The Sun King Conspiracy

by Yves Jégo

  The architect told himself that he had been right to request this audience. Despite his exile, the man who had been one of the leaders of the Fronde rebels in 1648 clearly still had eyes and ears all over Paris.

  It remains to be seen whether the Archbishop of Paris is capable of hatching a new conspiracy by uniting those still nostalgic for the Fronde, and then coming to upset our plans, thought d’Orbay.

  ‘Nonetheless, I fear that Mazarin may succeed in manipulating destiny one more time,’ went on the Archbishop, his expression suddenly anxious. ‘That scoundrel will use his last ounce of strength to pillage the State exchequer. You will see: he will make all or part of his immense fortune disappear into his family’s pockets. Doubtless he is already destroying the papers which would compromise him.’

  He broke off for a moment, as if to reflect upon some intricate point, then changed the subject again:

  ‘My Parisian friends are convinced that the most committed religious networks have already been reactivated. Do you have any information on that subject?’

  Prudently, d’Orbay did not answer immediately.

  ‘All Paris is in turmoil, Monseigneur. After all these years, Mazarin’s victims are so numerous. It is difficult to determine whether one camp will be able to triumph over the other. As for the Court, it speculates whether the young King has the capability to operate alone once his godfather is dead. In the salons, there is incessant chattering about the profusion of influences which will come to supplant the Italian in the sovereign’s mind.’

  ‘And the common people?’ Gondi asked again. ‘What is their talk of? What are they saying? What are the rumblings?’

  ‘Their mood is difficult to grasp. I believe Mazarin himself no longer perceives the changes of mood in the King of France’s subjects with the same precision as before. It is like the end of an era; other aspirations are emerging. Europe has seen more sizeable rebellions in the last twenty years than during the previous hundred. Rebellions that were, moreover, unforeseen – without famine, without excessive taxes. I myself believe that the Kingdom’s destiny will depend to an extent upon the ability of future Mazarins to comprehend these developments.’

  ‘And how is the good Monsieur Colbert?’

  ‘As usual, he is putting all his knowledge and skills to the service of his master,’ replied François d’Orbay.

  The Archbishop nodded and seemed once again lost in thought.

  ‘You are right. Mazarin’s death will unleash profound upheavals. Everything depends on who comes to power. The post of Chief Minister will be vacant tomorrow, but there may prove to be many candidates.’

  The Archbishop spoke more softly.

  ‘Nicolas Fouquet, for example … I am told that he is currently arming troops at his estates on Belle-Île. But doubtless you know more than I do on that subject, my dear d’Orbay, since you are the architect of the chateau being built at Vaux-le-Vicomte by the Superintendent of Finance?’

  From this reply, the architect deduced that their conversation about the future of the Kingdom would go no further.

  ‘I fear, Monseigneur, that I have no further information on that subject.’

  Clearly, Paul de Gondi had no desire to reveal his opinion on Fouquet, nor for that matter to reveal his intentions for the future. As the conversation moved on to less weighty subjects, the architect told himself that his host had remained faithful to his legendary self: cautious, very well informed, but above all puffed up with pride.

  As he left the Farnese Palace just as the bells of Sainte-Béatrice were striking noon, François d’Orbay was convinced that the former Fronde members had no clear strategy as the death of their old Italian enemy approached.

  That should simplify our task, he told himself as he turned round to take a last admiring glance at the design of the palace’s façade.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Vaux-le-Vicomte – Sunday 13 February, ten o’clock in the morning

  THE dust raised by the twenty horses of the escort swirled around their riders, obscuring the blue livery of the Light Cavalry. It even clouded the view of the passengers in the carriage, which rattled at breakneck speed along the road to Fontainebleau. Despite this, the man sitting in the place of honour, dressed in a purple and gold cloak and black-leather riding boots, attempted to make out the landscape as he removed his gloves and warmed his hands on a small brazier placed in the middle of the floor.

  Seated to the right of Fouquet, François d’Orbay shivered as he felt the crisp morning cold begin to penetrate his shoes and clothing.

  ‘We’re almost there,’ he whispered, leaning towards his neighbour. ‘Look, you can just see the milestones for the old village of Vaux, with Les Jumeaux on the right, and to the left Maison-Rouge and the hill where the old chateau stood; we used its stones for foundations. The estate is very close now.’

  Nicolas Fouquet carefully put his gloves back on, wriggling his fingers to ensure that they were absolutely in place.

  ‘It’s all right, Monsieur d’Orbay, the cold is not as bitter as all that and I find the journey restful; I know that it will end with a sight that fills me with joy, a welcome change from the worries that make up the daily round.’

  For a moment, Fouquet seemed deep in thought, his regular features relaxed and his green eyes half closed.

  The silence was broken by his young secretary, who was seated on the bench opposite:

  ‘Robillard, Le Vau and Le Brun are already there, waiting for us. Puget is not – he has gone to take delivery of the marble we discussed earlier …’

  ‘Good, good,’ cut in the Superintendent of Finance. ‘We can see that when we get there and tour the gardens. No news of His Eminence, then?’

  ‘A message will be brought to us at Vaux, Monsieur; I have requested a report on his condition at daybreak to be brought to us without delay. I have also asked that any mail for the King’s household be included.’

  Fouquet blinked his assent and shivered, then turned smiling towards the architect huddled beside him:

  ‘So, Monsieur d’Orbay, is your snow-palace much further? Monsieur Le Vau, your father-in-law, will be frozen stiff waiting for us to get there!’

  The fourth passenger smiled.

  ‘What a wonderful idea of yours it was, Nicolas, this Vaux,’ he said plaintively. ‘Monsieur d’Orbay, I hear that you would happily have built His Excellency’s chateau in New France, in Quebec or Sainte-Louise …’

  It was Fouquet’s turn to smile.

  ‘That’s enough, Monsieur de La Fontaine. If you want my advice, Monsieur d’Orbay, avoid the company of poets, or at least don’t expect serious conversation from them. For my part, if Monsieur de La Fontaine didn’t leave me alone once in a while, I don’t know how I would ever fulfil my duties.’

  ‘Make way for the Superintendent, make way!’

  The cry went up as the procession suddenly slowed. They could hear jostling, and a horse whinnied. Lifting the curtain that hid the interior of the coach from passers-by and slightly mitigated the icy draughts, Fouquet glanced outside, looking disapprovingly at the cavalry who were barking orders at the crowd.

  ‘It’s the stonemasons rolling blocks for the completion of the entrance, Monseigneur,’ commented d’Orbay.

  ‘There’s no need for all that bellowing. We can surely wait a moment, until they’ve moved on,’ grumbled Fouquet as he dropped the curtain. ‘Are we in such a hurry that we must behave so odiously all the time? Really, anyone would think they want to make me unpopular …’

  The carriage moved slowly through the group of workmen, who cursed under their breath. The little procession was now travelling along a roadway bordered by young chestnut trees, the horses’ hooves clattering on newly laid paving stones.

  ‘The trees have grown even taller,’ noted Fouquet with satisfaction. ‘Even the bad weather does not stop them.’

  The secretary seated opposite the Superintendent was about to take advantage of the ensuing silence to speak. Char
itably, La Fontaine laid a hand on his arm just as he raised it and opened his mouth to begin.

  The secretary looked in astonishment at the poet, who indicated with a rueful little smile that he should not make the mistake of talking. In the years he had known the Superintendent, he had learnt to recognise when he would be receptive, and when he was allowing himself one of those rare moments of repose which should not be interrupted on any account. And especially those moments that La Fontaine privately termed ‘Dreams of Vaux’. He had seen the man he thought of as a friend rather than a protector lapse into these reveries several times during the regular trips he made from his Saint-Mandé residence to see the progress of work on the chateau. They almost always occurred just as the carriage was slowing before turning right, and then finally stopping, directly in front of the great wrought-iron gate emblazoned with the Superintendent’s coat of arms.

  Light poured in through the carriage door as the postillion opened it, hurrying to pull down the steps. The dazzled passengers remained seated for a second, then Fouquet half rose and extricated himself from the vehicle. One after another, the four men alighted. La Fontaine, who was last to emerge, felt the cold strike his face. Seeing Fouquet stand motionless, he too turned his gaze towards the magnificent main body of the chateau. Viewed through the thick bars of the gate, the refinement of its construction seemed enhanced to the visitors. Light radiated onto the sculptures on the façade, descending to form a golden halo over the view of the gardens which could just be made out through the immense windows, as though lit from behind. La Fontaine was struck by the wonder of this sight each time he came. He felt his chest contract as he noted the progress, the details that had been added since his last visit. Was it the cold, or was it emotion? Suddenly a shiver ran right through him. Surrounded by cold light, the chateau seemed even more beautiful than he remembered it.

  The frenzied scurrying of servants, almost fighting each other to open the gate, contrasted with Fouquet’s slow pace. Although accustomed to a life filled with emergencies and constant hurrying, of exhausting his colleagues with questions and new ideas, Fouquet now suddenly seemed bathed in a calm, serene joy. Five years had elapsed since the Superintendent had decided to build a chateau here, contrary to all expectations. Five years in which to recruit the very finest from each profession: the most expert gardeners, the most talented architects, including the young and brilliant d’Orbay. As was his custom, Fouquet had watched his dream coming to fruition, supervising the professionals while allowing their desires free rein. It seemed to La Fontaine that at each stage, Fouquet’s obvious joy at being constantly surprised by new ideas was in proportion to his satisfaction at seeing how closely the project resembled his plan. The decision to abandon the classical structure of the central body and the two attached wings, the layout of the gardens and even the strange shape of the dome, which had appeared at the centre of the structure a few days previously, all testified to this.

  D’Orbay’s voice brought the Superintendent reluctantly back to reality.

  ‘We are about to go through the central entrance. You see, the colonnades are ready to be put into position and there … oh! Be careful not to twist your ankle … these planks on the ground will be gone shortly, as soon as the green and white marble flooring arrives from Italy.’

  ‘Those weren’t there before, were they?’ observed the Superintendent, indicating two groups of huts built along the wall of the outhouses.

  ‘A temporary orangery,’ explained d’Orbay. ‘The real one hasn’t yet been built. The trees arrived recently and they don’t tolerate the cold as well as we do. This way, they are sheltered and the windows provide them with enough light.’

  ‘Ingenious,’ murmured Fouquet. ‘Is that where all the plants are kept?’ he added, lowering his voice and taking d’Orbay by the arm.

  The architect nodded.

  ‘Only to help them grow before they are transplanted,’ he replied in the same discreet tone. ‘I have been able to satisfy myself that all the species we were expecting have arrived.’

  They crossed the entrance hall and the ceremonial salons, and headed for the steps leading to the gardens. Fouquet, who had quickened his pace, suddenly stopped.

  ‘Has something changed?’ enquired La Fontaine.

  ‘Indeed, Monsieur de La Fontaine,’ replied d’Orbay. ‘Since His Excellency’s last visit, I have worked on site, implementing plans for altering the central structure of the dome. That is the rounded structure you observed just above your head that masks the supporting framework. There are in fact two domes, one on top of the other. I had the idea last year in Rome, inspired by the works of the supreme masters.’

  ‘I would be curious to know the details,’ remarked La Fontaine, looking up.

  The elegant, rounded dome was thirty feet above their heads. Held aloft by fourteen statues, it already bore pencilled outline sketches of its planned decorations and seemed to be suspended in mid-air.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Jean-Baptiste Colbert’s residence – Sunday 13 February, five o’clock in the afternoon

  COLBERT gave an exhausted sigh and rubbed his large eyes. He had been seated at his desk for more than two hours. With his usual minute attention to detail, he was carefully examining the accounting documents the Cardinal had handed him before leaving for Vincennes. The room he worked in was vast and well lit, thanks to two large windows with superb views of the gardens. But on this late afternoon in February the daylight was fast fading, and he had called for additional candelabra to provide light for his work. The fire crackled in the hearth behind him, spreading gentle warmth across his back. Colbert was sensitive to the cold, and he was starting to feel numb from the prolonged inactivity. Although he was a faithful colleague who had made himself indispensable to His Eminence over the years, he was well aware that time was no longer on his side. And what was worse, as the days passed he was increasingly gripped by an icy fear. Everything depends on me, he thought at intervals, with a feeling of both dread and excitement.

  When Mazarin had decided to put his affairs in order in preparation for death, Colbert had undertaken to see to it all himself, as usual: exhausting though the work was, he fully expected to reap numerous benefits by doing it.

  Although most people failed to notice it, his ambition was rampant. He had mapped out a swift and audacious route to the summit of State. A decisive stage in his conquest was being played out at the Chief Minister’s bedside, of that Colbert was aware. Like a chess player, he calculated his next move. His devotion to the Cardinal was in fact intended to win over the young King.

  ‘Enter,’ he said without looking up, when he heard a knock at the door.

  ‘Monsieur Charles Perrault wishes to see you,’ announced the servant as he opened it.

  ‘Show him in,’ replied Colbert, impatient for news of the investigation he had ordered following the fire in the Cardinal’s library two days earlier.

  Charles Perrault approached him, bowing several times. The lawyer always displayed great deference, despite a cantankerous disposition entirely at odds with his acknowledged talent as a writer. Colbert had entrusted him with solving the mystery of the attack and theft as quickly as possible.

  ‘So, Perrault, what is the current situation?’ demanded Colbert impatiently.

  ‘Murky, to say the least, but we are making progress on several fronts. First of all, we have identified the young boy found dead on the stage of the Palais-Royal theatre. He was a wretch known as Le Jeune who had no family; he lived more or less at Cour des Miracles and was known for his skill with knives. His accoutrements and religious trinkets incline me to believe that he belonged to a group of zealots.’

  ‘You believe, or you are sure?’ Colbert interrupted, irritated by Perrault’s lack of precision.

  ‘It is my firm conviction, Monsieur, strengthened moreover by the testimony of Toussaint Roze.’

  So, we’re back to the zealots, thought Colbert, intrigued.

  ‘Our
investigations are concentrating on the Palais-Royal theatre, from which the burglars escaped. I have searched the place from top to bottom, so far without success.’

  ‘Make the theatre employees and those villainous actors talk,’ snapped Colbert, becoming increasingly irritated.

  ‘We have spent the last two days questioning them. I have even had several of them followed. In particular a fellow named Gabriel, who works as a secretary. He joined Molière’s company only recently, and it seemed to me he was behaving strangely. Yesterday evening, as he was leaving the theatre, he had a public fight with Berryer on a minor pretext.’

  Colbert’s eyebrows arched upwards at the sound of this name. He knew Berryer extremely well; he had acted for him as an agent in certain delicate – and fruitful – matters. The previous evening, he had personally instructed him, in the utmost secrecy, to attend the premiere of Molière’s new play with several accomplices and heckle the performance. By so doing, he hoped to nip the author’s ambitions in the bud, as he considered Molière to be one of Fouquet’s lackeys. The sudden appearance of his own henchmen in the investigation into the burglary of Mazarin’s private office made him uneasy.

  ‘I want to know everything about this man Gabriel. Does he have a surname? Where does he come from? Who are his contacts in Paris? Everything, Perrault,’ shouted Colbert. ‘Do you hear? Everything!’

  ‘He received a visit from an extremely pretty young woman at his home in Rue des Lions Saint-Paul,’ continued Charles Perrault, without flinching at Colbert’s rage. ‘It was Louise de La Vallière, Henrietta of England’s new companion. She is to be presented to the King in a fortnight’s time. She spent more than two hours in the company of this man Gabriel. All that time in such an unsafe district, and what’s more in the bedroom of a stranger; it all seems very peculiar for a young girl of good breeding who has only just moved to Paris.’