The Sun King Conspiracy

by Yves Jégo

  Jabach clasped his hands beneath his chin and sighed.

  ‘For your account?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘Openness demands clarity, Monsieur Superintendent: for your account or for the King’s account? For one is good but the other – openness demands this,’ he added, indicating the walls and the door ‘– is less so … Having seen loans not repaid, securities guaranteed by Treasury receipts suddenly transformed at a stroke into ordinary securities, that is to say into thin air …’

  Fouquet felt irritation overtaking him. He really intends to stick to the rule and he is adept at using it to his advantage, he thought.

  ‘The money is for my account, Monsieur, and both the guarantee and the repayments will come from my own pocket. But the service for which this money will be used is indeed the King’s.’

  Jabach looked doubtful.

  ‘You are taking terrible risks, Monsieur Superintendent. A crown is a heavy burden to wear when one is not its owner … And as for the gratitude of Kings …’

  Fouquet cut him short with a wave of the hand.

  ‘Let us leave it there, Monsieur. It is all very well to be frank, but there are some areas which are best left unexplored. Suffice it to say that faithfulness and devotion to a cause do not necessarily render one blind. Besides, I am an old hand at these exercises. Twenty years of practice in financing war have taught me everything I need to know.’

  Jabach opened his arms wide and smiled as a sign of acceptance.

  ‘Then so be it, Monsieur Superintendent, you are in command, and God preserve me from knowing any more. You shall have your money. That is to say, the money,’ he corrected himself, indicating the door.

  As if by magic, the door had just swung open on its hinges.

  Fouquet was first to emerge. As he crossed the threshold of the room, he turned back to take one last look at Raphael’s Madonna.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Château de Vincennes – Sunday 27 February, ten o’clock in the morning

  TOUSSAINT Roze dipped his quill pen into the inkwell, carefully wiped away the excess ink, and turned to look at the Cardinal, his arm suspended above a sheet already covered with his small, precise handwriting. Jules Mazarin was sitting in his comfortable armchair, which was upholstered in red and green stripes and embossed with his coat of arms. As he dictated, he frantically juggled the few sheets of paper that littered his desk:

  ‘“And we give to the community of the Brothers of the Humility of Christ …” Ah, but where are they?’ he grumbled.

  Colbert, who was standing behind his master, swiftly extracted a sheet buried under a pile and calmly indicated a line which had been crossed out several times.

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Mazarin seized the document. ‘Note this down, Roze: “we give the sum of one thousand livres, and the enjoyment by full ownership of the benefice attached to the parish of Saint-Fiacre de …” Oh, a plague upon the village!’ he raged.

  Closing his eyes, he let himself fall back, struggling for breath.

  ‘Rabastens,’ whispered Colbert, who nodded to Roze’s questioning look that he should note down this name.

  ‘Rabastens, that’s the one. And now we have finished with the abbeys, have we not?’

  Colbert nodded and was about to take away the pile of jumbled papers corresponding to each chapter when Mazarin’s hand suddenly stopped him, as though it had received a jolt of energy. His voice grew harder:

  ‘But we have not seen the Châtellerault living, which I have promised to Abbé Soulet, have we?’

  Colbert looked sour but did not reply.

  ‘Write, Roze,’ said Mazarin icily: ‘“and as a sign of the friendship, yes, yes, of the friendship we bear towards Abbé Soulet, we give the benefice of the living of the Église Saint-Roch in Châtellerault and the surrounding land, which amounts to …” You will have to ask Monsieur Colbert for the overall surface area; he must know it, since he crossed it off the list.’

  Without looking at Colbert, Mazarin allowed a second to elapse before he continued frostily:

  ‘I do not know what grievances you hold against him, Colbert, but now is not the time to settle the score. And never forget that no score is settled in this house without my being informed.’

  ‘I thought it pointless to trouble Your Eminence …’ exclaimed Colbert.

  ‘That is enough,’ cut in Mazarin, ‘I am not yet in my senile death-throes. And it never wearies me to hear talk of rewards and punishments. In fact, organising their distribution has been one of my life’s rare entertainments,’ he added, his voice benevolent once again. ‘Come, Messieurs, let us move on to the officers of the King.’

  The morning dragged on. Roze voiced his concern several times at the growing fatigue of the Cardinal, who was visibly exhausted after drafting text for four hours without a break.

  ‘All that remains is for me to sign?’ asked the Cardinal, his voice barely audible. ‘I shall do so later; my trembling hand would leave a signature unworthy of the archives of France. What is the total?’ he asked Roze.

  The secretary’s tongue protruded as, one last time, he mechanically added up in the margin of the drafted will the figures accumulated during the morning and over the past few days.

  ‘Forty-two, three, seven and five make twelve, add … Forty-seven million, six hundred and ninety-four thousand two hundred and thirty-three livres, not including the books that have not been valued, and pending a further valuation of the works of art personally owned by Your Eminence and the most valuable gemstones, which are to be bequeathed to the royal family. The “English Rose”, a fourteen-carat diamond, for the Queen Mother, a cluster of fifty diamonds for the Queen, thirty-one emeralds for Monsieur …’

  Mazarin interrupted the tally with a wave of his hand.

  ‘There is no need to go back over it in detail. Simply read me the codicil for the Queen Mother which follows the insertion concerning the diamond. I want to be sure I have worded it correctly …’

  Roze leafed through the bundle of papers beside him.

  ‘“We give to the Queen …”’, his slow voice was still searching, ‘“everything she would like from our palace in Paris.” That’s it, Eminence.’

  ‘Yes, that is right,’ commented Mazarin.

  In the ensuing silence, Colbert narrowed his eyes. His two thumbs linked on his belt toyed mechanically with each other. Mazarin sat motionless, apparently lost in thought.

  ‘All that,’ he murmured, ‘to be leaving all that …’

  Then, emerging from his dream with some regret, he turned to Colbert.

  ‘Is the clause regarding secrecy adequate? Is it precise enough?’

  ‘It is, Eminence: no viewing by anyone save the executors, no publication, and no records open to anyone except the King.’

  ‘Good,’ commented Mazarin. ‘Monsieur Roze,’ he said, turning towards his secretary, who was rolling sand across the last page to help it dry more quickly, ‘we have worked hard. I shall give you your freedom for the rest of today. Kindly reread what has been written with great care, and remember that this copy must be seen by no one, nor altered in the future by anyone but me.’

  Roze bowed, closed up his writing case, carefully fastened the portfolio containing the documents and left without further ado.

  Mazarin got to his feet and approached Colbert.

  ‘What about my business associates? Can you be sure of their silence too?’

  ‘I would swear to it, Eminence, all the more so since these transactions have proved extremely lucrative for them as well.’

  ‘And the total?’ he murmured, ‘the total figure, Colbert? Is it credible?’

  Colbert sighed.

  ‘We have already made a great many adjustments, Eminence … And you cannot make gifts without these signs of your generosity being reflected in your assets. But as it stands, yes, I think our inventory is well supported and plausible.’

  His pursed his lips, reflecting.

  ‘Unless, of course, the thieves carried
off secret papers which might be incriminating,’ he remarked. ‘The rubbish posted on church doors over the past few days is sufficiently worrying. The source of it is crystal clear: these same burglars have now turned to journalism. Fortunately the unrest has not spread and seems to be dying down … for the moment. The people who read the posters were not able to follow the gibberish written on them; Maximilien Piton, who is mentioned in the lampoons, is in Holland on business for several weeks – I shall see him on his return – and your guards have taken down the majority of the notices. They continue to do so, as more appeared in certain districts of the city this very morning …’

  Mazarin shuddered, then pulled himself together: Colbert could not know and must not yet know.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ he said evasively. ‘But I must have results. Is the investigation progressing?’

  ‘It is making progress, Eminence. But it would help if we knew what we were looking for.’

  Mazarin looked annoyed.

  ‘That is not important. It is the thieves who must be found. You said it yourself just now: they are the same people. Wherever they are, there too will be the documents! But to return to our subject: the total sum. It is still a problem.’

  ‘Not if no one is allowed to examine the accounts or transactions of exchange.’

  ‘No one must examine them,’ thundered Mazarin. ‘No one.’

  ‘Nor will they, Excellency.’

  ‘But what if my enemies should get it into their heads to contest the will? A will can be nullified: I know that, for I myself nullified the will of the late King Louis XIII! And what if they take their opposition to the Parlement? Not everyone there is a friend of mine!’

  The Cardinal paced around the room in silence.

  ‘In fact, they are all my enemies.’

  ‘Monsieur Fouquet is the Procureur General,’ said Colbert treacherously.

  Mazarin did not respond, but shot him a look of exasperation.

  Colbert smiled unpleasantly:

  ‘Eminence, I may perhaps have a way of ridding you of this unbearable doubt, a way which would guarantee the soundness of your will, render it unassailable, prevent any investigation into the origin of the possessions bequeathed, and thus ensure the continuance of your arrangements and, above all, your lineage.’

  Mazarin shivered:

  ‘Then speak, Colbert!’

  ‘All you need to do is to make a gift of all your possessions, Eminence. In that way, you will no longer own anything, nobody can take anything away from you, and if someone wishes to initiate a court case, they will have to initiate it against someone else.’

  Mazarin, his face ashen, seemed almost to suffocate.

  ‘But … you have lost your mind!’

  Tottering, he caught hold of the back of his armchair. Colbert offered him an arm and helped him sit down again. Then he brought his large, round head close to the Cardinal’s. The cleric’s breath was coming in short, wheezing gasps, and there were drops of sweat on his brow; he made a Herculean effort to compose himself.

  ‘Fear not, Eminence, I am never more in control of my mind than when I am thinking of your affairs,’ he said unctuously. ‘You shall see that this horrible prospect can be changed into a radiant vista, as one might change the scenery at the Théâtre des Italiens!’

  Colbert drew even closer.

  ‘The first stage of my proposal does however suffer from two disadvantages: you lose your possessions, and the court case – admittedly against someone else – may still come to pass. What can we do, then, to circumvent these problems? First of all, your recipient must be beyond the reach of a court case, and second, he must be obliged to cede your possessions back to you. Is that not brilliant?’

  Colbert’s eyes now shone with a strange light.

  ‘Against whom may one not take out legal action? Why, the King, by Jove! And who is not able to accept a legacy from one of his subjects, even if that subject is his godfather and his Chief Minister?’

  Straightening up, Colbert walked behind the desk and, placing both fists onto the leather inlay, looked straight into the Cardinal’s eyes.

  ‘So, you give all your possessions to the King. As he is unable to accept, he will restore them to you. But the fortune will no longer be yours: it will have passed through his hands and, in so doing, will have become inviolable.’

  Only the Cardinal’s gasps for breath disturbed the silence. Triumphantly, Colbert saw that his ingenious idea was taking hold in the old man’s mind.

  The Cardinal sighed; he laid a hand over one of Colbert’s as it rested on the desk.

  ‘Dear Colbert …’ was all he said.

  Then, opening his eyes and fixing Colbert with his piercing gaze:

  ‘But are you certain that he will refuse? The coffers are empty …’

  ‘I heard that Monsieur Fouquet arranged for a new loan two days ago to cover his immediate needs. And anyway … Does the King’s pride not outweigh his greed? Louis XIV wants to rule, Eminence: that comes with a price.’

  Surprised by the audacity of these words, Mazarin frowned.

  ‘Well then, let us do it, Monsieur Colbert,’ he said, resigned. ‘I place myself in your hands. Confer with Roze to arrange for a codicil to this effect. I shall sign as soon as my hand has rested.’

  Colbert bowed and was about to leave when the Cardinal called him back.

  ‘No, you shall write it yourself, Colbert, no one must know. Only the Queen; she will talk to her son.’

  Beaming, Colbert bowed once again.

  ‘As you command, Eminence,’ he said with immense gravity. ‘Next we shall speak of Hortense’s marriage contract, and of Marie’s. My God,’ he added as if to himself, ‘what a burden this is, my God …’

  The sound of the door closing informed him that Colbert had left.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Mazarin’s palace – Monday 28 February, five o’clock in the afternoon

  ‘AND who is he?’

  Julie leant her head towards Gabriel and whispered.

  ‘That man there,’ she replied, pointing discreetly, ‘is the Prince de Condé, and the lady is the Palatine princess. She has been furious ever since Olympe Mancini started scheming to take over the stewardship of the Queen’s house at her expense. See how angry she looks! The lady she’s talking to, that’s Louise de Gonzague, the wife of the King of Poland and former lady-friend of Cinq-Mars. Oh look, behind her is the Duc de Vendôme. And there’s Madame de Chevreuse. How funny this is, all the old supporters of the Fronde reunited at the Cardinal’s palace after they’ve conspired against him for so long.’

  Amused by the young girl’s excitement, Gabriel looked at her in wonder:

  ‘But how do you know all this?’

  ‘Goodness me, Monsieur Apprentice Actor, in the theatre we perform for the courtiers. And a craftsman who doesn’t know a thing about his customers cannot serve them properly. Would you go to a cobbler who didn’t know anything about your feet?’

  Gabriel smiled and shook his head. Standing in the shadow of a pillar, with their elbows resting on the balustrade which ran all the way around the gallery overlooking the grand vestibule, the two young people watched the procession of guests who had attended the wedding mass in the Cardinal’s private chapel, and were now heading for the reception halls.

  ‘What time are the entertainments?’ whispered Gabriel, suddenly serious again.

  ‘We have time,’ giggled Julie. ‘Unless Monsieur Molière comes looking for you,’ she added teasingly.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Gabriel. ‘I’ll go and see if he needs me.’

  And before Julie had time to object, he headed for the staircase that led to the ground floor.

  Downstairs, the sight of so many festive gowns and robes was even more impressive. Everything sparkled with opulence, right down to the livery of the lackeys who circulated amongst the guests to offer refreshments. Gabriel suddenly spotted the newlyweds and flattened himself against the wall in th
e shadows. Dressed in a sumptuous purple and gold gown which emphasised the fifteen-year-old’s radiance, Hortense Mancini was more ostentatiously languid than usual as she took the arm of the man who had been her husband for the past hour: Armand Charles de La Porte de La Meilleraye.

  ‘They signed the contracts this morning in front of the Cardinal himself,’ Julie had explained, ‘and they took the name of Mazarin. From now on they’ll bear it along with the titles of Duc and Duchesse, to secure the Cardinal’s lineage. He gave them a gift of more than a million livres, and guaranteed them his collection of antiques and half of his palace,’ she’d told him eagerly, as if this largesse might be contagious. ‘People are even saying that he might make them his sole legatees.’

  Gabriel’s silence had not cooled Julie’s enthusiasm.

  ‘You know, the Cardinal chose Maréchal de La Meilleraye’s son in preference to Charles Edouard de Savoie and even Charles II, the current King of England! Even though he’s almost twice her age! And do you know why? Because he’s the grand-nephew of Cardinal de Richelieu through his mother, Marie de Cossé. Through him, Mazarin has reunited his family with Richelieu’s and assured them a place in history.’

  Behind the married couple came one of Hortense’s sisters, Marie, who was visibly moved by the marriage, perhaps because her own was fixed for only a few weeks’ time.

  ‘See how sad she looks,’ Julie had said, moved to pity. ‘People say she weeps for the King, because she was desperately in love with him. And loved by him in return,’ she had added, emphasising each syllable. ‘And now she’s leaving for Italy to marry a complete stranger: Onulphe Colonna, Prince of Naples …’

  Glancing towards the main entrance, all Gabriel could see was an impressive rank of guards. The rumble of conversation drowned the music played by the chamber orchestra, led by a small, nervous man whom Julie had pointed out to him as a very promising Italian composer called Lulli, recently arrived in France.

  ‘Gabriel?’