The Sun King Conspiracy

by Yves Jégo

  This information instantly had a calming effect on Colbert. So the investigation was advancing, and his bloodhound had done some rather good work.

  ‘Very well,’ said Colbert soberly, ‘continue your enquiries. I have a feeling that you are on the right track. I also want to know what our religious friends are saying. Pay your informants handsomely to find out precisely what rumours are in circulation amongst the zealots. And try by the same means to obtain details as to how this little world is linked with the Court, and in particular with the Superintendent, whose influence in those quarters is known. As for this man Gabriel, do not let him out of your sight and report back to me as soon as possible!’

  Charles Perrault backed out of the room, executing several obsequious bows.

  Deep in thought, Colbert shivered. He stood up to throw a log into the immense fireplace, picked up a crystal decanter from a small table and removed the stopper. As he poured himself a glass of port, he congratulated himself on entrusting this task to young Perrault, who was carrying it out with considerable speed.

  How strange that man is, he said to himself, by day a servile clerk to those in power, willing to commit any excess to extract the truth from the mire. At night, an author of poems and mawkish, insipid tales. At some point I must learn how to make use of his ambiguities.

  Then, thinking through the consequences of what he had just learned, Colbert returned to his table. With a little luck, if everything continued to unfold according to his plans, Fouquet would not survive the process. He returned to his work with a smile, murmuring:

  ‘Well, well, I’ve enough here to keep me busy all night!’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Château de Vincennes – Tuesday 15 February, ten o’clock in the morning

  THE snowfall during the night had formed a white carpet over the roof of the keep at Vincennes, and over the whole of the courtyard. It was just possible to make out the shrubs and Anne of Austria’s beloved topiary box-trees. Standing by his bedroom window, draped in a dressing gown edged with crimson fur, Cardinal Mazarin silently watched his visitors arrive. Three feet behind him, Colbert was mechanically leafing through the leather document wallet in which he kept the despatches to be examined that morning by the Council of Ministers.

  ‘All is well, Colbert; here is Lionne, always running, always late. Le Tellier has already passed by …’

  ‘Only Monsieur Fouquet is missing,’ commented Colbert, immersed in his papers.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Mazarin, tearing himself away from his contemplation with an enigmatic smile. ‘Go, my friend. You need to concentrate on our special affairs.’ He winced as he spoke, groping for an armchair to lean upon.

  Colbert rushed to his aid, but the Cardinal waved him away.

  ‘Leave me, go downstairs instead. Have the coffers arrived from the library? Yes? Well then, they are more important than what brings these gentlemen here today.’

  Seeing that Colbert was reluctant to hand over the document wallet, Mazarin took his secretary by the arm:

  ‘Up here, we will be dealing with everyday matters. Downstairs, you will be helping me with a more complex task, involving much higher stakes for the Kingdom.’

  The little man in black felt the grip on his arm tighten.

  ‘You have done a great deal, Colbert. Or rather I should say that we have done a great deal together, you know that. We have still to inscribe it for posterity though, to ensure that no scoundrel can undo what we have fought for, and in so doing sully my memory. The stakes are higher than you think,’ he repeated with a weary sigh which signified that he would not accompany his secretary any further. ‘I trust you,’ he added softly. ‘We shall discuss all this later. You will have to meet several people on my behalf … But for the moment, devote yourself to putting the accounts in order. I must have peace of mind, Colbert, peace of mind. If you can give me that, you will have no cause to regret it.’

  A shiver ran through Colbert as he bowed at these words.

  Looking exhausted, Mazarin let himself fall into a large armchair upholstered in green and red velvet, which entirely enveloped his bent form.

  With a final gesture to Colbert as he left the room, Mazarin sank deeper into the chair and closed his eyes.

  The ministers were shown in one by one and greeted the old man effusively, receiving in return an inaudible word and a vague wave of the hand.

  Four of them were now seated around a gaming table: Lionne, Secretary of State for War, looked grave and serious; Le Tellier, Crown Chancellor, wore an air of superiority which he believed his great age conferred upon him; and finally Nicolas Fouquet, the youngest and most powerful, who could barely contain his desire to begin examining the financial files that were his chief interest. Autocratic as ever, Mazarin allowed the heavy silence to drag on, and none of the ministers dared break it. His excessively made-up face could no longer conceal his weariness. At last he signalled to Le Tellier, inviting him to speak. And the rigmarole of examining the despatches began.

  ‘England, England! That is all you can talk about!’ Scarcely twenty minutes had elapsed when Mazarin suddenly raised his voice, interrupting the fierce debate on the attitude to be adopted towards the new sovereign, now restored to the English throne.

  ‘We must ensure that our boats are in her ports, that our sales and supplies of food are guaranteed. And that we prevent Holland from pressing home her advantage at the English Court by reminding the King that he was welcomed in when only a fugitive. The rest is pointless speculation. England is hostile towards us. She has changed her master, but so what? Would the scoundrels who cut off the father’s head be any less capable of cutting off the son’s? Let us pray above all that their example does not give anyone else any ideas. Such an example is like blood to a peaceable hunting dog: once it has tasted it, it will seek it out again and again. The common people, Messieurs, fear their masters less and less, and are abandoning all sense! If it were not for fear of burning in Hell for their sin, they would gladly overturn thrones. Think of Ravaillac, think of Clément!’

  Mazarin paused without appearing to notice the tremor that passed through Fouquet at these words.

  ‘We must not scatter our forces,’ he went on. ‘Messieurs, we are no longer at war! The alliances we seek are for the purposes of trading!’

  His voice became harsher again as he was carried away by his growing anger:

  ‘The enemies we fight are within our borders, in our own antechambers. The blessed time when monarchies confronted each other as power against power is past: it is the very idea of monarchy that our enemies, nurtured on fantasy, rise up to destroy! Free-thinkers consider us too devout, the devout regard us as libertines, and all of them continue to conspire, year after year, century after century! My God what a burden, what a burden!’

  Worn out by this tirade, the Chief Minister sank back into his armchair once again.

  ‘Might we usefully seek credit in England at least?’ demanded Fouquet, moving forward to allow Mazarin to hear him more clearly. ‘The coffers are proving difficult to fill, Monsieur Cardinal, and it could be a way of putting pressure on our Italian bankers by showing that we can do without them …’

  ‘Stop there, Monsieur. I cannot believe that we have less credit in peacetime than we had in time of war.’

  A new flame burned in his eyes as he turned towards Nicolas Fouquet.

  ‘You are the one responsible for devising ingenious ways of meeting the needs of the Crown, which I grant you are great, and in which, I concede, I do not always take the necessary interest because my duties do not leave me sufficient time. Incidentally,’ he said, addressing Le Tellier, ‘I must speak to you without delay about the need for urgent measures to check the moralistic madness of certain religious groups, which verges on heresy and rebellion. But, as regards financial manoeuvres, I am well aware of your skill,’ he turned back to Fouquet, lowering his voice and staring at him sternly. ‘I merely expect your best effort to be directed towards the public
interest …’

  To general astonishment, the Superintendent began to speak again. ‘On the subject of the financial needs of the Crown, has Your Eminence found the time to study the reports I sent him on the potential of the art trade and on the latest orders for the army? There are, I believe, quite apart from any banking negotiations, potential financial gains that the Crown could legitimately record without delay. And there are economies which I am convinced would offer His Majesty the chance to provide for the needs of his policies, and at the same time limit the drain on his subjects. If they no longer fear their masters, perhaps they might begin to learn to love them?’

  Mazarin frowned doubtfully but nodded.

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Then, turning to Le Tellier:

  ‘Monsieur Chancellor, I must inform you about Monsieur Fouquet’s reflections on the arts; and we shall talk of weapons again later. As for re-arming: forsooth! What a taste you have for war, Monsieur Superintendent!’ the Cardinal declared with false irony. ‘All those fortifications you have built on your land at Belle-Île – has the squirrel on your coat of arms turned into a lion? I thought that your India Company was involved in peaceful trade?’

  ‘Indeed it is, Monsieur Cardinal,’ Fouquet replied in a neutral tone which scarcely masked his emotion. ‘And the fortifications which my enemies like to talk about are warehouses. But those are merely my private interests. And my private interests matter little when I have the honour of maintaining the interests of the Crown.’

  Mazarin smiled once more but did not reply, his face inscrutable. When he turned towards Chancellor Le Tellier his expression had turned to one of benevolence, as if to signify that the formal part of the council was to be cut short:

  ‘Well, Monsieur Chancellor, how are the preparations for the marriage of your son Monsieur de Louvois? For my part, I am finding it difficult to involve myself as much as I would like in the nuptials of my nieces Hortense and Marie … The poor angels,’ he moaned, and tears appeared at the corners of his eyes as he raised them to the heavens.

  Pressing his hands together, the Chief Minister murmured a few words in Italian, crossed himself, then stretched out his arms to support himself on the dark wooden arms of his chair and dismissed the ministers, explaining that, if he hoped to disprove his doctors, he must rest again.

  When his visitors had left, Mazarin remained motionless for several minutes, savouring the return of silence. Opening his eyes again, he shook the little golden bell with the olive-wood handle which never left his side. The footsteps of his butler grated on the wooden floor. Dreamily, Mazarin said without looking at him:

  ‘Tell Colbert to come up and see me.’

  The servant left discreetly and the Chief Minister commented to himself:

  ‘Isn’t it funny that after so many years, I still sometimes have difficulty distinguishing deceitfulness from honesty … Their outward appearances are so alike!’

  Sitting up straight he added with a sigh:

  ‘Sheep, insipid courtiers; and what about him: I can never tell if his impetuosity … But I have no more time for daydreams and half measures. More’s the pity. No more time.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Palais-Royal Theatre – Tuesday 15 February, eleven o’clock in the morning

  ‘MURDER! Murder! Help! Somebody, help!’

  It was Julie’s voice. Gabriel, who had just arrived at the theatre, rushed down the corridor in the direction of the shouts and discovered the troupe’s concierge on the floor. He was struggling as best he could with two men who had him in their grasp, while the young actress, in tears, looked on in terror. Curled up with his arms wrapped around his head, the old man strove to protect himself from his attackers’ blows. Gabriel grabbed one of them by the collar and hauled him upright, smashing his fist full into the man’s face with all his youthful strength. The man’s nose split open and blood poured out, spattering his white shirt as he crumpled under the violence of the blow.

  ‘Run,’ shouted the other man.

  Fast as lightning he leapt forward, opened the window and jumped into the void, swiftly followed by Gabriel, who was determined to overpower him. The young actor landed quite well, as the ground-floor window gave directly onto one of the narrow streets that bordered the theatre. The alleyway was crowded with people heading for the nearby vegetable market. The concierge’s assailant dodged between the handcarts of the traders, who cursed the mayhem caused by the men’s chase. At each street corner, Gabriel feared he would see the fugitive vanish into the mass of people. After at least five breathless minutes chasing at top speed through the capital’s maze of narrow, slippery streets, the young man reached the banks of the Seine, panting for breath. The ruffian had seized a boat that had doubtless been moored there by a fisherman who had gone to sell his fish in the market, and he was now speeding off up the river. As there were no other boats available, Molière’s secretary realised that he had lost this round. He retraced his steps resolving to force the man left on the floor to talk and strode purposefully back towards the theatre. The blood still pounding in his temples.

  ‘Gabriel, where were you? I was desperately worried,’ said Julie when he hove into view.

  ‘Where is that scum? I’m going to wring the truth from him!’ raged the young man, still furious at the other’s escape.

  ‘He got away; we weren’t able to detain him,’ said the concierge. ‘Thank you, Gabriel. Without you, I would certainly have died,’ he murmured, his eyes moist.

  The poor man’s distraught expression showed how afraid he had been.

  As the troupe gathered around them, warmly congratulating Gabriel on his bravery, the concierge sat on a chair to get his breath back and requested a glass of brandy. At the mere sight of the alcohol, colour began to return to the man’s face.

  ‘Well, what happened?’ Gabriel asked the concierge, who was clearly restored by the drink.

  ‘Ever since I found that scoundrel flattened on the stage, misfortune seems to have dogged our steps,’ he lamented. ‘First there were those whistles and jeers the other evening, which made good Monsieur Molière ill, and then there were the Cardinal’s policemen, who searched the theatre all day yesterday, from the cellars to the attics. Who knows what they were looking for!’

  ‘The Cardinal’s police!’ Gabriel exclaimed, anxious and incredulous.

  ‘Yes, the very same! They questioned me for three hours about each one of you,’ went on the concierge. ‘I thought they were going to arrest me and lock me away in those terrible cellars of the Conciergerie. Anyone would think that actors were enemies of the King! They wanted to know everything about the company, including where you live, and the people you associate with. Well, I just told them what I knew. As if I could investigate the private lives of the people who work here! And then this morning, just as I was sweeping the main auditorium, I came face to face with those two bandits. Lord knows where they sprang from.’

  ‘But what on earth are all these men searching for?’ said Julie.

  ‘How should I know?’ replied the concierge. ‘They told me they wanted “their documents”. I had barely recovered from the surprise when they jumped on me and shook me violently by the shoulders. By some miracle, I was able to escape their clutches for a moment. But these old legs aren’t as supple as they used to be,’ he said, slapping his thighs. ‘They caught me again just as you arrived, Mademoiselle. The more I told them I didn’t know what they meant by documents, the harder they hit me. They would have killed me, those villains, if you had not intervened, Monsieur Gabriel,’ the concierge repeated, pouring himself another glass of brandy.

  When he was sure the concierge was restored, the young man considered for a moment. All these people were searching for the documents he had found, whose code he had been unable to break. The presence in the theatre of the Cardinal’s police, and now of a band of mysterious attackers, was extremely worrying.

  I must be careful not to mention this to anyone, he thought. Damn it, I won’t hand ov
er that document case, even if the Devil himself comes asking for it – not before I’ve solved the mystery and discovered why my father’s signature is on the Cardinal’s papers!

  ‘You seem worried. What are you thinking about, my sweet?’ Julie asked him, taking him by the arm to join the rest of the troupe.

  ‘I’m thinking about my father.’

  ‘Your father? But I thought he died a long time ago.’

  ‘So did I,’ Gabriel replied, putting his arm round her and leading the way as they hurried towards the main auditorium, where the troupe had assembled.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Château de Fontainebleau – Thursday 17 February, four o’clock in the afternoon

  ‘THE King!’

  With a great rustling of fabric, the mass of courtiers crushed into the audience chamber at the Château de Fontainebleau respectfully greeted the King with the ritual dance of bows and curtseys. The men swept off their hats, and the women knelt within the circles of their ample gowns. The King walked slowly across the silent hall, smiling at no one in particular, not even at his wife the Queen, whose full attention was taken up with keeping precisely in step with him. The little Spanish princess had become Queen of France six months earlier, by arrangement between the two powers. Pale, and with that aura of fragility which always surrounded her, she was still nervous about the strange etiquette of the Court, executed as it was in a foreign language; an etiquette whose false simplicity and curious whims she could not understand. The royal couple reached the throne, and the King gestured to the assembly to rise. Then he looked questioningly at his secretary, who held the running order of the session. An ambassador stepped forward, bearing credentials, which Lionne came over to receive in the King’s name. The monarch listened with a fixed smile to the formal message, delivered in a strong accent by the Nordic diplomat. The King’s thoughts carried him far from this chamber and from these faces that he knew rather too well but did not trust. He was riding in the forests of Versailles, and carousing, perpetuating the ideal of knightly combat that he so relished, in contrast to the horrors of civilian life. Absorbed in his thoughts, he did not smile, and the Queen feared her husband was annoyed because she did not understand what was expected of her. The father who had just stepped forward to present his daughter officially to the Court thought that he had committed some fatal error. A hush descended. Everyone held their breath. Pulling himself together, the King managed a faint smile and a nod of the head, enabling the ceremony to proceed.