The Sun King Conspiracy

by Yves Jégo

  Mazarin’s complexion changed suddenly from pale to deathly white. Alarmed, Colbert thought that the Cardinal had been taken ill, and was about to rise and call for help, but Mazarin indicated that he should remain seated. He recovered his breath.

  ‘Continue. They took papers, did they not?’

  Colbert nodded.

  ‘Which ones? From where?’

  Mazarin was almost shouting.

  ‘There is great disorder, Your Eminence, and we do not yet know everything, particularly as Roze was filing the papers in accordance with the orders you had given him. But they took a number of accounting documents from the two sealed chests which stand against the wall, of that Toussaint Roze is sure. Before he lost consciousness, he also saw them breaking open the inlaid writing desk …’

  Colbert broke off at the Cardinal’s ice-cold sigh.

  ‘He mentioned several folders of correspondence, two of beige leather and another dark red …’

  A long shudder went through the Cardinal’s body.

  ‘And also a few coded files. I have asked him to give us a precise inventory as soon as possible.’

  The Cardinal did not react and lay still for a long time. Then he sat up a little and shook his head gently.

  ‘Who knows about the deaths and the robbery?’

  ‘Roze, four of your most reliable guards, Molière and a few of his actors. There is nothing to worry about there. The former are trustworthy and we have sufficiently frightened the performers with references to matters of State and the prospect of a trip to the Bastille … The premiere of the play is tomorrow, and they would rather keep silent than endanger their show, of that I am sure. Doubtless it will all filter out at some point, but we have a little time before then.’

  ‘Good. Ensure that the troupe also receives a gratuity from me. It can only help to keep their mouths shut. As for the rest, Colbert, leave no stone unturned: this search must be speeded up. I want those papers. Our enemies are many, we know that. They are powerful, all the more so since we do not know who they all are. Nothing must be overlooked, nothing, in the quest for what they have stolen. This is a most perilous time: news of my illness and the robbery itself, these mean that we are no longer safe. Colbert, my interests and therefore yours depend upon the swiftness of our agents. And perhaps a great deal more than that,’ murmured Cardinal Mazarin, looking straight at Colbert.

  Without a word, Colbert got up and bowed low. Then he walked silently to the door. Calm had already returned to the room when, just as he was opening the door, the Cardinal’s voice called him back.

  ‘Colbert!’

  ‘Your Eminence?’

  ‘Go and see Roze, and retrieve the papers from my private desk. Find a totally secure place in which to hide them. Then come back. We must talk again about my will.’

  Colbert bowed again and backed out of the room. As he turned away, he looked preoccupied and extremely agitated.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Fausse-Repose Forest – Sunday 6 February, two o’clock in the afternoon

  ‘KILL! Kill!’

  The young King, excited by the last moments of the hunt, spurred on his mount. Keeping the white horse on a short rein, he directed it to follow the master huntsman who was striding down the slope of a hollow. The wild boar had mistakenly taken refuge there, chased by the dogs, and the slavering pack crowded round the cornered animal, exhausted after a chase that had lasted several hours. It was backed up against a wall of earth studded with the roots of overhanging trees. First one then another of the most foolhardy dogs were dealt violent blows as the beast swung its head right and left. As they fell several metres away, their bellies ripped open and their bodies broken by the boar’s razor-sharp tusks, their moans were drowned out by the hoarse barking of other dogs, maddened by the blood. In one movement Louis XIV dismounted and pushed his steed away with a slap to the chest. Three of his companions waited anxiously to see what risks the King was willing to take. The master huntsman came back towards them. Smiling, the King simply stretched out his hand. The man bowed and, holding his large hunting knife by the blade, placed it in the King’s palm. Then he withdrew, head still bowed, overwhelmed by the favour the sovereign had just bestowed upon him by deciding to kill the beast with his weapon.

  The King unfastened his cape, revealing the leather baldrick that protected his chest.

  ‘Come, Messieurs,’ he said to the men surrounding him, ‘let us see what the pig has in its belly.’

  Thus armed, and followed by men with spears and two others carrying muskets, the King took a few steps forward beneath the cover of frozen branches.

  ‘Take care, Sire, the ground is covered in frost.’

  The King smiled disdainfully.

  ‘Don’t worry, Monsieur d’Artagnan. I may not have sea legs, but I have no problem in the woods of Versailles.’

  The wild boar trembled all over, worn out after being harried by the dogs who were now almost touching it, and whose teeth had streaked its bristly pelt with red.

  Louis stopped and took a deep breath, smelling the air. The odour of wet foliage and blood seemed enhanced by the cold. The King of France was covered in mud up to his waist, clad and booted in leather; he was bare-headed, his hair tied back by a thick velvet ribbon, and sweat mingled with the earth on his face. But despite his small stature and stiff, upright stance, he exuded a mixture of hauteur and passion.

  The image of another hunt came back to him. A small boy, four years old, escaped the hand of the musketeer who was looking after him and ran towards his father with a smile of wonderment, his blond curls flying behind him in the cold morning air, his eyes swollen from too little sleep; a small boy whose heart was filled with a mixture of terror and joy as he saw his father wiping his knife, soiled with dark, almost black blood, on the stag’s chest. The clearing resembled those the hunt had just galloped through. The trees were the same, just fifteen years younger.

  They had travelled back at a leisurely pace, the boy seated against the pommel of his father’s saddle, his face pressed into his glove, which smelt strongly of animals, sweat and blood. He had fallen asleep, only to reawaken on a bench in the hunting lodge to the sound of laughter and loud voices, including that of the Duc d’Épernon which boomed like a drum. On his return, his governess had washed him thoroughly, exclaiming loudly at the sight of the red stains on his little doublet and scarf, which served him as a belt, and even in his hair. And he had laughed as he watched the water flowing over the earthenware of the bathtub, red against its immaculate white.

  Versailles was still here, its woods, its smells, the house where the soul of his father dwelt, far from the madness of the city, the hatred of Paris and its populace. Versailles was still here, like a promise to be fulfilled …

  ‘Sire, a message from the Louvre.’

  Jolted from his reverie, the King glanced disdainfully at the blue uniform marked with a musketeer’s cross which had appeared at his side. Then his gaze lighted on the sealed message the man was proffering, as he knelt on one knee before him. Without a word, his jaw clenched in anger, the King signalled to his companion to take the message.

  D’Artagnan looked furiously at the messenger, who vanished as quickly as he had come.

  ‘The order came from the Cardinal’s house, Sire, and the bearer gave the password which grants safe conduct to Your Majesty without delay …’ explained the master of the royal hounds who had organised the day, and to whom the messenger had been brought.

  ‘I imagine he did,’ the King retorted, ‘and I hope the sender has not in any way abused that privilege.’

  The King glanced again at the continuing death agonies of the wild beast, then turned back to the captain of his guard:

  ‘So, Monsieur d’Artagnan, what kind of problem is it that demands my immediate attention?’

  The sarcasm died in his voice when he saw the look on d’Artagnan’s face.

  ‘Sire,’ he replied, replacing his knife in the holster on his hip, �
�I fear …’

  ‘Do not fear, Monsieur, say.’

  ‘A fire has just occurred, Sire, which has ravaged Mazarin’s palace. The smoke has blackened the Louvre right up to the windows. There have been several wounded, perhaps some dead.’

  The King turned pale.

  ‘The Cardinal …’

  ‘… is in as good health as the fatigue of recent days allows him to be. His Eminence was not present at the time …’

  The King cut him short with a wave of his hand and summoned the valet who was holding his cloak. Then he threw the knife to the ground, much to the regret of the master huntsman, who saw his glory fade before his very eyes.

  ‘We must go, Messieurs,’ said the King. ‘Prepare the carriages with all speed.’

  The King and his companions remounted and galloped off to where the carriages had been left and a meal laid out. The horsemen, escorted by thirty musketeers, rode along without a word. Descending the hill, they soon came out onto an avenue lined with poplar trees. In the distance, the pink stone of the Versailles hunting lodge was just visible. The slate roofs sparkled in the winter sunshine.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Palais du Louvre – Sunday 6 February, around three o’clock in the afternoon

  SITTING up in bed, Cardinal Mazarin allowed his thoughts to wander. He had long enjoyed these moments of calm, well before illness had obliged him to rest. They enabled his mind to choose which unexpected subjects to settle on and revealed new ways of seeing things. Annoyingly though, he had to admit that, despite his best efforts, he was finding it difficult to think clearly about the subject which occupied him the most.

  Lost accounting papers are vexing, he thought, and some of them ought not to find their way into enemy hands. But it would be more serious if …

  Ice-cold sweat trickled down his pallid brow.

  No, the danger would be too great …

  The sound of running feet on the wooden floor of his antechamber, mingled with snatches of conversation, made him open his eyes. Sitting in the half-light, he heard the footsteps come closer, then the double door crashed open and he was dazzled by light. Blinking, he raised his hand like a visor to shade his eyes. He hesitated for a moment:

  ‘Who’s there …?’

  The shout died in his throat as the radiant figure which had entered his bedchamber grew clearer and acquired the face of the Queen Mother.

  The Cardinal smiled as he attempted to control his pounding heart.

  ‘What an entrance, Madame,’ he commented, taking the Queen’s hand as she stood at his bedside. ‘You looked just like a ghost …’

  The Queen smiled painfully. Her pale complexion, her dark hair scraped back, her severe gown, everything about her exuded fear, hardening the features which had once been so beautiful and soft.

  ‘Come, Madame, your anxiety is out of all proportion. It is not the fire which has forced me to my bed, but rather the lack of fire … inner fire,’ the Chief Minister joked.

  The King’s mother shook her head but the air of sadness did not leave her.

  ‘Do not laugh, dear friend, I beg you. I have brought my personal physician; he is waiting in the anteroom. Are you sure that there’s no need …?’

  Still holding her hand, Mazarin indicated that there was not.

  ‘Have no fear. My powers may be waning, but I have not yet uttered my last word and I shall continue to watch over France, that is to say, over you and my godson the King.’

  The Cardinal squeezed the Queen’s hand a little more tightly when he saw the tears welling up in her eyes. Then he sat up straight and said in a firmer tone:

  ‘Do not be sad, think of all that we have done. We have been France, Madame. All that matters is that our enemies do not take advantage of my weakness in order to destroy us. No one has the right to understand or judge France, its Government or its King. All your energies must now be devoted to one purpose: your son the King needs you to safeguard his throne.’

  The Queen nodded silently. She had shared so much fear, so much joy, so many victories and defeats with the minister. And now she saw the whole of her strange life played out in his face. Reluctantly, she had become Queen of a land which for a long time had appeared terrifying; married a King whom she had never known and always feared; been besieged in her own palace, suspected, spied upon and denounced; and then suddenly, in order to save her orphan son’s throne, she had transformed herself into a warrior-woman and the leader of a political party, capable of destroying destinies and families …

  ‘Jules,’ she said softly, her familiar tone indicating the close rapport between them, a friendship without which she would never have found the strength to stand firm.

  He stopped her, pressing his fingertips to her lips.

  ‘Go, Madame, I would not wish to impose the sight of my fatigue upon you …’

  The Queen made a brusque gesture.

  ‘Sleep, dear friend,’ she ordered him in a voice which had regained its composure. ‘I will only be in the next room.’

  With his eyes half closed, the Cardinal watched the majestic silhouette of a Queen of France walk to the door to his private office.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Palais du Louvre – Sunday 6 February, four o’clock in the afternoon

  ‘THE King!’

  Energetic and determined, Louis XIV strode into the room where Cardinal Mazarin lay bedridden. In his anger, the King had not even taken the time to change. He was still wearing his hunting clothes, complete with dirty boots, gloves tucked through his belt and a muddy shirt, as he approached the bed where his all-powerful Chief Minister was dozing, propped up on his pillows. Once again he was struck by the yellowish complexion of the sick man, whose eyes were now acquiring that very distinctive, translucent tinge. A lump came to his throat as he saw how much Mazarin had deteriorated physically. He sat down on the chair which a valet of the bedchamber hastily produced for him, and spent a moment trying to see beneath Mazarin’s excess of face paint to determine his exact state of health. As his attention lingered on the old man’s whistling breath, Louis could not help remembering the little boy he had once been, standing before Louis XIII on the eve of his death. Like Mazarin, the King had been a silent, almost transparent ghost. But back then, the man lying in the bed today had been at his side. He was the one who had held the small, intimidated boy’s hand and pushed him forward towards the sick man with the disturbing appearance and the nauseatingly sweet smell. And it was Mazarin who had been there again that dawn when Louis had had to flee Paris and take refuge at Saint-Germain. He had been so afraid that day, and had only recovered his composure by desperately gripping the Cardinal’s hand and refusing to let go of it throughout the journey …

  The bedchamber was empty and dimly lit, despite the waning daylight. The King realised that his Chief Minister wished to speak to him without witnesses.

  ‘I have come to assure you of my affection, dear godfather. News of the fire was brought to me as I was hunting near Versailles.’

  Mazarin managed a faint smile at the sound of this name. Hunting, Versailles: those two words summed up his godson’s tastes …

  ‘Do you have any more precise information?’ continued the young King. ‘What is the extent of the damage to your library? What happened to your collection of paintings? What is known about the victims?’

  Mazarin stopped the flow of questions with a gesture. He felt too weary to follow the young King’s energetic discourse. The minister had to get his breath back before replying.

  ‘Sire, your presence here both honours and comforts me. The worst has come to pass, and today does not bode well for the Kingdom. Colbert has just left having given me a detailed account of the attack.’

  ‘The attack?’

  ‘Yes, Sire, the fire was caused by a band of masked ruffians. Doubtless they were seeking to cause a diversion. My private apartments were broken into, my desk was looted and documents of the highest importance are missing. I was specifically keeping them i
n that magnificent Italian writing desk you so loved to play on when you were small, Sire. One of my personal bodyguards was murdered, and my private secretary, Roze, was attacked.’

  ‘We will find these murderers and I shall punish them. I will not accept this!’ raged the King, disconcerted by his godfather’s grievous account.

  Unable to control himself, he pushed his chair back roughly and began to stride restlessly about the room.

  ‘How could the guards at your palace allow this to happen without doing anything? I shall have their captain severely punished and …’

  ‘Let’s forget about that for the moment, Louis, if you will permit it,’ said the old man. In the presence of the King he rediscovered the gentle, affectionate tone he had once used to calm the young heir’s attacks of rage. ‘I must warn you that we have more important things to do, Your Majesty. I implore you to believe me. Please listen to me, Sire. No one must know that this theft was successful, and above all, no one must know that documents of value to me have disappeared.’

  During this passionate outburst the Cardinal suddenly sat up. His piercing gaze, accustomed for so many years to penetrating the innermost thoughts of those he met, looked deep into the eyes of the King of France.

  At that moment, a tapestry parted gently from the wall behind the Cardinal, and Anne of Austria entered the room.

  ‘I am happy to see you, my son,’ she said, with a small curtsey.

  ‘Mother, you are here!’

  Louis XIV gazed in surprise at the Queen Mother, who wore a simple black gown and a dazzling pearl necklace which contrasted with her tired complexion. A widow for the past eighteen years, the King’s mother bore on her face traces of all the tribulations she had overcome in order to secure her son’s power. The look she exchanged with Jules Mazarin was full of compassion and affection. Louis felt reassured, flanked as he now was by the two people he cherished most. Together, they had weathered so many crises! It seemed to him that nothing really serious could happen when they were united like this.