The Sun King Conspiracy

by Yves Jégo

  ‘Wait for me in here, and whatever you do, don’t make a sound. No one must know that you’re here with me this evening!’

  When she opened the door, Louise found the King of France’s future sister-in-law collapsed on the threshold, in tears.

  ‘Madame, please get up, I beg of you! What is wrong?’ cried the young woman, disconcerted by her mistress’s great sorrow.

  She put an affectionate arm around her and helped her to her feet.

  ‘The King’s own brother, my future husband,’ sobbed Henrietta, struggling to get her breath back to finish her sentence, ‘he’s being unfaithful to me,’ she sniffed. ‘I have proof that he’s deceiving me with a man!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Hôtel d’Orléans – Saturday 5 March, seven o’clock in the evening

  HIDING in the bathroom where he had been hurriedly secreted by Louise, Gabriel heard her footsteps moving away across the wooden floor of the bedroom. Then the door closed again, and the young man was plunged into silence. The white-walled room was small and not excessively luxurious, and contained a well-made copper hip-bath as well as an earthenware bowl surmounted by a large mirror framed in gilded wood. Spotting a chair, Gabriel pushed it up against the wall and climbed onto it, bringing his head up to the level of the open skylight. Putting his elbows and chin on the edge, he was able to see the sky and by leaning over a little more and standing on the tips of his toes, he could make out the residence’s paved courtyard.

  Ah well, he thought, I’m stuck here now for goodness knows how long. I can only hope that Monsieur’s fiancée doesn’t go on for too long.

  He was about to get down from his perch when two footmen rushed forward to open the great double gates, which then admitted a coach drawn by four horses. Gabriel saw the outline of a woman descend, walk towards the front steps, and then disappear from his field of vision. Intrigued, he got down and sat on the chair, trying to recite Act I of Dom Garcie to himself to pass the time.

  His memory exercise was interrupted after a few minutes by the sound of a woman’s voice which seemed distant, but distinct. Listening carefully, Gabriel looked around the room to identify the source of the sound.

  ‘… to tell you the news without delay,’ said the woman.

  There was the sound of footsteps and moving furniture, then a few phrases he could not make out. But he thought he heard the name ‘La Vallière’, and listened twice as intently. Then there was a man’s voice, followed by the woman’s who said:

  ‘… you consider that he was awaiting the King’s decision,’

  The man’s voice thundered:

  ‘Decision! What a grand word! Does my brother think he has taken a decision?’

  Recognising the voice of Monsieur, the Duc d’Orléans, Gabriel went over to the corner of the room from where the sound seemed to be coming. He noticed a small grate set into the tiled floor. The room’s ventilation shaft was clearly linked to the chimney flue of a fireplace in one of the salons on the floor below, thus offering a channel of indiscretion.

  The man’s voice was filled with anger:

  ‘Your uncle is far too cunning to have given him the choice. Did he give him a choice in the matter of your sister?’

  There was a silence before the woman’s voice spoke again, annoyed now:

  ‘Indeed not, Monseigneur, but this minx …’

  ‘Olympe Mancini,’ murmured Gabriel to himself, recalling the face of the young woman Julie had pointed out to him at Hortense’s wedding. ‘It must be her, and the sister she is talking about is Marie, the King’s first love. But what is she doing here?’

  ‘The rumour has been verified, Monseigneur,’ said Olympe Mancini. ‘The Cardinal has made a gift of his entire fortune to the Crown. And it is also true that the King has just refused this bequest, returning my dear uncle’s possessions to him.’

  All Gabriel could hear in the ensuing silence was heavy footsteps, which he imagined belonged to the King’s brother. They stopped and his voice went on:

  ‘Well, what an audacious wager! One doesn’t give away millions of livres every day, even when one is dying. The Cardinal still has the power to astonish us.’

  ‘For my part, I detect the influence of external advice which I can easily imagine to be Monsieur Colbert’s. He hardly leaves my uncle’s side now, has assisted him at each stage in drawing up the documents, and has just been appointed the only writer fit to work on the text. And if any further proof of his influence were needed, the fear which gripped my uncle this morning before the King made known his answer to him speaks volumes … I thought that his illness was responsible for his grey complexion, but seeing as he recovered as soon as the news was brought by the Queen Mother, it seems the Cardinal really did fear right to the end that his sovereign might take him at his word.’

  ‘Candour obliges me to say that, although this is a triumph for Monsieur Colbert, we must all rejoice that the manoeuvre has succeeded: You are an heir, by Jove, but so am I, if your information is correct. And by the grace of my brother, we are now heirs with the value of our bequests guaranteed. Making him wait three days, three days before giving his answer …’

  Monsieur’s voice took on an amused tone.

  ‘In truth, it is a gesture befitting royalty and my brother is acting in accordance with his office!’

  The voice became serious once more.

  ‘All the same, the Cardinal must have been worried if he was moved to dream up such a stratagem! Is his wealth so enormous? Undoubtedly it is.’

  ‘I believe that he was unsettled by the fire the other day. And his staff’s concern to cover up the incident sounds curious to me,’ replied Olympe.

  ‘So you believe these rumours about papers being stolen?’

  ‘Having heard him when he was delirious the other day, in bed and half asleep, I really do believe that the fire coincided with the loss or the theft of something which was very dear to him …’

  ‘Well, Madame, I know you were willing to rush here from Vincennes to bring me this news,’ went on the King’s brother, ‘but what of this other subject you wished to discuss with me which, you say, concerns a companion of my future wife?’

  ‘Mademoiselle de La Vallière, yes, Monseigneur.’

  At the sound of Louise’s name, Gabriel shivered and went even closer to the grille to hear more clearly.

  ‘I would just like to put you on your guard, Monseigneur. Mademoiselle de La Vallière was presented to the King a few days ago.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘The King did her the honour of speaking to her. Nothing more than a few pleasantries, you will tell me. What is rather less mundane is the fact that the King has written to her.’

  ‘Written to her?’ repeated Monsieur, intrigued.

  ‘Yes, Monseigneur, and if my information is correct, which I have every reason to believe it is, he has written to her in terms which are strongly suggestive of a rendezvous.’

  ‘Interesting, interesting. This is nothing new, although my brother doesn’t usually take the trouble to write. Everything depends on what happens next, and also on the young woman’s mettle. Is she pretty?’ he asked in a cold voice which betrayed his lack of real interest in the subject.

  Olympe Mancini replied in a neutral tone that Mademoiselle de La Vallière was fresh and charming.

  ‘Appetising?’ enquired the King’s brother.

  ‘You could say so.’

  ‘We must keep an eye on the matter, Madame. Times are changing and your uncle’s succession will not only bring each of us increased financial security, it will also redraw the maps of power. In this game, each pawn we have on my brother’s side will be a useful mechanism to advance our cause. And we must ensure that we take account of everyone’s ambitions, and I do mean everyone. So we shall keep an eye on this young girl, just in case.’

  ‘I shall see to it personally, Monseigneur,’ replied Olympe.

  Gabriel shuddered at the cold, metallic way in which she spoke those word
s. The prince’s voice betrayed annoyance.

  ‘I hope she can also calm the rages of my future wife. Her nonsensical prattling is putting me in an ill-temper …’

  The voices became more distant, until he could no longer hear them. Then the footsteps died away and a door slammed. For a moment, silence returned. It appeared infinitely long to Gabriel, whose head was pounding. Louise … a rendezvous with the King? And threats towards her? How could he defend her without appearing to know anything? He broke into a sweat. And yet another mention of the lost papers and the red leather case which reminded him of his father and represented so many intimate things to him. How was he to decipher the documents? How could he make head or tail of it all?

  ‘Gracious me, dear Gabriel, what an expression – you look as though you’ve seen a ghost!’

  Louise’s mischievous face was framed in the half-open door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Paris, Mademoiselle de Scudéry’s salon – Sunday 6 March, nine o’clock in the evening

  AS the churches of Paris still echoed with prayers for the soul of Cardinal Mazarin, one of the capital’s most fashionable salons was buzzing with its guests’ many conversations. Society life stopped for no man; nothing seemed able to interrupt its course. Who was going to succeed as Chief Minister? Would Fouquet and Le Tellier fall into disgrace? And who would replace them? Everyone had their own ideas on the subject, according to their friendships or interests.

  Madeleine de Scudéry, mistress of the salon, pirouetted from group to group in search of confidential snippets or the latest news about one or other of the Kingdom’s inhabitants. Her loyalty to the Superintendent of Finance was well known. The author of Clélie, histoire romaine, she regarded Nicolas Fouquet as a Richelieu-like protector of the arts; in this period of political transition, she continually made strenuous efforts to sing the praises of the lord of Vaux-le-Vicomte. Her salon was one of the most popular and accommodated a random assortment of nobles who lacked any real political role, members of the bourgeoisie in search of recognition, and artists in search of a patron or an admirer. This evening, one of the attractions of the reception was the presence of Blaise Pascal, the genius who had created the arithmetical machine and a brilliant scholar of physics and mathematics. In fact, Pascal scarcely ever went out since his accident at Neuilly, on 24 November 1654. That evening, after his brush with death, Pascal had written a fervent text inspired by his encounter with God. Since that date he had become a brilliant theologian, and spent less and less time in society circles. This man whom everyone admired, and who was already afflicted by illness, was engrossed in conversation with Molière.

  ‘Well, I would wager on Zongo Ondedei. The bishop of Fréjus seems to me to be the man best suited to succeed His Eminence.’

  ‘There is also much talk about the Maréchal de Villeroy,’ replied the ever-cautious author of Les Précieuses ridicules, who was unwilling to reveal to Pascal the nature of his current links with the Superintendent.

  ‘The truth is,’ said the scholar with a sad smile, ‘that this question of succession seems to be the only matter that interests anyone in Paris, when the real subject that ought to occupy us, the only one worthy of any interest, is entirely different: it concerns the stability of the Kingdom. You see,’ he continued, noticing Molière’s expression of surprise as the playwright wondered where Pascal was leading him, ‘the common people have been bled dry; civil wars, religious wars, external wars, all these have taken their toll. They are now incapable of determining whether it is more important for them to be subjects of the King of France, or of a local squire who may tyrannise them and have a much more direct influence on their future …’

  ‘That is why we must pray that we are given a strong Chief Minister who is capable of combating these local abuses …’

  ‘Not a strong Chief Minister,’ Pascal corrected him in measured tones, ‘a just King. Where does the strength of a sovereign really lie? Not in weapons, but in the natural support of his people.’

  ‘But that is not in question: it derives from the monarchy’s sacred origins!’ Molière exclaimed.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear you say so,’ smiled Pascal. ‘But it won’t have escaped you that it was in the name of a sacred cause that our sovereign’s grandfather, Henri IV, was assassinated. For my part, I am convinced that it will be necessary in the future for a King not to rely solely on the dictates of divine law for his authority, but to complement that with another more prosaic authority based on recognition of the common people’s personal and collective happiness. Faith is vital, and it is a powerful driving force in many ways. I am, however, suspicious of it in politics, and more so with each day that passes.’

  ‘“Complement,”’ repeated Molière with quiet admiration for such boldness. ‘May it please Heaven that no one misinterprets “complement” as “replace”, Monsieur … it might be your undoing.’

  Pascal gave Molière a distant look.

  ‘Possibly. But people like us might be undone for any number of reasons, or who knows, for no reason at all. Much better to understand why things happen to us …’

  Olympe Mancini, Comtesse de Soissons, was only a few feet away, dressed in a very severe and sober gown; she had arranged for Louise de La Vallière to be introduced to her. She was trying to obtain information from the girl about the incident which had allegedly occurred the previous day between Henrietta of England and Monsieur, the King’s brother.

  ‘How is your mistress this morning?’ asked the Cardinal’s niece after the usual exchange of compliments. ‘Rumour has it that she has been ill since yesterday evening?’

  ‘His Majesty’s future sister-in-law will be happy to know of the Comtesse’s concern for her health,’ replied Louise evasively.

  She realised at that moment that everyone in Paris must have found out about poor Henrietta’s misfortune.

  The ways of folk in the capital are very strange, she said to herself, thinking again of Louis XIV, who had recently begun to preoccupy her.

  In the neighbouring room, Jean de La Fontaine was involved in a debate between Colbert’s supporters and Fouquet’s. As a faithful friend, the author was energetically defending the Superintendent of Finance.

  Meanwhile, as Molière had insisted on bringing him to this salon, Gabriel was trying without success to find someone who might help him to decipher the papers. An idea came to him just as the author was introducing him to his publisher, the voluble Barbin.

  ‘Monsieur,’ said the young actor to Barbin, ‘I have a great favour to ask of you.’

  ‘Ask away, my young friend, always ask,’ replied Molière’s publisher, who was also the owner of a well-known bookshop in the capital.

  ‘Monsieur Molière has entrusted me with an extremely complicated task and I should like to ask for your help with it. In order to enrich the plot of his next play, my master has instructed me to write him a coded document, which he will use to write the character of the spy in the play. But you see, I know nothing of the art of code and I fear that my work will be of little use.’

  ‘There’s an interesting idea,’ replied Barbin, delighted to learn that his author had started writing again. ‘You might usefully ask Bernard Barrême for help. He is a renowned mathematician whose friend I am honoured to be. I’m sure he will turn you into a great expert on the art of codes. Come to my shop tomorrow, and I will give you a letter of recommendation.’

  Gabriel smiled at this prospect and then bowed, thanking Barbin and asking him not to reveal to Molière this serious gap in his secretary’s knowledge.

  But when he noticed Louise de La Vallière talking to Olympe Mancini, the young man froze. He had feared for his friend since the previous day. The sincere concern Louise had shown for his situation, and the natural closeness which had sprung up between them once again, made Gabriel feel even more uneasy. His Eminence’s niece had been swift to begin the surveillance she had promised the King’s brother. But Gabriel, who was not supposed to kn
ow the contents of the correspondence between Louise and the young King, could not think how to inform Louise of what he had learned, or how to warn her of Olympe’s machinations.

  Just as the young girl smiled at him, clearly pleased to see him there, he turned on his heel and left the salon, telling himself that, after all, dear Louise would doubtless pay more attention to the King’s compliments than to an apprentice actor’s advice to be careful.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Vincennes – Monday 7 March, eleven o’clock in the morning

  ABBÉ Claude Joly was so absorbed in his preaching that he did not understand his beadle’s frantic gestures. Admittedly, at ninety yards long, the ‘church of a hundred columns’ was extremely dark, despite its twenty-five windows. The priest of Saint-Nicolas-des-Champs finished his sermon and left the transept in the pause provided by the playing of a piece on the organ, one of the finest in Paris. A soldier of the King’s guards was waiting by the side chapel.

  ‘Father,’ he said solemnly, ‘the King requests that you come immediately to Vincennes, to the bedside of His Eminence Cardinal Mazarin, in order to administer the last rites.’

  ‘Go and fetch my oils,’ the priest told his beadle at once, realising the urgency of this royal request. ‘You will have to ask Father Girardon to finish the service. He’s in the sacristy,’ he added, and left without bothering to take off his chasuble.

  The priest followed the musketeer, climbed into the carriage that was waiting for him at the foot of the front steps, and left the area escorted by eight mounted guards.

  At that moment, the Cardinal and his trusted colleague were alone in his bedchamber at Vincennes.

  ‘Colbert, I asked for you because I wish to add a certain codicil to my will,’ said the Chief Minister, suddenly appearing to recover a little of his strength.