The Sun King Conspiracy

by Yves Jégo

  While Colbert prepared to take down his dictation, the Cardinal sat up in bed, wincing with pain.

  ‘My beloved niece, Olympe, Comtesse de Soissons, is to become Superintendent of the Queen’s House,’ dictated the old man, aware that these were his very last wishes. ‘And the Princesse de Conti is to receive the superintendency of the Queen Mother’s house,’ he breathed, exhausted.

  ‘Will that be all, Monseigneur?’ asked Colbert calmly, although he was infuriated by the latest whims of the Cardinal’s nieces.

  They will strip him of everything, right up until his last breath, he thought.

  ‘In all conscience, Colbert, ought I not to advise the King to dispense with Monsieur Fouquet?’ said Mazarin after a long period of reflection.

  Colbert was so surprised by this that he dropped the pen he had been using to write the addenda to the will. The evening before, at the end of the council meeting, Mazarin had assembled Le Tellier, Lionne and Fouquet in the presence of Louis XIV and recommended all three to the King. Had he not said of the Superintendent that he ‘gave judicious advice on all matters of State, whatever their nature’? Although inwardly jubilant at this change of course, which for weeks he had been hoping for, the devoted Colbert did not display any reaction, and answered as always without apparent emotion.

  ‘Taking account of the Superintendent’s numerous financial manipulations, I can only advise Your Eminence to exercise the greatest caution. Moreover, the number and power of his supporters must be taken into account before any decision of this nature is made. Finally,’ Fouquet’s sworn enemy added treacherously, ‘the considerable forces the Superintendent has assembled at his estates on Belle-Île could endanger the internal peace of the Kingdom, and cast a dark shadow over His Majesty’s future.’

  ‘Thank you for your frankness, my good Colbert; as always you reason solely in the interests of the State and your analysis is prudent and correct. Moreover, as my hours are now numbered, I shall not hide from you the fact that I have recommended you to His Majesty, assuring him that you would manage affairs of State as you would a private house,’ whispered the dying man. ‘The King has consented to the creation of a third appointment, that of Steward of Finance, which will be given to you as a reward for your dedication,’ concluded the Chief Minister, fighting for breath. ‘I also wanted your merits to be written into this document in black and white. You shall insert these lines,’ he said, handing him a small sheet of paper covered with his handwriting, which was more shaky than usual.

  Colbert took it without a word and bowed his head as a sign of gratitude. Swiftly he scanned the first lines, his heart thumping faster as he read the document which guaranteed the success of his ambitions. ‘Integrity, fidelity and intelligence, of which I am very sure, having witnessed them in an infinite number of encounters …, after experiencing the affection and zeal which the said Monsieur Colbert has shown in serving me for almost twelve years, I cannot speak too highly of the satisfaction I have received from him … That is why I approve of everything carried out by Monsieur Colbert, both regarding the general exercise of his power of attorney and in following orders he has received verbally … desire that Monsieur Colbert’s word should be believed as regards everything that has been received, spent and managed at his command, whatever the nature of the matter … desire also that all the accounts which concern the affairs of my household remain or are put into the hands of Monsieur Colbert, for his discreet safekeeping.’

  The blood was pounding in his temples; he was convinced that this was the first, irreversible step in his quest for power. Henceforth he, Colbert, the industrious and obscure petty accountant, would be on a level with Fouquet.

  ‘The hours to come are going to prove decisive,’ he told himself, approaching Mazarin’s bed in order for him to sign his will. The tension within him was so great at that moment that he started when a voice rang out.

  ‘The King!’

  At this announcement, the Cardinal opened his eyes again to see his godson, the King of France, enter his bedchamber. This impromptu visit overturned all the rules of etiquette.

  ‘Your presence honours me, Sire, and warms my heart. Nevertheless it informs me that without a shadow of a doubt the hour of my terrible journey has come. As you can see, Louis, I am ready; I was even about to sign my will. As the Queen Mother has told me that Your Majesty refuses the bequests to him, I have in fact been forced to make other arrangements. Monsieur Colbert will explain them to you if you wish.’

  The King of France sat down on the chair by the side of the minister’s bed. Although infinitely sad at the prospect of the inevitable, Louis XIV smiled and took the old man’s hand.

  ‘My dear godfather, my visit is guided only by the affection which I feel for you. I sent for Abbé Joly, as you asked, and he is waiting in your antechamber. But after what he wrote about you ten years ago, I am still surprised by your choice. Why him?’

  ‘He is a sincere and brilliant man of the Church. He does not like me, I know that. But at least I have the certainty that his absolution, if he gives it to me, will not be feigned!’

  The King nodded in silence. Then, seeing a shiver pass through the old man’s body, he turned towards the fireplace and left his seat to poke the fire energetically, watched with emotion by Mazarin.

  Having obtained his master’s signature on all his last wishes, Colbert left the room, bowing deferentially as his narrowed eyes glinted in the darkness.

  ‘My dear Louis, permit me one last piece of advice,’ said Mazarin, taking his godson by the arm. ‘I have been reassessing the situation for several hours now. Information in my possession leads me to beg you to be suspicious of the ambitions of our Superintendent of Finance from now on. Of course I do not take back anything I have told you about him; he would be capable of great things if only he could stop thinking about women and architecture. For pity’s sake, be circumspect.’

  ‘Your advice in this matter is precious to me, my dear godfather,’ the King replied, trying to banish the blush which had appeared on his cheeks at the allusion to Fouquet’s tastes for the fairer sex, ‘like all the advice I have received from you since the early days of my childhood …’

  ‘Sire, I have merely done my duty as a minister and a man. Today I can reveal to you how precious your affection has been to me, first as a small boy and then as a sovereign. My life, my entire life,’ said Mazarin, his eyes filling with tears, ‘would have been poor and futile without you, my dear Louis.’

  After a pause to allow the wave of emotion which had overwhelmed him to subside, the old man continued:

  ‘Be careful in your alliances. Be careful in war; its prospect intoxicates and glorifies, but it can also subdue the most resolute hearts. Be wary of those who conspire in the shadows against your authority …’

  The King shuddered.

  ‘The threat is everywhere, Sire,’ went on Mazarin. ‘Royalty maintains its position through honour and fear, but there will always be dreamers imbued with visions of a perfect world. I have devoted my time to keeping them at a distance, Your Majesty. I fought them for years, and with some success I believe,’ he added with the shadow of a smile, ‘but I was never vain enough to imagine that they had been defeated and eradicated.’

  His breathing quickened, the dying man had to pause again to inhale some air.

  ‘Beware, Sire, of these dreamers and their manipulations. Be prudent – not excessively so, but stand firm. Follow Colbert’s advice when I am no longer here …’

  He tightened his grip on the young King’s hand.

  ‘If I do not succeed in putting my affairs in order before I pass away, I shall tell him certain things of the highest importance, so important that I thought I would never share them with anyone for fear of harming your interests. You must listen to him …’

  His voice was no more than a whisper now.

  ‘I owe you everything, Sire. You have refused my fortune, but I believe I am acquitting myself to some extent by givi
ng you Colbert,’ added the Cardinal faintly.

  Louis XIV did not respond to his Chief Minister, who was suddenly overcome again by the somnolence of the dying. He laid the old man’s fleshless hand upon the sheet and left the room without a sound. On his way out, he sombrely asked the priest of Notre-Dame-des-Champs to go to the sick man’s bedside without further delay. Then he strode down the stairs and, rejecting his carriage with a wave of his hand as it moved forward, signalled to d’Artagnan to dismount and let him have his horse. Jumping into the saddle, almost knocking over the musketeer who was holding the reins, he furiously spurred the animal into a gallop. As he leant forward over its neck, the King of France felt burning tears running down his cheeks on to the horse’s windswept mane.

  Just then, in the chateau’s darkened bedroom, a dialogue was beginning between the two former enemies as Abbé Joly attended the dying man with great piety. But when he attempted to persuade the Cardinal to tell him about the public monies, the Italian summoned up his last ounce of strength and found the authority to put the priest in his place.

  ‘Monsieur Abbé, if I have summoned you here it is to talk to me of God. So I beg you to confine yourself to your ministry,’ Mazarin told him, thus proving that even in the face of death he remained as determined as he had always been.

  Early that afternoon, on 7 March, Cardinal Jules Mazarin received the last sacraments of the Holy Church and was absolved of his sins.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Paris, the Conciergerie – Monday 7 March, six o’clock in the evening

  ‘FOR the last time, talk. Confess. You were the one who set fire to the Cardinal’s library. You looted his office. It was at your home, this morning, that we found these texts that have been posted up all over Paris over the past few days,’ barked Charles Perrault, brandishing a bundle of pamphlets under the prisoner’s nose.

  The interrogation had begun three hours earlier in the damp, cold cellars of the famous Conciergerie prison. The man with the mismatched eyes was called Richard Morin, and he had been arrested that afternoon at his home. And here he was dressed in nothing but his shirt, seated on a stone bench with his wrists chained together. For three long hours the prisoner had refused to answer any questions, either quoting entire passages from the Bible, or mumbling prayers with his lips closed. But the documents found at his address proved that he belonged to the network of religious zealots and was implicated in the recent distribution of a text attacking the Cardinal. Perrault knew perfectly well that the authors of this lampoon had been inspired by the accounting documents stolen during the fire in the Chief Minister’s library. He wanted to make Morin confess his link with the theft so that he could then obtain, freely or by force, the names of one or more co-conspirators.

  ‘I’ll ask you one last time, Morin, clear your conscience and tell me who you’re working for,’ Charles Perrault continued, this time in a calmer voice. ‘I have the impression that your friends have abandoned you; if not, we would never have discovered your address. Do you not find it strange that this anonymous letter arrived on my desk yesterday naming Monsieur Richard Morin as the author of the lampoons and leader of a band of thieves and arsonists?’

  ‘Lies! Lies!’ roared the man, shaking his chains as though to try and rid himself of them.

  ‘It is you who are lying,’ retorted Perrault. ‘The proof was supplied to me barely an hour ago by Toussaint Roze, the man you attacked in the Cardinal’s apartments. He confirmed that he remembers perfectly that his attacker had one green eye and one brown. A description that fits you exactly!’

  During this exchange, a musketeer from the Louvre had appeared bearing an urgent letter for Perrault. In it, Colbert asked his police chief to do his utmost to obtain a confession from the prisoner and to find out his exact links with Nicolas Fouquet. ‘By any means necessary’, concluded the message.

  ‘Ah well, you have brought it upon yourself,’ said Perrault. ‘Messieurs, it is now your turn!’ he added, addressing the three men who had been busying themselves with strange instruments at the back of the room for the past few minutes.

  Morin was dragged roughly into the torture chamber and placed upon the ‘sellette’, a wooden seat where prisoners underwent their final interrogation before the torture itself began. Morin denied everything once more and begged for divine mercy.

  ‘You will undergo six torments, three times each,’ announced the chief torturer in a strong Catalan accent.

  ‘At each stage, you will have the opportunity to confess; if you do not, I shall pass on to the next stage,’ Perrault then said, searching for a flicker of panic in the eyes of the accused.

  The first ordeal inflicted upon Richard Morin was the boot. A kind of box formed from four pieces of wood was tightened around each leg by means of ropes. Perrault heard the ankle bones break and, three times, saw the zealot withstand the pain without crying out. Next, the unfortunate man was suspended by a rope from a beam more than ten feet above the ground, his hands tied behind his back. The torture consisted of letting him drop back down, the first ten times without additional weight, then with twenty kilos suspended from his feet and finally with a weight of close to fifty kilos. Despite the dislocation of his limbs and the howls of pain which he could no longer contain, the prisoner continued to deny everything, refusing to divulge any information. At each ordeal, Perrault asked the same questions, in vain. The final torment involved a sawhorse. This was a prism-shaped wooden structure resting on four feet. Richard Morin was seated upon it and securely bound to it. The ends of his bonds were then attached to a screw jack, the manipulation of which tore apart the accused man’s limbs. His cries became more unbearable as the tearing became more intense.

  ‘He has exceptional resilience,’ remarked the chief torturer, untying the bloody body of the prisoner, who had finally lost consciousness. ‘I have rarely seen anyone endure these torments to the end without talking,’ he added, with a hint of admiration.

  While the torturer rested having once again chained Morin’s broken body to the stone bench, Perrault fumed at his failure to obtain a confession from his prisoner. As he left the cellars with his henchmen, he promised himself that he would return at the first opportunity the following day, and make this devil of a man talk, at any price.

  *

  A few moments after their departure, as Morin was beginning to regain consciousness, an old man swathed in a black cape slipped into the torture chamber.

  ‘The cross of Jesus is our only pride,’ he whispered into the unfortunate man’s ear.

  ‘Master,’ said Morin, who instantly recognised the voice of the zealots’ leader, the voice which had humiliated him at Mont-Louis a month earlier by reproaching him for his negligence. ‘The love of God has helped me to keep silence, but for pity’s sake save me!’

  ‘That is why I am here, my son,’ said the man, his face almost touching Morin’s. ‘You betrayed our trust in taking the initiative to write that lampoon, I know not why. That is why we decided to sacrifice you by denouncing you. Understand that your poor existence, like mine, carries no weight compared to a cause which is greater than any of us. God gave you the strength to resist the pain and keep silent. Be calm. Then he will welcome you into His Kingdom.’

  The zealots’ leader poured a vial of strong poison into Richard Morin’s mouth, instantaneously putting an end to his sufferings.

  ‘The cross of Jesus is our only pride,’ concluded the mysterious visitor, crossing himself before leaving the torture chamber as discreetly as he had come.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Vincennes – Monday 7 March, seven o’clock in the evening

  SEEING Colbert slip through the half-open door of the Cardinal’s apartments, the tide of visitors waiting in the anteroom and all the way down the staircase rushed towards Mazarin’s confidant. Elbowing each other out of the way, trying to avoid being knocked over, they stretched out their arms in the hope that Colbert would notice what they were holding: a piece of paper here
, a rosary there, a medal … With a thunderous expression, Colbert scanned the heaving crowd in front of him, protected from it by three servants who held it back. He ignored the shouts and calmly tried to identify familiar faces that would be useful to him.

  ‘I have here a letter from the Cardinal,’ yelled a man of the Church, sweating and brandishing a parchment.

  ‘Monsieur Colbert!’

  ‘My son, who …’

  ‘Make way!’

  The voices mingled in an indescribable clamour as Colbert’s sharp-eyed gaze moved to the other side of the room. He signalled to the guards positioned along the walls, pointing out three women who were attempting to get through the door. Protests intensified as the crowd realised that soldiers were pushing them aside to allow the newcomers to come through.

  ‘By what right?’ demanded the indignant churchman who had come to demand his benefice.

  ‘The right of blood,’ replied Olympe Mancini with contempt, pushing back the hood of her cape to reveal her dark hair and eyes.

  Resigned now, the courtiers who had come to claim crumbs from the Chief Minister’s succession ceased their whining to watch as the Cardinal’s three nieces walked past them and straight into the room they so longed to gain entry to. The door closed behind them.

  ‘Hortense, Olympe, Marie …’

  Moist-eyed, the Cardinal stretched out his hands to his nieces. He blessed them when they approached, tracing the sign of the cross upon their foreheads. Kneeling beside the bed, the three young women remained silent while the old man caressed their lowered faces, tilting up their chins when he lamented that it was the last time he would look into their dear eyes. ‘Marie,’ he said, wincing, ‘I would dearly have loved to be present at your wedding and know that you were in the safe hands of that worthy man Colonna … Ah, my angels, how hard it is to leave the people one loves … Think from time to time of your old uncle and bear witness that I wanted the best for my loved ones … But why are you so silent?’ the dying man said in surprise.