“And this is your final word?” asked the cardinal.
“Yes, Monseigneur,” replied Victor-Amadeus, rising from his seat.
Richelieu rapped twice on a panel behind him, and Latil appeared. The cardinal called him over and whispered, “The prince is leaving. Go ahead and make sure he receives no royal honors in passing.”
Latil bowed and hurried out. The cardinal was satisfied: he knew an order given to Latil was as good as done. “Prince,” the cardinal said to Victor-Amadeus, “I had for the Duke of Savoy, on the behalf of my master the king, all the regard a King of France can have for one who is not only a fellow sovereign, but an uncle. Add to this all the esteem the king has for Your Highness, who as the husband of his sister is no less than a brother. But in my double role as His Majesty’s minister and generalissimo, I would fail in my duty if I didn’t see Savoy severely punished for refusing to live up to its word. It’s an insult to the king, and the Army of France won’t stand for it. It’s March 17.” He drew out his watch. “Today, on March 17, as of six-forty-five in the afternoon, France and Savoy are at war. Take care! Because we mean business.” And he bowed to the prince, who then left him.
Two sentries stood watch outside Cardinal Richelieu’s door, halberds on their shoulders. Victor-Amadeus passed between them without either appearing to notice him or pay him the least regard. Other soldiers, who were playing dice on the stairs, didn’t even pause their game to get out of his way. “Ah,” murmured Victor-Amadeus. “So they’ve been ordered to insult me!” If he had any doubts that such was the case, they were settled at the gate, where the guards completely ignored him.
Prince Victor-Amadeus had scarcely left before the cardinal had summoned the Comte de Moret, the Duc de Montmorency, and the Marshals Créqui, la Force, and Schomberg. He explained the situation to them and asked for their advice. All were of the opinion that since the cardinal had committed them to war, they must go to war.
Ordering them to prepare to mobilize the following day, the cardinal dismissed them, keeping only Montmorency behind. Once they were alone, he asked, “Prince, would you like to be constable tomorrow?”
Montmorency’s eyes flashed. “Monseigneur,” he said, “the way Your Eminence phrases the question makes me wonder how that might be possible.”
“It’s not only possible, it’s easy. We’ve declared war on the Duke of Savoy, as he’ll learn at Rivoli Castle within two hours. Take fifty well-mounted cavaliers, gain entrée to the castle, seize the duke and his son, and bring them here. Once we have them, we can do as we like with them. They’ll soon see reason.”
“Monseigneur,” said Montmorency, bowing, “just last week, in that same castle, I was the guest of the duke as your ambassador. It would be dishonorable to return there today as an enemy.”
The cardinal shrugged. “You’re right,” he said. “One doesn’t propose such things to a Montmorency. This is a mission for a swashbuckler—and I have one at hand. But I’ll remember your refusal, my dear Duke. The next time you wish a favor, remember that I’d asked one of you.”
Montmorency bowed and departed. “That was a mistake,” the cardinal murmured thoughtfully as the door closed behind the prince. “Here is the price of relying so much on men of lower rank. Anyone else would have accepted the task, but men of high blood are too haughty. But he has an honorable heart, and though he doesn’t like me, I’d trust him and his honest dislike before others who boast of devotion.”
Then, knocking twice on the panel, “Étienne!” he called. “Étienne!”
Latil appeared.
“Do you know Rivoli Castle?” the cardinal asked.
“The château a league outside Turin?”
“Yes. Right now it houses the Duke of Savoy and his son.”
Latil smiled. “So it’s time to strike,” he said.
“Meaning?”
“To take the two of them.”
“You’d do that?”
“Parbleu! Would I?”
“How many men would you need?”
“Fifty, well-armed and well-mounted.”
“Pick your men and your horses. If you succeed, there’s fifty thousand livres in it for the men, and twenty-five thousand for you.”
“The honor of the deed would be quite enough, but if Monseigneur insists on adding to that, I won’t argue.”
“Do you have anything else to say?”
“Just one thing, Monseigneur.”
“What’s that?”
“When undertaking a task like this one, one always hears ‘If you succeed,’ never ‘If you don’t succeed.’ But no matter how well such a mission is performed, how skillfully managed, one of those unexpected events could occur that thwart even the greatest of captains. Then the men, through no fault of their own, get nothing, and that’s discouraging. Promise us something even if we don’t succeed, no matter how little.”
“You’re right, Étienne,” said the cardinal, “and that’s good advice. A thousand livres per man and twenty-five thousand for you if you succeed—and if you don’t, two crowns per man, and twenty-five for you.”
“Then here’s how I see it, Monseigneur: it’s seven o’clock now, and it’ll take three hours to get to Rivoli, so we assail the castle at ten. The rest is up to luck, good or bad.”
“Go, my dear Latil, and rest assured I believe that if you don’t succeed, it won’t be your fault.”
“It’s in God’s hands, Monseigneur!”
Latil took three strides toward the door, then turned around. “Has Monseigneur mentioned this mission to anyone else?”
“Only one person.”
“Ventre-saint-gris, as King Henri IV used to say. That cuts our chances by fifty percent!”
Richelieu frowned and said to himself, “If he turns this down, I must warn him that I’ll take it hard.” Then, to Latil: “Well, go anyway—and if you fail, I’ll know that I’m the one to blame.”
Ten minutes later, a troop of fifty cavalry led by Étienne Latil rode past the window of the cardinal, who watched them go from behind the blinds.
LXIX
The Empty Lair
Though in the shadow of a powerful and determined enemy who might declare war on him at any moment, it wasn’t the Duke of Savoy’s style to show fear; so while his son Victor-Amadeus was at Bunolonga negotiating with Richelieu, at Rivoli Castle the duke was throwing a grand party. On the evening of March 15, the prettiest women in Turin and the most elegant gentlemen of Savoy and Piedmont were all gathered at Rivoli, which was brilliantly lit, streams of light shining from the windows in all four directions.
The Duke of Savoy, charming, witty, and spry, despite his sixty-seven years, laughed and reveled with the vigor of a young man, and was the first to flatter his daughter-in-law, in whose honor the party was given. But occasionally, an almost imperceptible frown briefly darkened his face. He was thinking the French were only eight or ten leagues away—the French, who had forced the impregnable Pass of Susa within a matter of hours. Even now his fate hung in the balance in the secret struggle between Cardinal Richelieu and Victor-Amadeus, his son. Charles-Emmanuel had made excuses for his son’s absence, saying he was expected back that evening—and meanwhile, he counted every passing moment.
Indeed, at about nine o’clock, the prince appeared in splendid attire. A smile on his lips, he greeted Princess Christine first, then the ladies, then those Savoyard and Piedmontese great nobles whom he honored with his friendship. Finally he approached Duke Charles-Emmanuel and, kissing his hand, spoke to him in a low voice as if inquiring about his health. His face was calm, but what he said was “France has declared war on us; hostilities begin tomorrow. We must take care.”
The duke replied in the same tone, “Leave after the quadrille and give orders to concentrate the troops at Turin. As for me, I’ll dispatch the governors of Forts Viellane, Fenestrelle, and Pinerolo to their posts.”
Then he waved his hand to the musicians, who had paused when the prince had entered, and g
ave the signal to resume the dance.
Victor-Amadeus took the hand of his wife, Princess Christine, and without saying a word about the rupture between Savoy and France, led off the royal quadrille. Meanwhile, Charles-Emmanuel approached the governors of Piedmont’s three main forts and ordered them to leave at once for their citadels.
The governors of Viellane and Fenestrelle had come without their wives, so they had but to saddle their horses and don their cloaks to follow the duke’s command. This wasn’t the case with Count Urbain of Espalomba; not only had he brought his wife, but she was dancing the quadrille with Prince Victor-Amadeus. “Monseigneur,” he said, “your order won’t be easy to follow.”
“And why is that, Monsieur?”
“Because the countess and I came here from Turin dressed for the ball, in a hired carriage that doesn’t come from Pinerolo.”
“The wardrobe of my son and daughter-in-law will provide you with everything you need, and you can take a coach from my stables.”
“I’m not sure the countess could undertake such a journey without risk to her health.”
“In that case, leave her here and go alone.”
The count gave Charles-Emmanuel a strange look. “Yes,” he said, “I see how such an arrangement would be convenient for Your Highness.”
“Any arrangement is convenient for me, Count, so long as you depart without wasting a minute.”
“And the dishonor, Monseigneur?” the count demanded.
“Where is the dishonor, my dear Count, in ordering a commander to his post?” replied the duke. “On the contrary, it’s a proof of confidence.”
“That’s no explanation for this sudden departure.”
“A sovereign doesn’t have to answer to his subjects,” Charles-Emmanuel said, “especially when these subjects are in his service and he has orders for them. Now I order you to go at once to Pinerolo, and if the town and citadel are attacked you are to defend it until no stone is left standing upon another. You and Madame may ask for whatever you need, and it will be provided for you at once.”
“Should I take the countess out of the quadrille, or wait until it’s finished?”
“You can wait until it’s finished.”
“Very well, Monseigneur. When the quadrille is over, we’ll depart.”
“Go quickly, Count, and put up a strong defense.” And the Duke of Savoy walked away, ignoring the oaths Count Urbain swore under his breath.
When the quadrille was finished, the count related the order he’d been given to his astonished countess. They left the hall by one door, while Victor-Amadeus went out the other.
The governors of Viellane and Fenestrelle, who’d had no part in the quadrille, were already gone.
The duke whispered a few words to his daughter-in-law, who followed the count and countess. Outside the hall, she assigned one of her maids to assist the countess, then returned to the fête to organize the next quadrille in place of Prince Victor-Amadeus.
Ten minutes later the prince was back in the ballroom, visibly paler than when he’d left. He went up to Duke Charles-Emmanuel, linked arms with him, and walked him to a window embrasure. There he gave the duke a note. “Read this, Father,” he said.
“What is it?” asked the duke.
“A note that was just handed to me by a dust-covered courier who arrived on a horse coated with sweat. I tried to give him a purse full of gold for his effort, but he refused it, saying ‘I serve a master who doesn’t allow others to pay his servants.’ And with that, having given his horse no more time to catch his breath than it took to say those words, he galloped off.”
As he said this, Duke Charles-Emmanuel was reading the note. It was short:
A guest who was hospitably received by His Highness the Duke of Savoy takes this opportunity to pay for such hospitality by warning him that he and Prince Victor-Amadeus must depart Castle Rivoli this very night. There’s not a moment to lose. To horse, and ride for Turin!
“No signature?” asked the duke.
“None. But it’s obviously from the Duc de Montmorency or the Comte de Moret.”
“What livery was the courier wearing?”
“No livery—but I thought I recognized him as one named Galaor who accompanied the duke.”
“That must be it. Well?”
“Your opinion, Monseigneur?”
“My opinion, my dear Victor, is that we should follow this advice. Nothing bad will happen if we do, but we might suffer a terrible turn if we don’t.”
“Then let’s be on our way.”
The duke strode to the center of the ballroom, still smiling. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I’ve just received information that I must respond to immediately, with the aid of my son. But don’t concern yourselves—dance on, have fun, my palace is yours. Princess Christine, will you do the honors?”
Though couched as an invitation, it was a command. The ladies and gentlemen parted into two lines and bowed as the two princes passed, smiling and waving.
Once out of the ballroom, all pretense was abandoned. Father and son summoned their valets, who threw cloaks over their shoulders as they hurried down the stairs. They crossed the courtyard and went straight to the stables, saddled the two fastest coursers, slipped pistols into their holsters, mounted, and rode. They launched themselves at a gallop down the road to Turin, only a league away.
Meanwhile, Latil and his fifty men were also at the gallop along the road from Susa to Turin. Where the road forks, and one branch, lined with poplars, heads toward Rivoli Castle, Latil, who rode in the lead, thought he saw a shadow approaching.
On his side, the rider—for the shadow was that of a mounted cavalier—came to a halt, examining the band of riders with the same curiosity the riders were examining him.
Latil was about to cry “Who goes there?” when he stopped himself, for fear that his French-accented Italian would betray him. He decided to ride forward alone, and urged his horse toward the rider who stood in the road like an equestrian statue.
But as soon as the shadowy rider saw him coming, he drove in his spurs and left the Rivoli road, galloping cross-country toward the road to Susa.
Latil rode to cut him off, shouting “Halt!” But the shadow just rode all the faster. As they converged, Latil considered that the rider was now within pistol range, but two ideas gave him pause: first, the rider might not be an enemy; and second, a pistol shot this close to Rivoli might raise the alarm.
They reached the road, but the unknown rider was three lengths ahead of Latil, and he was better mounted; Latil pursued, but the rider not only maintained his lead, he increased it. After five minutes, Latil gave up the pursuit and returned to his detachment. The darkness of night swallowed the rider and even the sound of his horse, leaving nothing behind.
Latil, shaking his head, resumed his position at the head of the troop. The event might mean nothing, but to Latil it was deathly important. He said to himself, “I’d wager anything the duke’s been forewarned. Why would a cavalier riding from Rivoli be so desperate to hide his identity? Why would he ride to Susa, unless he’d come from Susa in the first place? By the sound of its breathing, his horse had clearly ridden a long way already.”
His suspicions were further confirmed when, as they approached Rivoli, Latil saw not one, but two shadowy riders on the road ahead, who like the first stopped when they saw the approaching troop. But the pause was only momentary before they launched themselves in the opposite direction from the first rider, that is, toward Turin.
Latil didn’t even consider pursuing them, as they rode fresh, firstrate horses whose hooves barely seemed to touch the ground. There was nothing to do but continue on to the château, whose windows glowed on the near horizon. But Latil was convinced that he knew the explanation for his encounters with these riders.
In ten minutes they were at the château gates. There was no sign of warning or alert. Latil rode around the compound, assigning six troopers to each door, and then, at the head of t
he final half-dozen, he rushed, sword in hand, up the stairs to the main doorway.
At the sight of armed men in French uniforms rushing into the ballroom, the astonished musicians abruptly stopped. The dancers, frightened, turned this way and that, but soldiers were coming in through every door.
Latil, having ordered his men to hold the doors, advanced, hat in one hand and sword in the other, toward the center of the room. But Princess Christine met him halfway. “Monsieur,” she said to him, “I presume you come to call upon my father-in-law, the Duke of Savoy, and my husband, the Prince of Piedmont. I regret to say they’re not here, having left for Turin no more than fifteen minutes ago, where I anticipate by now they’ve safely arrived. If you or your men are in need of refreshments, well, Rivoli Castle is famous for its hospitality, and I’d be happy to do the honors for an officer and soldiers of my brother Louis XIII.”
“Madame,” Latil replied, summoning all his memories of the old royal court so as to reply properly to the wife of the Prince of Piedmont, daughter-in-law of the Duke of Savoy and sister of his king, “we visit solely to bring news of Their Highnesses. We met them no more than ten minutes ago, on their way, as you did the honor to inform me, to Turin—and the way they spurred their horses, they were eager to get there. As for the hospitality you do us the honor to offer us, we must decline, as we are obliged to report our news to the cardinal.”
And then, bowing to Princess Christine with an elegance one might find surprising in a mercenary captain, he withdrew. “Come on,” he said, rejoining his men. “As I suspected, they were forewarned, and the lair is empty!”
LXX
In Which the Comte de Moret Offers to Take