, you know I died for him.”