The Red Sphinx: A Sequel to the Three Musketeers

  All that can be obtained from God through prayer, I’ll obtain for you; for you are sorely wounded, and the wound is grievous and deep.

  Let us pray.

  X

  May 15

  I don’t know, but somehow, through writing to you, I gain some peace and a certain relief.

  This is indeed a new turn to my life; I was alone in the world, without family, isolated from all, half in the grave, weeping and desperate—and now suddenly I’ve found a brother.

  Because it seems to me you’re like a brother . . . a brother I never knew, one who left France before I was born, but whom I’ve been waiting and searching for. And now, you come at last: revealed, though not present, revealed by voice alone. I cannot see you, but I hear you. I cannot touch, but I listen.

  You have no idea how the landscape so brilliantly conjured by your pen occupies my thoughts. Let no one deny to me the reality of shared vision, for shared vision exists. By the constant force of my will, your landscape is now reflected in my mind as in a mirror. I see everything, from the rosy morning rays rising behind the hills to the creeping gray shadows of evening; I hear everything, from the sound of the flower as it opens its petals to the morning dew, to the song of the nightingale trilling out into the solitude and silence of the night.

  And I see it all so clearly that, if I ever found myself within the circle of your vision, I could say, “There are the flaming hills, there the snow-capped mountains, there the silver streams, there the gleaming river, here the pomegranates, here the oleander, here the myrtle—all here!”

  So clearly do I see your hermitage rising above the walls of the garden, with its window veiled by jasmine and vines. Then I see you in your whitewashed cell, kneeling in front of our brother Christ, praying for yourself and, especially, for me.

  Tell me who is the king whose portrait hangs in your cell, this king for whom you have a special reverence, so I, too, can envision this king’s portrait, and my reverence can echo yours.

  But you, as well, I would like to see you . . . oh, only in my thoughts, rest assured of that!

  You said that the you of the past no longer existed, and I should ask only about the person of the present and the future. Let the past fade, then—tell me how old you are now, and those traits that will help me imagine you clearly. Tell me how and when you came to this hermitage, and what accounts for your bidding farewell to the world.

  I would also like to know how far you are from me. Is it possible to calculate that distance?

  You seem so good, I have no fear of tiring you; you seem so learned, I’m not afraid to ask the impossible.

  I shall think about how you might answer; and when you do, I shall think about how you replied.

  Go, dear dove—fly, and come back soon!

  XI

  May 15, 3 o’clock in the afternoon

  There, you see: by occupying your mind, I was able, for a moment, to distract your heart.

  The soul is not like the body; if one who is soul-sick can forget why he suffers, he suffers no more.

  You want me to tell you about me, to see if you can find something to like in this man, physical or moral, alive or dead? Well, listen.

  I was born at Fontainebleau on May 1, 1607, so my age is thirty years and fourteen days.

  I’m sturdy of frame, brown-haired, blue-eyed, with a pale complexion and high forehead.

  I retired from the world on January 17, 1633, when I took a vow that, unless something occurred to change my destiny, I would devote myself to God for the next five years—which would be my last.

  I withdrew from the world in the aftermath of a great political disaster that swallowed up my dearest friends—and after a deep personal injury that broke my heart.

  The portrait of the king that hangs in my cell, for whom I have a special reverence, is of King Henri IV.

  Now, you wanted to know the distance between us. It’s now just short of three o’clock. I’ll date this letter at three o’clock exactly, the time I shall release our messenger. Pigeons fly at fifteen or sixteen miles per hour, as I learned when I was in a circumstance to employ them. Note the time you receive this letter, and calculate.

  Don’t reply for two or three days; take those days to imagine me, poor recluse, and then put your ideas, whether illusion or reality, on paper. Then send me a summary of your research, the distillation of your dreams.

  God be with you!

  XII

  May 15, two hours after receiving your letter

  Listen! Hear me! It’s not in two or three days I must answer you, but now!

  My God! What mad idea grips my mind, my heart, my soul! What if . . . the one I love is not dead! What if you are the one I love, the one I call, the one I seek, the one who appears to me every night!

  You were born on May 1, 1607—so was he! You’re strong—like him! You are brown-haired, blue-eyed, with a pale complexion and high forehead—like him!

  Then remember the words you told me in another letter, which remain alive in my memory: you fell from the heights of human eminence, you trembled at the wind of the ax as it took the heads of those around you, and in your fall you lost a kingdom.

  I don’t know how all these things can apply to you, but if they do—my God! My God! It must really be you.

  You have in your cell a portrait of a king whom you love and revere, a portrait of King Henri IV. And he, he, he was the son of King Henri IV!

  If you are not Antoine de Bourbon, Comte de Moret, said to have been killed at the Battle of Castelnaudary, then who are you?

  Answer me! In the name of heaven, answer me!

  XIII

  May 16, at daybreak

  If you are not Isabelle de Lautrec, whom I believed unfaithful, then who are you?

  I am Antoine de Bourbon, Comte de Moret, whom all think died at the Battle of Castelnaudary—but who lives, not by the mercy, but by the vengeance of the Lord.

  Oh! If things are as I fear they are, then woe to us both!

  The dove must have gotten lost in the night, or perhaps she got tired and was forced to rest. She didn’t arrive until the first light of dawn.

  XIV

  May 16th, seven in the morning

  Yes, yes, yes, O sufferer! Yes, I’m Isabelle de Lautrec!

  You believed me unfaithful? Me? How? Why? For what reason? To defend myself, I must know.

  Did you know the dove takes only two hours to go from you to me or me to you? Did you know there must be only thirty miles between us?

  Tell me, tell me, how have I deceived you? How have I betrayed you? Speak, speak!

  Fly, dove: you carry my life!

  XV

  May 16, eleven o’clock

  The eyes, the heart, the soul—can all be deceived at once?

  Are you or are you not the Isabelle de Lautrec I saw enter Valence Cathedral on January 5, 1633?

  Are you not she who was dressed as a bride, and who walked behind Emmanuel, Vicomte de Pontis, dressed as a groom?

  Or was it all an illusion of the Archfiend?

  No quibbles, no hesitation, no half-answers.

  Proof, or silence.

  XVI

  May 16, 3 o’clock in the afternoon

  Proof? You shall have it! It’s easy enough to provide.

  Everything you saw had the appearance of truth, yet everything you saw was false.

  But I have a long story to tell you, and alas! Our poor dove is exhausted and needs rest. Instead of the usual two hours, it took her nearly four hours to fly back to me.

  I’ll write part of the story tonight.

  Dear Lord God, give me some peace—my hand trembles so, I can barely hold the pen.

  But first, my God, I must give thanks to you for letting him see.

  . . . There. I spent three hours on my knees, praying, pressing my burning forehead against the chilly flagstones, and now I’m calmer.

  To return to you.

  Let me tell you all, tell you everything, from the moment I left yo
u in Valence, to that woeful moment when I pronounced my vows.

  The night you left, do you remember it as well as I do? It was August 14, 1632, when we parted; you said goodbye to me without telling me where you were going.

  I was full of foreboding; I couldn’t let go of the edge of your cloak. It seemed to me it wasn’t to be a parting for a few days, as you’d promised, but a parting forever.

  Eleven o’clock was tolling from the church in the town; wearing a dark cloak, you mounted a white horse; you rode slowly at first, and three times you turned back to say goodbye. The third time, you made me go inside, because you said if I stayed in the doorway, you might never leave.

  Why didn’t I stay? Why did you go?

  I went in, but only to run up to my balcony. You looked back, and saw me waving a handkerchief wet with my tears. You lifted your hat, plumes fluttering, and I heard your farewell waft on the wind, diminished by distance to no more than a sigh.

  A great cloud drifted across the sky and obscured the Moon; I raised my hands as if to stop it before it could cut off the silver radiance by which I could still see you. Finally, like a dark aerial monster, it opened its mouth and swallowed the pale goddess, who disappeared within it. When I lowered my eyes to the horizon, I sought for you in vain. I could still hear the sound of hooves ringing on the road in the direction of Orange, but I could see you no more.

  Suddenly a flash tore open the cloud, and by the lightning’s gleam I glimpsed your white horse. But you, in your dark cloak, had already merged with the night. Your mount rode away quickly, but seemingly without a rider. Twice more the lightning flashed to reveal your horse, fading like a ghost. Then even the sound of the hooves was lost. A fourth flash came with a roar of thunder, but the horse was gone.

  All that night, the thunder growled, while the wind and rain beat against my windows. The next day, nature, distraught, disheveled, and drained, seemed to grieve like my heart.

  I knew what was happening in the direction toward which you’d disappeared—that is to say, in Languedoc. It was said your friend the Duc de Montmorency, who was governor there, had joined the party of Monsieur and the exiled queen mother. Prince Gaston had crossed France to meet the Duc de Montmorency, raise the province in revolt and muster troops to march against the king and Monsieur de Richelieu.

  So you went, to join one of your brothers to fight against the other—and far more dangerous, to draw your sword and risk your head against terrible Cardinal Richelieu, who had already broken so many swords and taken so many heads!

  As you know, my father was in Paris with the king. So I followed you south with two of my ladies under the pretext of a visit to my aunt, who was Abbess of Saint-Pons—but really to get closer to the theater of events in which you were to play a role.

  It took me eight days to travel from Valence to Saint-Pons. I arrived at the convent on August 23. The holy women there were unused to affairs of the world, but the events occurring nearby were so grave, they were the subject of all conversations, and every inhabitant of the convent was discussing the news.

  And what had they heard? They said the king’s brother, Monseigneur Gaston d’Orléans, had met up with the Maréchal-Duc de Montmorency, bringing two thousand men he’d raised in the Principality of Trier; and these, added to the four thousand already with Montmorency, brought their total troops to six thousand.

  With these six thousand soldiers, he held Lodève, Albi, Uzès, Lunel, and Saint-Pons, where I was. Nîmes, Toulouse, Carcassonne, and Beziers, though populated by Protestants, had refused to join him.

  It was also said that two armies were on the march against the Duc de Montmorency. One of them, commanded by Marshal Schomberg, was coming by way of Pont-Saint-Esprit. The other, led by the king, as the cardinal had decided Louis XIII himself was needed in the theater of war, was said to have arrived at Lyon. A letter that caught up to me from Valence not only confirmed this news, but informed me that my father, the Baron de Lautrec, was with His Majesty.

  This letter came from my father, and also announced that he and his old friend the Comte de Pontis had decided to strengthen the ties between our two houses by a marriage between me and the count’s son, the Vicomte de Pontis. As you’ll remember, I’d already spoken to you of this proposed marriage, and you’d said to me, “Just give me three months. In three months, things will be different for everyone. Give me three more months, and I’ll ask the Baron de Lautrec for your hand.”

  Imagine my torment at knowing you were allied with those my father called rebels, as fear and hatred grew between your house and that of my father, a loyal and faithful servant of the king. In his mind the king and the cardinal were one, and almost daily he announced, “He who is enemy to the cardinal, is enemy to the king.”

  On August 23, a royal decree declared the Duc de Montmorency attainted, forfeiting all honors and dignities, property and domains, and ordering him to appear before the Parliament of Toulouse for trial.

  The next day, the rumor spread of a similar declaration against you, son of a king though you were, and against Monsieur de Rieux.

  Imagine the feelings these rumors inflicted on my poor heart!

  On the 24th, an emissary of the cardinal passed through Saint-Pons, going, they said, to offer peace terms to Monsieur de Montmorency. I persuaded my aunt to offer him refreshments, and he accepted, stopping in her parlor. I spoke with him there, and what they said of his mission was true. It gave me hope.

  My hope increased when I heard that the Archbishop of Narbonne, a close friend of Monsieur de Montmorency, had passed through Carcassonne for the same purpose, to ask the marshal-duke to lay down his arms. The proposals he was carrying to the Governor of Languedoc were, they said, fair, reasonable, and conducive to his fortune and honor.

  The rumor soon followed that Montmorency had refused.

  As to you—because, you understand, you were the subject of much talk, which was a cause of both consolation and dread for me—as to you, it was said that a letter had been written to you by the cardinal himself, but you had replied that your word had long been promised to Monsieur, and that Monsieur alone could release you.

  And alas! That selfish coward refused to let you go.

  On August 29, word came that the armies of Marshal Schomberg and the Duc de Montmorency were face to face. But the wily old marshal knew that Richelieu was a minister who could fall, and the king was a man who could die—and that Monsieur, against whom he was pitted, was heir to the throne, and would then become King of France. So he sent Monsieur de Cavoie to parley and open one last negotiation.

  We heard all the reports. My soul rose at each bit of hopeful news. I anxiously awaited Monsieur de Montmorency’s final answer.

  You know his response. Whether from despair or conceit, fear or courage, he said, “First we’ll fight; after the battle, we’ll talk.”

  Thereafter, since all hope of accord was lost, and a victory by the Duc de Montmorency was your only salvation, I forgot my duty as a daughter, I forgot my duty as a subject, and, prostrate at the altar, I prayed to God Almighty to look with favor on the hero of Vellano and the son of the victor of Ivry.

  From that moment, I lived only to wait upon news of the battle.

  Alas! On September 1, at five in the evening, came the terrible, fatal, heartbreaking news.

  The battle was lost. The marshal-duke was a prisoner, and you were either mortally wounded or . . . dead!

  I didn’t wait to hear any more. I went to fetch the gardener, whom I’d spoken to in advance. I told him to prepare two horses and meet me at nightfall at the garden gate.

  The night came, I met him, and we mounted and rode for the battlefield. We skirted the base of the mountains, crossed two or three streams, passed on the left the little village of Livinière, and reached Caunes at eight o’clock, where we stopped.

  My horse was lamed and limping; I determined to trade him for a fresh horse and discover what news I could. They said Montmorency and de Rieux were both de
ad. As to you, reports were conflicting: some said you were dead, others mortally wounded.

  If you were dying, I wanted to close your eyes; if dead, I wanted to wrap you in your shroud.

  We left Caunes at half past eight, crossing the fields and avoiding the roads; the gardener was from Saissac—he knew the country, and took us straight to Montolieu.

  The weather resembled that of the night we parted: dark clouds rolled across heaven, gusts roared through the trees, and a warm, suffocating wet wind spat large drops of rain, while thunder rumbled behind Castelnaudary.

  We rode straight through Montolieu without stopping. Beyond that small town, we met the first outpost of Monsieur de Schomberg’s troops.

  I repeated my questions. The battle had begun around eleven in the morning and lasted an hour or less; barely a hundred people had been killed.

  I asked if you were among the dead. They weren’t sure, but had heard a soldier of the vanguard say he’d seen you fall. We found him; he had indeed seen one of the leaders go down, but wasn’t sure it was you. I wanted to take him with me, but he was on duty and couldn’t come. But he told the gardener it was definitely the Comte de Moret who’d led the charge, and if he’d been killed, it was by an officer of fusiliers named Bitéran.

  As I listened to these details, a chill came over me, my chest froze so I couldn’t speak, and beads of sweat rolled down my face to mingle with my tears.

  We resumed our journey. We’d come twelve or thirteen leagues in five hours, but as I’d changed horses in Caunes, I knew I could make it to Castelnaudary. If the gardener fell behind, he promised to keep up by linking his reins with mine.

  Leaving Montolieu, we passed patrols in the woods. We recognized our location, and found our way to a ford over the Bernassonne. After crossing two more streams, we were well on our way again.

  Between Ferrals and Villespy, the gardener’s horse fell and couldn’t get up again, but fortunately we were almost there: we could see the bivouacs of the royal army, and saw lights moving about the field where the battle had taken place.