by Yves Jégo
‘And besides, he is proving more and more despotic,’ added the man with the hat. ‘He now presides over the council of ministers in his bedchamber while he is being shaved!’
‘We must act – God commands it,’ said another.
Nods and murmurs of agreement ran through those assembled round the impressive cross-shaped table, reinforcing the anger of the men whom the Cardinal had that very afternoon, without knowing who they were, classed as ‘fuel for the fanatical pyre’.
‘We must make an impression on the people,’ continued the man who had just spoken. ‘I propose that Mazarin be judged by the standards of Christian morality. He must pay for his crimes. We shall thus demonstrate to the whole Kingdom that the arm of divine justice has the power to strike everyone, even the most powerful. My Brothers, let us follow the example of our elders, who guided the hand of Ravaillac.’2
‘Everything is possible,’ said the eldest man, after a swift perusal of the stolen documents. ‘But I fear, having glanced at what has just been delivered to us, that we may lack the essential evidence to initiate a legal case. I cannot find any trace of the marriage contract between Mazarin and Anne of Austria! Our men have completely failed in their holy mission!’
Teeth clenched, he dropped the bundle of documents back onto the table in front of him.
‘Go and bring them back, Simon Pierre,’ he ordered.
A heavy silence filled the room while the conspirators waited for the henchmen to retrace their steps. At last the door grated open again and the man with the mismatched eyes entered alone. He halted a few yards from the table.
‘Cast your mind back and attempt to answer accurately,’ instructed the mysterious leader. ‘Are you sure that you seized all the documents contained within the inlaid writing desk? Did you search the secret drawers?’
‘Not a single piece of wood escaped the search,’ he replied without hesitation.
In his eyes there now shone a gleam of defiance, almost of anger. The man with the hat spoke more mildly.
‘This is extremely serious, something vital is missing … Are you absolutely certain you did not forget anything, that nothing was omitted from your account that might explain this absence?’
The man with the mismatched eyes seemed once again thrown off-balance. He searched his memory for a moment, then raised his hand as he groped for the right words.
‘Perhaps, yes, when Le Jeune fell … The one who died, he had a fall,’ he went on. ‘He had some documents in his hand, a leather document case. Yes, I am sure of it now, he had them in his hand as he ran across the skylight …’
His interlocutor cut him off with an imperious gesture.
‘Go,’ said the leader. ‘Go and join your Brothers and wait for me to contact you. And on no account make a sound, not one single additional movement that might cause you to be spotted. You have been warned,’ he added threateningly.
When the man had left, the leader sat down and looked at his companions.
‘There is not a moment to lose. We must continue our search and find the items that were lost today. As for Mazarin, rest assured, he will pay in due course. He and his family of vultures must sooner or later account for the origins of their fortune and their harmful influence on the Court and Kingdom. In the name of our faith, we must continue to toil for the birth of a new age.’
As he spoke these final words, the old man stood up, signalling that the assembly was at an end.
‘Let us pray,’ he said, joining his hands together. ‘Pater noster qui es in coelis …’
While the zealots prayed, Simon Pierre, who had accompanied the four burglars back to the gate of the Mont-Louis estate, put out the torches one by one, gradually plunging the room into darkness. He opened the door, letting in a cold wind. The snow had stopped falling.
‘… sed libera nos a malo.’
The eldest man, his face still half hidden by that strange hat, wished his Brothers a peaceful return journey. And with one voice, the enemies of Cardinal Mazarin repeated their shared pledge:
‘The cross of Jesus is our only pride!’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rue des Lions Saint-Paul – Monday 7 February, eleven o’clock in the morning
‘COULD you tell me where Monsieur de Pontbriand lives, please?’
The little boy in the torn trousers, sitting on the doorstep of the house in Rue des Lions Saint-Paul, looked up in astonishment. The sight of such a pretty young woman here, just before noon, was most unusual. He brazenly ogled the dress worn by the young lady who had ventured alone and on foot into this modest district, whose boundaries were delineated by Rue Saint-Antoine in the north and the Seine in the south. He blushed as his gaze reached the young woman’s face, and she smiled magnificently as she looked into the depths of his eyes.
‘Dunno! Best go and look for him around Hôtel Saint-Paul, where the nobility live. All you’ll find in this street, princess, are stonemasons, carpenters and joiners – no “Pont-whatsisname”!’
The young lady answered in a sweet voice:
‘But I am quite sure of the address. It is very important to me. Are you sure you don’t know Gabriel de Pontbriand?’
‘Oh, Gabriel yes, I know him!’ replied the young boy, happy to have recognised the name. ‘Of course, everybody round here knows Gabriel. He’s an actor with the great Molière’s company. At this time of day you’ll find him at home. His room is up in the attic. Go up the staircase, right to the top, there’s only one door. You can’t mistake it.’
‘Thank you, charming boy,’ said the young girl as she swept into the building, leaving the boy speechless at having discovered his friend Gabriel’s noble surname.
Seated at a dark wooden table, Gabriel had just finished examining the papers contained in the red document case he had found the previous day. His reading left him perplexed. The papers were incomprehensible, evidently coded. As he turned over the case to study Cardinal Mazarin’s crest, the young man blanched, realising the enormity of the situation. Gabriel went through the parchments one by one, attempting to identify a clue. The only thing he could decipher was the signature at the end of each sheaf of documents. The names of their authors appeared clearly, and in full.
Just then, the young man froze and turned white. Trembling, he murmured the words ‘My father’. He had spoken out loud to make the discovery more real. The paper fell from his right hand. He had just read the signature at its foot: Brother André de Pontbriand.
At that precise moment someone knocked at the door, forcing Gabriel to pull himself together.
Swiftly concealing the documents under his bed, the young man snatched up the script of the play to give himself an air of composure.
‘Come in,’ he said at last.
A face appeared in the doorway, and when two white hands pushed back the hood obscuring it, Gabriel exclaimed in amazement:
‘Louise!’
‘Don’t look so shocked, my friend, you’re as white as a ghost,’ replied Louise de La Vallière teasingly, delighted by the effect of her visit upon the young man she had not seen for seven months.
‘Louise de La Vallière! What a surprise,’ Gabriel’s colour was gradually returning, along with the determination to give a warm welcome to his extremely pretty friend. ‘Do please sit down. Try this armchair,’ he said, indicating the most comfortable chair he possessed.
The room was modest and unadorned, but reasonably large. The plaster and wooden walls were clean. In one corner, an iron bed stood opposite a small table and two chairs. The only hint of grandeur was provided by an old velvet armchair with a broken leg, propped up on some old books. A wardrobe completed the furniture. Since there was no bookcase, an impressive number of books were scattered all over the place. Gabriel had been living here since his arrival in the autumn of 1660, after he had run away. Optimistic by nature but with a determined, adventurous streak, he had moved directly into this room devoid of luxury or comforts, and he had paid for it with the meagre earning
s from his employment with Molière from then on. Fortunately, his natural joviality and infectious enthusiasm had helped him to strike up many friendships, particularly in this humble neighbourhood where he so enjoyed living. His natural charm had also opened the doors to a world that was entirely new to him: the world of pleasure and feminine conquests. An actor at heart, Gabriel enjoyed being charming, delightedly displaying his talent to the only audience he had at present: the young women whose eyes shone when they saw him …
*
‘I was the first to be surprised, when I spotted you last night outside the Palais-Royal theatre with the actors from Monsieur Molière’s company,’ explained Louise. ‘I didn’t know you were in the capital, and I had no idea that you were living in such destitution,’ she remarked, gazing sadly at the sparse room. ‘Nor did I realise that you were so chivalrous and such a good fighter,’ she added, laughing.
Gabriel smiled in response to her teasing, and at the unexpected pleasure of their reunion: Louise de La Vallière, Louise whom he’d known for ever … They had so often roamed the country paths of Touraine with other well-born young folk from Amboise … Now, with Louise, he felt as if he had rediscovered his beloved homeland and the sweetness of his childhood at a single stroke.
Although still stunned, he could not help noticing her luxurious outfit, the shimmering fabrics of her gown and the watered silk jacket which she wore carelessly draped over her shoulders. Once again he took in the dazzling clarity of her complexion, the vibrant colour of her eyes, the reflections that played in her hair with each graceful movement of her neck.
‘So this morning I went to the theatre,’ Louise went on, untroubled by his insistent gaze. ‘And I conducted my own investigation. Two smiles and a few coins persuaded the good concierge to give me the information I needed. That is how I found you. But now you owe me some explanations. Why did you leave so suddenly last year? Nobody here seems to know you by anything other than the name Gabriel. Why hide yourself in this room, which even a monk would spurn?’
Gabriel then sat down opposite his friend and gave her a detailed account of the past months. He answered all her questions and hid nothing about his situation. Confiding in her made him calmer. He learned that Louise had arrived at Court in January, to become companion to the future wife of Monsieur, the King’s brother. The performance of Dom Garcie had been her first outing and she was looking forward to her imminent official presentation to Louis XIV and the Queen. The two friends were delighted as they rediscovered each other, such a long way from their roots. Their conversation went on for a long time, and dwelt on memories of happy childhood moments. Both were orphans who had barely known their fathers: Gabriel had been brought up by his uncle, and Louise by her stepfather, under the warm and watchful eye of King Louis XIII’s brother, Gaston d’Orléans, whose patronage had continued to benefit the young girl after his death. After all, it had just opened the gates of Court to her.
‘But tell me,’ urged Gabriel with growing excitement, ‘what have you seen? And what is Court life like?’
Patiently, Louise recounted the splendours and the boredom of her new existence, the moments of idleness and the burden of etiquette. She described a life of hope and uncertainty, grandeur and pettiness.
‘Yesterday, we spent four hours sewing and then unpicking some facings planned for the trousseau of Mademoiselle Henrietta of England, because the colours initially chosen were too close to those of the English republican supporters and might have displeased the English Court …’
‘Are you happy?’ Gabriel cut in suddenly, taking her hand.
Louise lowered her eyes as if looking for her slender fingers lost in Gabriel’s broad, fidgety hands. Then she looked up and met his gaze.
‘I don’t know if I’m happy,’ she replied. ‘But my heart is beating again, I encounter surprise after surprise, and I feel as if anything is possible! You know, it’s strange, at night here I sometimes dream of the meadows where we used to walk. And in those dreams I miss them; yet in recent months, before I arrived at Court, they bored me to death.’
Gabriel’s eyes followed her as she suddenly got to her feet, a dreamy look on her face.
‘I loved those meadows with you, when the field behind your uncle’s house seemed like the Americas to us and we told each other stories about the unicorns hiding in the woods around the chateau where I lived. Do you remember? By the time you left, the unicorns were long gone. Well, arriving here, I feel as if I’m again discovering an unknown world. A beautiful world: it’s impressive, terrifying sometimes, but wondrous, don’t you think?’
‘My situation is different, Marquise,’ Gabriel answered, teasing her. ‘You live in a palace, I live in a hovel …’
It was almost two o’clock in the afternoon when Louise left. Gabriel accompanied her down to the street, and they promised they would see each other again as soon as possible. As the young man watched her go, filled with emotion, his thoughts returned to the incredible discovery of his own father’s signature on the Cardinal’s coded papers. Everything was mixed up in his head, making him feel dizzy.
Lost in thought, Gabriel did not notice the man watching him attentively, hidden in the carriage entrance on the other side of Rue des Lions Saint-Paul.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Rome – Tuesday 8 February, eleven o’clock in the morning
ARRIVING by way of Via Giulia, a little early for his appointment, François d’Orbay took some time examining the outside of the palace where he was to meet the Archbishop of Paris. On a fine sunny morning like this, the Parisian architect could marvel endlessly at the second floor and the cornice designed by Michelangelo himself. He stood outside the building for a while, contemplating the very special harmony of its façade built, it was said, with materials taken from the city’s ancient ruins. The largest private palace in Rome exuded an atmosphere that was at once austere and imposing: doubtless a reflection of its first owner, Pope Julian III, thought d’Orbay.
‘Kindly inform His Excellency that Monsieur François d’Orbay has arrived,’ the visitor told the man in red livery who had just opened the door of the Farnese Palace with a flourish.
‘Monsieur is expected,’ replied the servant in French, but with a strong Italian accent. ‘If Monsieur would be kind enough to follow me …’
As he entered the building, d’Orbay once again admired the interior garden, which constituted one of its masterpieces. In the great gallery, he could not resist pausing for a moment, dazzled by the radiant sumptuousness of the vaulted roof, painted a century earlier by Carrache. This baroque design, directly inspired by mythology, shone with a joyous plethora of colours that was in itself fascinating. As he reached the door to Paul de Gondi’s office, the architect pulled himself together. He had not come that morning to enjoy the riches of the palace occupied by the Archbishop of Paris.
‘Monsieur François d’Orbay,’ announced the servant, stepping aside to allow the visitor to pass.
D’Orbay bowed deeply. When he looked up he was impressed, as he always was at their meetings, by his host’s alert, almost youthful air. Simply dressed in a cassock, Paul de Gondi stood up to greet his visitor and walked towards him with a broad, welcoming smile on a face lit by dark, penetrating eyes. It’s hard to believe that this is the man who made the King of France tremble, forced Mazarin into exile and almost seized power; the man who inspired the greatest conspiracies of the century; the former prisoner who escaped from the Château de Nantes! thought d’Orbay. Nobody would think he’s forty-eight years old!
Exiled to Rome since the failure of the Fronde rebellion, Gondi had retained the noble bearing of those who love to dazzle, despite his many exhausting wanderings during the ensuing years. As a result of assiduously spending time with men of great faith, the former brilliant theology student had also cultivated a suave manner that made him even more charming. The two men had got acquainted through spending time together during the architect’s stay in Rome the previous year.
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br /> ‘How happy I am to see you in Rome once again, my dear d’Orbay! When did you arrive? Was your journey a pleasant one? What news is there of our capital?’
The Archbishop vigorously clasped François d’Orbay’s hands in his. A little taken aback by this torrent of words and surprised by the unexpected show of affection, the architect hardly knew which question to answer first.
‘A thousand thanks for receiving me this morning, Monseigneur. I too am delighted to see you again in this city, and especially to find you in good health.’
‘Please, do take a seat,’ said Paul de Gondi, indicating an armchair.
‘Monseigneur, as we agreed I have come to show you some sketches for the painted screens which you would like made,’ said the architect, reaching into his bag and handing the Archbishop a rolled-up document.
‘Excellent, excellent,’ said Gondi, carefully examining the charcoal drawings depicting his favourite heroes from ancient Greece. ‘You praised your craftsmen’s skills very highly to me; when will you be able to set them to work? Now that I have seen these sketches, I am impatient to admire the final result and have them here before me.’
‘Monseigneur, your impatience flatters me. I imagine that I shall be able to fulfil your expectations by the summer.’
‘Excellent, excellent. I am told that Mazarin is at death’s door,’ commented the Archbishop, suddenly changing the subject. ‘Is there really hope that the Kingdom of France will soon be rid of that villain?’
‘Monseigneur, for several days the Chief Minister has not left his bedchamber, and he has ordered his secretariat to put his papers in order …’
‘The better to conceal the shameful origins of his fortune!’ Gondi interrupted with sudden excitement. ‘By the grace of God, I am at last to be avenged for all these years of injustice. Your words confirm my own intelligence. I have maintained strong friendships right up to the doors of the King’s apartments, you know.’