He sighed, thinking of the mule and its lost load, which was, in all probability, all the wealth he had. Then, recovering, he murmured, “Life is the greatest gift you give us, mon Dieu. I offer my thanks to you, and to those who helped me, for keeping me safe.”
He turned back toward the path but, whether from shock or the concussion of the fall, he was too weak to take another step. “I’ve delayed you long enough,” he said to the Comte de Moret and Isabelle. “Since I can’t do anything for you in exchange for saving my life, I won’t hold you up any longer. Only, please tell the innkeeper of the Golden Juniper of the accident that befell his cousin, Guillaume Coutet, who remains on the road and could use some help.”
The Comte de Moret whispered a few words to Isabelle, who nodded her approval. Then, addressing the wounded man, “My dear friend,” he said, “since God gave us the opportunity to save your life, we’re not about to abandon you. We’re no more than half an hour from the village; you can ride my mule, while I lead my lady by her bridle, as I was doing before the accident.”
Guillaume Coutet started to protest, but Moret silenced him, saying, “I have need of you, my friend, and you may be able, within twenty-four hours, to repay the service I rendered you by doing me a greater one.”
“Really?” asked Guillaume Coutet.
“Faith of a gentleman!” replied the count, forgetting that he was betraying his cover with those words.
“In that case,” the peddler said, bowing, “I obey, as is my duty twice over; first, because you saved my life, and second, because you have the right by rank to command a poor farmer like me.”
Then, with the help of the count and Galaor, Guillaume Coutet mounted the mule. The count resumed his place leading the mule that carried Isabelle, who was happy that the man she loved had had a chance to prove his skill, courage, and generosity.
After a quarter of an hour or so, the little caravan entered the village of Chaumont, and stopped at the door of the Golden Juniper.
At the first words Guillaume Coutet said to the host of the Golden Juniper, not about the rank of the man who’d saved his life, but rather the service he’d rendered him, Maître Germain put the inn entirely at the count’s service. But the Comte de Moret didn’t need the entire inn, just one large room with two beds for Isabelle and the Dame de Coëtman, and another room for him and Galaor. So he had the double satisfaction of getting what he wanted without disturbing anyone else.
As to Guillaume Coutet, he was put up in his cousin’s own bedroom. A doctor was sent for, who examined him from head to toe, and declared that none of his two hundred and six bones were broken. He was told to bathe in water infused with aromatic herbs and a few handfuls of salt, and then rub his body with camphor. With this treatment, and a few glasses of mulled wine, the doctor was hopeful that within a day or two, the patient would be able to continue his journey.
The Comte de Moret, after taking care of the two lady travelers, made sure that the doctor’s instructions were followed exactly. Once the patient felt a bit better, the count sat down at his bedside.
Guillaume Coutet repeated his protestations of gratitude and loyalty. Moret let him talk and, when he had finished, said, “It’s God to whom you owe your thanks, my friend, for it was He who led me to your aid. However, perhaps God had a dual purpose: to save you, and to provide me with your help.”
“If that were true,” said the patient, “I would be the happiest man alive.”
“I’ve been directed by Cardinal Richelieu—you see I’m keeping no secrets from you, and trust entirely in your discretion—I’ve been instructed by Cardinal Richelieu to escort to her father in Mantua the young lady you met, and to whom I am devoted.”
“May God guide and watch over you on your journey.”
“Amen—but we learned at Exilles that Susa Pass is blocked by barricades and heavily guarded fortifications. If we’re recognized there, we’ll be captured and held as hostages by the Duke of Savoy.” “Then you’d better avoid Susa Pass.”
“Is there a way around?”
“Yes, if you trust me to lead you.”
“Are you from this area?”
“I’m from Gravière.”
“So you know the side roads?”
“In order to avoid the border tax, I’ve learned all the mountain paths.”
“Will you act as our guide?”
“It’s a rough road.”
“We’re not afraid of danger.”
“All right, then, I’ll do it.”
The Comte de Moret nodded, indicating that the man’s word was enough. “However,” he said, “there’s more.”
“What else do you need?” asked Guillaume Coutet.
“I need information on the fortifications being built at Susa Pass.”
“That’s easy to get, since my brother is helping to build them.”
“And where does your brother live?”
“In Gravière, like me.”
“Can I seek out your brother, carrying a word from you?”
“Why not have him come here instead?”
“Could we do that?”
“It’s easy. Gravière is only half an hour away; my cousin is going there on his horse, and can bring my brother back with him.”
“How old is your brother?”
“Two or three years older than Your Excellency.”
“And how big is he?”
“About the same size as Your Excellency.”
“Are there a lot of people from Gravière working at Susa?”
“He’s the only one.”
“Do you think your brother might be willing to do me a favor?”
“Considering what you’ve done for me, he’d be willing to walk through fire for you.”
“Well, then, send for him. Needless to say, he’ll be well rewarded.”
“No need for that; Your Excellency has already rewarded us both.”
“Then I’ll go speak to our host about bringing him.”
“Please call him and let me speak to him alone, so he has no doubt but that I’m the one who’s asking him.”
“I’ll send him in.”
The Comte de Moret went out and, a quarter of an hour later, Maître Germain mounted his horse and took the road to Gravière.
One hour later, he returned to the Golden Juniper, bringing with him Guillaume’s brother, Marie Coutet.
LII
Marie Coutet
Marie Coutet was a young man of twenty-six, which as his brother had said made him three or four years older than the Comte de Moret. He had the rugged good looks of the montagnard: his honest face indicated a warm heart, and he was compact but strong, with broad shoulders and sturdy limbs.
On the way back, he’d been brought up to date on the situation. He knew that his brother, swept away by an avalanche, had had the good fortune to catch hold of a tree, and had been rescued by a passing traveler. But why had his brother sent for him once he was out of danger? That’s what he didn’t understand. But he didn’t hesitate for a moment, which showed how devoted he was to his brother.
As soon as he arrived, he went to the room where Guillaume Coutet was resting, and spent ten minutes with him, after which he asked Maître Germain if he could speak to the gentleman. The Comte de Moret was quick to respond to this invitation.
“Your Excellency,” Guillaume said to him, “this is Marie, my brother. He knows I owe you my life, and, like me, he is at your disposal.”
The Comte de Moret looked over the young mountaineer, and at first glance thought he saw in him both courage and honesty. “Your name,” he said, “is French.”
“Indeed, Your Excellency,” Marie Coutet replied, “both my brother and I are French in origin. My father and mother were from Phénioux; they moved to Gravière, where both of us were born.”
“So you still think of yourself as French?”
“In my heart as well as my name.”
“But you’re working on the fortifications at Susa.”
“They pay me twelve sous a day to shovel dirt, so all day I shovel dirt, without worrying about why or whose dirt it is.”
“But, then, aren’t you working against your country?”
The young man shrugged. “Why doesn’t my country pay me to serve it?” he said.
“If I ask you to give me the details of the work you’re doing, will you share them with me?”
“Nobody asked me to keep it secret.”
“Do you know anything about the language of fortifications?”
“I’ve heard the engineers talk about redoubts, demi-lunes, and counterscarps, but I have no idea what those words mean.”
“Could you draw me a diagram of the fortifications of Susa Pass, particularly those defending the heights of Montabon and Montmoron?”
“I don’t know how to read or write. I’ve never even held a pencil.”
“Are foreigners able to approach the works?”
“No. There’s a line of sentries a mile in front.”
“Could I go with you as a new worker? I was told they were looking for more men.”
“For how many days?”
“Just one.”
“If you don’t come back the next day, they’ll be suspicious.”
“What if you were sick for a day?”
“That might work.”
“Could I fill in for you?”
“I think so. My brother could write a note for the overseer, Jean Miroux. The next day, I’ll recover and return to work with no one the wiser.”
“Could you do that, Guillaume?”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“When do you start work?”
“Seven in the morning.”
“So there’s no time to lose. Get the note from your brother, return to Gravière, and at seven in the morning I’ll be there in your place.”
“What about work clothes?”
“Can you lend me some?”
“My wardrobe is rather empty.”
“Can I get something tailor-made?”
“It will look too new.”
“What if I have it stained?”
“If someone sees Your Excellency buying these things, they’ll be suspicious. The Duke of Savoy has spies everywhere.”
“Well, you’re about my size—your clothes will do. Here, this ought to cover it.” The count handed Marie Coutet a purse.
“But . . . but this is far too much!”
“Well, after you’ve bought yourself some new clothes, you can return whatever’s left.”
With matters thus arranged, Marie Coutet went out to go shopping, while Guillaume sent for a pen and ink to write the note. The Comte de Moret went to tell Isabelle why he needed to spend a day on reconnaissance, after which they would know which path to take.
The proximity forced by their travels, the necessities of their situation, and their mutual confession of love had put the two young people in a delicate position. The count’s official mission as escort of his lady-love was sweet yet circumscribed. But the hours shared in intimate speech, head to head, were infinitely precious; they felt they looked into each other’s hearts and saw in them deep lakes of love, the surface of which reflected a heaven that said “I love you.”
Isabelle, accompanied by the Dame de Coëtman and Galaor, could cross the French border with nothing to fear, but not so the Comte de Moret, for whom passing into a foreign country was dangerous. This made the time he spent with his fiancée all the more precious, for any separation, however short, might be permanent. So the young man treasured the hours he spent with Isabelle until Germain came in to report that Marie Coutet had bought his clothes and was waiting below.
Though it mattered only to them, Isabelle made Moret promise that he wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. So, a quarter of an hour later, he presented himself before her dressed as a Piedmontese peasant.
Precious minutes were spent by the girl as she critiqued the count’s outfit, in the end finding it perfect. In the glow of love, even a homespun coat beautifies the object of affection.
The hour of ten was striking in Chaumont, and he had to go. It would be eleven by the time he got to Gravière, and at seven in the morning the count was due to be at work.
Before leaving, he armed himself with the letter written by Guillaume Coutet, which read as follows:
My dear Jean Miroux,
The one who bears this letter will inform you that I’ve returned from Lyon, where I went to buy goods, and of my condition due to the accident that occurred between Saint-Laurent and Chaumont. I was hurled by an avalanche into an abyss, at the edge of which, by the grace of God, I clung to by a tree, but I was saved by passing travelers, good Christian souls whom I pray God will welcome into his paradise. As I’m injured from the fall, my brother Marie has to stay nearby to massage and tend to me. However, he doesn’t want the work to suffer from his absence, so he’s sending his friend Jacquelino to take his place. He hopes to return to work tomorrow. Alas for my poor mule, Hard-to-Trot—you remember, you gave him that name yourself—who plummeted to the bottom, lost with all my goods under fifty feet of snow. But thank God I lost only a mule and a few bales of cotton rather than my life. I can rebuild my business.
Your cousin-german,
Guillaume Coutet
The Comte de Moret smiled more than once while reading this letter. It was just what he needed; though he admitted to himself that it wouldn’t have sounded as natural if he’d dictated it.
Since this letter was the final thing he needed, and Maître Germain’s horse was saddled and waiting at the door, at the end of the hall he kissed Isabelle’s hand one last time, and then jumped into the saddle. He invited Marie Coutet to ride pillion behind him, and as a soft voice whispered “Bon voyage,” he rode off on the horse—which, by its looks, seemed likely to be the father of that poor mule which Jean Miroux, doubtless from experience, had named Hard-to-Trot.
One hour later, the two young men were in the village of Gravière, and the next morning, at seven o’clock, the Comte de Moret presented Guillaume Coutet’s letter to Jean Miroux, and was admitted without question to the company of laborers as Marie Coutet’s replacement. As Guillaume had predicted, Jean Miroux asked for details about his cousin’s accident, which Jacquelino was happy to provide him.
LIII
Why the Comte de Moret Went to Work on the
Fortifications of Susa Pass
As we might guess, it wasn’t for the pleasure of the labor that the Comte de Moret took on the guise of a Piedmontese and went to work for a long day on the Susa Pass fortifications.
In the conversation Cardinal Richelieu had had with the Comte de Moret, the cardinal had deemed Moret’s political instincts and aspirations worthy of the son of Henri IV; and the son of Henri IV, warmed by the great minister’s admiration, had made up his mind to try to deserve it—and not just for his potential deeds, but for his actual ones.
Consequently, when he saw an opportunity to do a great service for the cardinal and for his brother the king, though it meant the risk of being captured as a spy, he resolved to see for himself the fortifications being built by the Duke of Savoy, and to send a detailed report to the cardinal.
Upon his return that evening, after saying goodnight to Isabelle like Romeo to Juliet, “Wishing sleep to dwell upon her eyes, and peace in her breast,” he retired to his room, where he had earlier set out paper, ink, and pen, and wrote the following letter to the cardinal:
To His Eminence, Cardinal Richelieu,
Monseigneur,
I take a moment before crossing the French frontier to address a letter to Your Eminence, to say that so far our journey has been without any trouble worth reporting.
However, as we approached the border, I heard news that I thought might be significant to Your Eminence, as you prepare to march across Piedmont.
The Duke of Savoy, who was just buying time when he promised to allow the passage of French troops across his states, is fortifyi
ng Susa Pass. I decided to see with my own eyes what he’s building there.
Providence granted me the chance to save the life of a peasant of Gravière whose brother works on the fortifications. I took this brother’s place and spent a day on the job among the other workers. But before I describe to Your Eminence what I saw today, I must first give him an account of the natural obstacles he will find in his path.
Chaumont, from which I have the honor to write to Your Eminence, is the last French town before the border. Just a mile beyond is the marker that divides Dauphiné from Piedmont. A bit further into the province ruled by the Duke of Savoy, in a canyon between two tall cliffs, one encounters a huge boulder, sheer on every side, its top reached only by a narrow stair. Charles-Emmanuel regards this great rock as a natural fortification against the French, and has placed a garrison atop it. This fortified rock is called Gélasse, and it guards the approaches to the mountains on its flanks, which are called Montabon Peak and Montmoron Peak.
The path between these two mountains is Susa Pass, the gateway to Italy—and that is where I helped work on the new fortifications.
The Duke of Savoy has blocked this pass with a demilune, a curved earthwork solidly entrenched, with a barricade on either end, overlooking a field about two hundred yards wide that would be subject to crossfire.
Montabon Peak is topped by a stone keep with a garrison of one hundred, and His Highness the Duke has built a series of additional redoubts on the slopes of both mountains manned by twenty to twenty-five troops each. The cannons of Susa sweep the entire valley, and we won’t be able to deploy a single piece of our own without coming under fire. The valley before the pass is about a mile in length, and varies in width from twenty yards to as little as ten. The valley floor is covered in loose rocks and gravel that couldn’t possibly be cleared away.
Upon arrival at the job this morning, I learned that the Duke of Savoy and his son would be visiting later, coming up from Turin to Susa to inspect our labors. And indeed, at about one o’clock they appeared, and immediately came into the works. They brought three thousand new troops to Susa, and announced that another five thousand would be arriving the next day.