The Red Sphinx: A Sequel to the Three Musketeers

  Indeed, it’s due to my blood, I fear.

  ACASTE: What, Sire, your blood?

  THE KING: My blood. Now hear:

  Our royal blood is my enemy’s aim

  It draws him on like a heavenly flame

  A flame that’s fatal to all of my name

  To the State, and most of all, Mirame

  Whose heart is drawn by the ploys of this stranger

  Leading him on, increasing the danger

  Even when I gain the victory

  She gives it to him!

  ACASTE: Lord! Can it be?

  THE KING: Acaste, it’s true. He works each day

  To subvert my state in every way

  To corrupt my folk, thwart my every effort

  Some plots we see, but others are covert!

  To these verses, emphatically delivered, the applause of his listeners rang out.

  At that time, dramatic verse was still far from the degree of perfection later reached by Corneille and Racine. The antithesis was the prevailing mode until the end of this period, when good poetry began to be preferred to pretty poetry, and verse that truly conveyed character and context came into its own.

  Elated by the unanimous approval, Richelieu continued. “In the same act,” he said, “I’ve sketched out a scene between Mirame and her father, a scene that I want you to keep, Messieurs, when I charge you with completion of the first act. This scene encapsulates my ideas, and must be retained as is.”

  “Read it to us, Monseigneur,” cried L’Estoile, Colletet, and Bois-Robert.

  “We are all ears, Monseigneur,” said Rotrou.

  “I forgot to mention that Mirame was originally engaged to the Prince of Colchis,” said Richelieu, “but he has died, so she uses her loyalty to him as an excuse to stave off marrying Azamor and to flirt with Arimant. Now, here is the scene between her and her father. You may all read into it what allusions you like.”

  THE KING: Daughter, I am a soul all ambivalent

  Full of vain hope, vainglorious Arimant

  Comes to parlay with me, but hopes to see you

  What prospects for peace are really in view?

  “In other words: Buckingham says he comes as ambassador to King Louis XIII, but actually to see Her Majesty,” said Bois-Robert.

  For the third time, Rotrou nudged Corneille’s knee.

  Richelieu said, “Mirame replies:”

  If he comes to make peace, then I rejoice

  Succeed, and to see him would be my choice

  But if he breaks with us, there’s no reason why

  I’d receive this foreigner; I’d sooner die.

  THE KING: What if it was he who was Colchis’s king?

  MIRAME: If he hates you, he earns my loathing

  THE KING: Though born a subject, his aims are high

  MIRAME: Against you, his plans will go awry

  THE KING: He claims the favor of Venus and Mars

  “. . . I really want this to be kept as is,” said Richelieu, interrupting himself.

  “No one who understands its beauty would dare to touch it,” said Bois-Robert. “Go on, go on!”

  The cardinal, reassured, continued: He claims the favor of Venus and Mars

  MIRAME: As do many who are varlets and beggars

  “I beg you as well to make no changes,” Colletet said. Richelieu continued:

  THE KING: He boasts of having a secret bliss

  MIRAME: No trustworthy lover would ever say this

  “That was well put,” murmured Corneille.

  “Do you think so, young man?” Richelieu said complacently.

  THE KING: He claims he holds the heart of a beautiful lady

  MIRAME: It’s not I; I’d never do something so shady

  THE KING: Why do you blush if he’s not your beau?

  MIRAME: It’s anger, it’s fury that makes me blush so!

  Richelieu stopped. “That’s as far as I got,” he said. “In the second and third acts, I also roughed out some scenes that I’ll share with those who will be finishing those acts.”

  “Who will complete the first act?” said Bois-Robert. “Who will dare to put his words next to yours, Monseigneur?”

  “Ah, Messieurs!” Richelieu said, childishly happier about being praised by these poets than he’d ever been by political success. “If you find the first act too daunting, there are five of you, and five acts—you can draw lots!”

  “Nothing is too daunting for youth,” said Rotrou. “My friend Corneille and I will take the first two acts.”

  “You are bold!” Richelieu said, laughing.

  “Not too bold, so long as Your Eminence will give us a detailed outline of the scenes, so we know how to conform to his intentions.” “Well, then,” said Bois-Robert, “I’ll take care of the third.”

  “I’ll take the fourth,” said L’Estoile.

  “And me, the fifth,” said Colletet.

  “If you’re taking the conclusion, Colletet,” Richelieu said, “then I suggest . . .” And, placing his hand on Colletet’s shoulder, he drew him into the embrasure of a window, where they spoke in low voices.

  Meanwhile, Rotrou leaned over to Corneille and whispered, “Pierre, from here on, your fortune is in your own hands, and it’s up to you not to let it escape.”

  “How do I do that?” Corneille asked innocently.

  “Make sure you write no verse that is better than the cardinal’s,” said Rotrou.

  XLVII

  News from the Court

  With the five acts of Mirame assigned, and suggestions on the fifth given to Colletet, the cardinal’s collaborators took their leave, except for Corneille and Rotrou, whom he kept for part of the evening to explain his plans for the first two acts.

  Corneille and Rotrou slept at Chaillot that night. Bois-Robert returned the next morning to receive instructions for himself and his two companions, as he was responsible for communication with them. All three had lunch with the cardinal, who gave them his final instructions. After lunch, Corneille and Rotrou took their leave, but Bois-Robert remained.

  The cardinal had few secrets from Bois-Robert, and Bois-Robert had seen past the cardinal’s pleasure in discussing his drama to the deep concern beyond.

  Bois-Robert had talked with Charpentier and Rossignol, and knew all about the return reports of Bautru, La Saludie, and Char-nassé. The day before, he had visited Father Joseph at his monastery, and could tell the cardinal the monk’s thoughts about affairs. The news pleased Richelieu, who had full confidence in the monk’s discretion and his lack of ambition—for though Joseph would eventually betray him, that time had not yet come. Finally, he’d brought the daily reports from Souscarrières and Lopez.

  So all hope that the king might yet turn back to him was not lost, and though three days had passed, the cardinal wasn’t ready to despair.

  About two o’clock, they heard the gallop of an approaching horse, and the cardinal ran to the window, though of course such a rapid rider couldn’t be the king.

  The cardinal was so sure of himself that he couldn’t contain a cry of joy, for he saw a young man wearing the livery of the king’s pages jump lightly down from his horse and throw the reins to one of the cardinal’s hostlers. Richelieu recognized the page as Saint-Simon, the friend of Baradas who’d carried an important note to Marion Delorme. “Bois-Robert,” the cardinal said eagerly, “bring that young man to me, and make sure we are interrupted by no one.”

  Bois-Robert dashed down the stairs, and within moments the cardinal heard the footsteps of a young man climbing the stairs four at a time.

  At the door of the cardinal’s study, he received him face to face. The young man stopped short, snatched rather than doffed his hat from his head, and dropped to kneel before the cardinal. “What are you doing, Monsieur?” the cardinal asked, laughing. “I’m not the king!”

  “Not any more, Monseigneur, it’s true,” said the young man, “but with God’s help, you will be again.”

  A frisson of joy r
an through the cardinal. “You’ve done me a service, Monsieur,” he said, “and if I become a minister again, whether or not I deserve it, I’ll try to forget my enemies—but I promise to remember my friends. So, do you have good news for me? But get up, I beg you.”

  “I come from a lady whom I don’t dare to name before Monseigneur,” Saint-Simon said, standing.

  “Very well,” said the cardinal. “I can guess.”

  “She asked me to tell Your Eminence that she spoke with the king for several hours, and would be very much surprised if, by half past three this afternoon, the king was not at Chaillot.”

  “This lady must not be a lady of the Court,” Richelieu said, “as she ignores the rules of etiquette, which dictate that the king could not personally visit such a humble subject as I.”

  “She is not a lady of the Court, that’s true,” said Saint-Simon, “but many habitués of the Court honor her with their visits. So I think, if I might, that it’s safe to place some credence in her predictions.”

  “Has she ever shared her opinions with you?”

  “With me, Monseigneur?” Saint-Simon laughed heartily with the joy of youth, incidentally showing off a beautiful set of teeth.

  “Did she ever tell you that, if Monsieur Baradas ever fell out of favor with the king, in all probability his successor would be Monsieur de Saint-Simon—especially if he was endorsed by a cardinal-minister recently restored to power?”

  “She . . . may have mentioned something like that, Monseigneur, but it was nothing so strong as a prediction. It was more of a promise, and I trust less in the promise of a Marion Delorme . . . ah, mon Dieu, I’ve named her!”

  “I am like Caesar,” said Richelieu, “a little hard of hearing in the right ear. What was that?”

  “Sorry, Monseigneur,” said Saint-Simon, “but I thought Caesar was hard of hearing in the left ear.”

  “You may be right,” said the cardinal. “In any case, I have the advantage over him, as I’m deaf in whichever ear I choose. But you come from the Court. What’s the news? Of course, I’m only asking what everyone would know, since I’m way out here in provincial Chaillot.”

  “Here is the news, in a nutshell,” said Saint-Simon. “Monsieur le Cardinal resigned, and for three days there was celebration at the Louvre.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  “The king promised largesse to everyone: a hundred and fifty thousand livres to the Duc d’Orléans, sixty thousand to the queen mother, and thirty thousand to the queen.”

  “And has he given them the money?”

  “Not yet. Those who received these promises were so incautious as to rely on the king’s word, and didn’t get him to sign vouchers to Charpentier on the spot. But . . .”

  “But?”

  “But the next day, after returning from the Place Royale, the king confined himself to his chambers, where he dined alone with l’Angely. There he offered thirty thousand livres to l’Angely, who refused it outright.”

  “Ah!”

  “Is Your Eminence surprised?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then he received Baradas, to whom he’d promised thirty thousand livres, but he, less confident than Monsieur, the queen mother, or the queen, and who wasn’t sure who had the key to the treasure, whether it was Marillac the Keeper of the Seals, his brother Marillac the general, La Vieuville, or even Monsieur de Bassompierre. . . .”

  “It was the king! The king!”

  “The king?” Saint-Simon repeated.

  “Yes! Has His Majesty met with the Council?”

  “No, Monseigneur, the king told them he was unwell.”

  “What did they want to discuss, do you know?”

  “The war, probably.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Monseigneur Gaston was furious because of something Monsieur de Bassompierre had said.”

  “What had he said?”

  “Monseigneur Gaston, in his capacity as lieutenant general, was tracing out the army’s route of march. At one point it involved crossing a river—the Durance, I think. ‘Where shall we cross it?’ Bassompierre asked. ‘Here, Monsieur,’ replied Monseigneur Gaston, placing his finger on the map. Bassompierre said, ‘I beg you to observe, Monseigneur, that your finger is not a bridge.’ Monseigneur Gaston stormed out of the council in a fury.”

  A wry smile lit up Richelieu’s face. “Let them do as they please,” he said. “They can cross the rivers wherever they want to, and I’ll just laugh at their disasters from a safe distance.”

  “Please do not laugh, Monseigneur,” said Saint-Simon, in an unexpectedly serious tone. Richelieu looked at him, surprised. “Their disasters,” the young man continued, “would be France’s disasters.”

  “Well said, Monsieur,” the cardinal replied, “and I thank you. So you’re saying the king hasn’t seen anyone from his family since yesterday.”

  “No one, Monseigneur—I assure you.”

  “And only Monsieur Baradas has collected his thirty thousand livres.”

  “Of that I’m sure. He called me to the bottom of the stairs to help him carry up his new riches.”

  “And what will he do with his thirty thousand livres?”

  “Nothing yet, Monseigneur. But in a letter, he offered to Marion Delorme—I mentioned her name once, so I may do so again, may I not?”

  “You may. What did he offer to Marion Delorme?”

  “To spend the money with her.”

  “And how did he make this offer? Verbally?”

  “No. By letter, fortunately.”

  “And Marion kept this letter, I hope? She has the letter in her hands?”

  Saint-Simon took out his watch. “Half past three,” he said. “By this time, she must have given it up.”

  “To who?” the cardinal demanded.

  “To who but the king, Monseigneur?”

  “To the king!”

  “That’s what made her think the afternoon wouldn’t pass without you receiving a visit from His Majesty.”

  “Ah! Now I understand.”

  Just then they heard the sound of a carriage arriving at speed.

  The cardinal, suddenly pale, leaned on a chair.

  Saint-Simon ran to the window. “The king!” he shouted.

  A moment later, the door to the stairs opened and Bois-Robert rushed in, shouting, “The king!”

  The door to Madame de Combalet’s chambers opened and she whispered, in a voice trembling with emotion, “The king.”

  “Go, all of you,” said the cardinal. “Leave me alone with His Majesty.”

  Each disappeared through a different door, while the cardinal mopped his brow.

  Then steps were heard on the stairs, ascending, one at a time, in a measured meter.

  Guillemot appeared at the door and announced, “The king.”

  “By my faith,” the cardinal murmured, “in Marion Delorme, I have a great diplomat as a neighbor.”

  XLVIII

  Why Louis XIII Always Dressed in Black

  Guillemot disappeared. King Louis XIII came face to face with Cardinal Richelieu. “Sire,” Richelieu said, bowing respectfully, “I was so surprised to hear that the king was at the door of my humble home that, instead of rushing downstairs as I should have, I stayed here, as if my feet were nailed to the floor, stunned and doubting that it could really be His Majesty himself who deigned to visit me.”

  The king looked around him. “We are alone, Monsieur le Cardinal?” he asked.

  “Alone, Your Majesty.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite certain, Sire.”

  “So we can speak freely?”

  “Entirely freely.”

  “Then close that door and listen to what I have to say.”

  The cardinal bowed and obeyed, shutting the door and indicating a chair to the king, who sat, or rather sank, into it. The cardinal stood by and waited.

  The king slowly raised his eyes to the cardinal, regarding him for a moment, the
n said, “Monsieur le Cardinal, I was wrong.”

  “Wrong, Sire? In what?”

  “To do what I did.”

  It was the cardinal’s turn to stare at the king. “Sire,” he finally said, “I believe a frank discussion, clear and precise, that leaves not a cloud, a doubt, or a shadow between us, has long been necessary. The words Your Majesty just said lead me to believe that the time for that discussion has come.”

  “Monsieur le Cardinal,” said Louis XIII, drawing himself up, “I hope you will not go so far as to forget . . .”

  “. . . That you are King Louis XIII, and I am your humble servant Cardinal Richelieu? No, Sire, rest easy. However, given the deep respect I have for Your Majesty, I beg leave to tell him everything. If I have the misfortune to say something hurtful, I will retire to a place so remote, Your Majesty will never be troubled by me again, or even have the need to say my name. If, on the contrary, he recognizes that my reasons are good, my issues are real, he will only have to tell me in the same tone in which he just said ‘I was wrong.’ There’s no need to say ‘Cardinal, you were right.’ We’ll just consign what has passed to the oblivion of the past.”

  “Speak, Monsieur,” said the king. “I’m listening.”

  “Sire, allow me to begin by saying that my honesty and integrity have always been beyond question.”

  “Have I ever attacked them?” asked the king.

  “No, but Your Majesty has allowed them to be attacked, and it was a great wrong.”

  “Monsieur!” the king said.

  “Sire, shall I speak, or shall I not? Does Your Majesty command me not to speak?”

  “No, ventre-saint-gris, as my father used to say. On the contrary, I command you to talk—but please go easy on the reproaches.”

  “I am, however, obliged to treat Your Majesty as I think he merits.”

  The king stood, stamped his foot, marched to the window, from the window to the door, and from the door back to his chair, where he stared silently at Richelieu—and then finally sat down and said, “Speak. I sacrifice my pride on the royal crucifix. I will hear whatever you have to say.”