by Yves Jégo
Olympe’s voice was almost a whisper.
‘Uncle, it is sorrow which seals our lips.’
Mazarin looked away, choking back a sob.
‘And the fear of tomorrow, Uncle. Who will protect us, who will guarantee our future and that of our families if we do not have you? You have been so kind, Uncle … Deprived of your generosity, who will ensure the future of our children, of your blood?’
Standing at the back of the room, Colbert clenched his teeth. ‘A plague upon the family,’ he muttered.
Outside, the noise suddenly intensified.
‘They have no respect!’ exclaimed Colbert loudly, delighted to be able to channel his anger into a less perilous subject, and at the same time interrupting the eldest niece’s manipulations.
‘What is it, Colbert?’ murmured Mazarin, turning his exhausted eyes towards his colleague.
‘Undoubtedly visitors impatient to declare their attachment to Your Eminence,’ replied Colbert sarcastically, heading for the door.
Mazarin looked unimpressed.
‘Tell them to go and pray for my soul at church, not in my palace,’ he said, gasping between words.
Then he turned back to his nieces:
‘And you, my children, go forth without fear. I have seen to it that nothing may disrupt your future. Colbert is my witness to this.’
With his hand upon the door knob, Colbert silently turned to nod and smile.
With her nostrils quivering, Olympe just managed to hold back her fury at seeing her petition thwarted.
‘Go, and remember me,’ Mazarin repeated.
After they had gone, Colbert re-entered the room with a smile on his lips.
‘The noise will not trouble Your Eminence any further. I have had the visitors sent away, inviting them to pray for your recovery, and explaining that their laudable desire to show you their affection would only tire you and delay your recuperation.’
This turn of phrase produced a grunt from Mazarin, who waved the words away, knowing how illusory they were.
‘Come Colbert, you may stay. Was there not a single person amongst them who was of sufficient worth for me to see them?’
Colbert shook his head.
As though seized by sudden inspiration, Mazarin sat up in bed and laid his white, trembling hands flat on the purple coverlet.
‘What about the Abbaye de Prône, Colbert? Did we deal with it?’
‘Do not worry, Eminence, everything is in order.’
Another shadow passed across the Cardinal’s exhausted face
‘And what of the stolen papers, Colbert?’
‘Alas, Eminence, we arrested one of the attackers, but he had nothing on his person or at his residence, and he has not talked,’ Colbert said with anger. ‘Perrault is concentrating all his energies on finding the papers.’
Mazarin fell back, shaking his head.
‘We have a promising lead, two in fact, and I am hoping to resolve the matter without delay,’ Colbert assured him.
‘I have hardly any time left,’ commented Mazarin.
The door opened to admit the Cardinal’s personal valet. Approaching Colbert, he whispered a few words in his ear. Colbert’s face darkened for a second, then he shook his head and dismissed the man. He left with a silent bow.
When the door was closed once again, Mazarin raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘It is another visitor, Eminence, insisting that you receive him.’
Mazarin’s eyebrow remained raised.
‘Superintendent Fouquet, Eminence. I told him that you were resting.’
The Cardinal did not move.
*
In the ensuing silence, Colbert walked slowly across to the window and parted the curtain which kept the room in darkness. A ray of light pierced the gloom, illuminating the dying man’s impassive face.
‘One year,’ murmured Colbert, ‘one year …’
His mind filled with memories of his private meeting with the Superintendent a year earlier, the Cardinal’s final attempt to reconcile the two men. An hour spent listening to his rival’s reproaches, flattering him, putting on a brave face, bowing to that squirrel who treated him like a servant and had dared allude to the grass-snake featured on his coat of arms, seeming to question the veracity of his Scottish ancestors’ aristocratic origins … He felt renewed anger as he recalled what else Fouquet had said and implied. He had spent a year repeatedly reliving the humiliation of having to defend himself against direct accusations of slander, when all he had done was report back to His Excellency … Closing his eyes, Colbert drove away the memory which burned within him. The time for bitterness and patience is coming to an end, he thought.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw Fouquet walking swiftly down the front steps of the building.
As he watched the rejected Superintendent walk alone across the garden towards his residence, a smile lit up the face of the little man in black.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Saint-Mandé – Tuesday 8 March, four o’clock in the afternoon
FRANÇOIS d’Orbay paled when he saw the young man enter the great gallery. Those features, the face and that bearing were so familiar to him that he could scarcely believe his eyes. And yet he did not know him, he was sure of it. Like everyone else present that afternoon, the newcomer was waiting for an audience with the Superintendent of Finance. D’Orbay was so intrigued that he immediately introduced himself.
‘My name is François d’Orbay. I am the architect of the Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte,’ he said with a smile.
‘Charmed to make your acquaintance, Monsieur. I greatly admire your talent. And I,’ answered the young man, ‘am Monsieur Molière’s personal secretary.’
François d’Orbay then pursued the conversation in a discreet attempt to find out more about the young man. But the events of recent days had put Gabriel on his guard, inclining him to remain reserved. He had a talent for being extremely courteous without giving away one jot of information about himself.
‘Monsieur d’Orbay,’ announced a low, solemn voice. It was the servant responsible for showing the architect into Nicolas Fouquet’s office.
‘Alas, I am forced to abandon you, Monsieur,’ concluded d’Orbay, determined to carry out a swift investigation to discover this boy’s identity.
Once the architect had left, Gabriel occupied himself by gazing around the room. He spent a long time scrutinising the famous sarcophagi which had already surprised him during his recent visit with Molière. Louise was the one who had persuaded him to request this private meeting with Fouquet. After his encounter with the thugs, he too had felt it necessary to seek some protection by confiding in one of the Kingdom’s senior officials, who might be able to help him. Gabriel admired the Superintendent. In order to obtain the audience, he had used the pretext of various accounting documents for the theatre which required his signature. Gabriel did not know to what extent he would take Fouquet into his confidence, but he trusted him.
An hour later, it was the young actor’s turn to hear his name called out. He stood up, happy to be moving about after the long wait, and followed the servant through the corridors of the sumptuous residence. On the way he noticed the stucco work by Pietro Sassi which set off the ceilings so magnificently, and gazed admiringly at Veronese’s David and Bathsheba, which he encountered at a turn in the corridor. Arriving at the door of the Superintendent’s office, Gabriel felt a tinge of anxiety. ‘How will he react to what I have to say?’ the young man wondered, suddenly unsure whether this meeting was such a good idea after all.
The Superintendent was seated at his desk.
‘Please enter, Monsieur,’ he said warmly.
The room was not vast, but it had been furnished with care. Its character was entirely attributable to the cabinet-making skills of the famous Jean Lepautre.
‘Monseigneur, I have come at Molière’s request. He sends you respectful greetings and asks if you will please examine and sign the documents I have brought
with me,’ said Gabriel, handing the Superintendent a thick bundle of papers.
Nicolas Fouquet gave his visitor a friendly smile, then took the papers, which he examined and began to sign. ‘Do you know if Monsieur Molière has found his inspiration, and begun to write the entertainment he has promised me for the summer?’ asked the Superintendent.
‘He’s working hard on it, I can attest to that. I think I am even permitted to tell Monseigneur that the new play will be as great a success as Les Précieuses ridicules was last year.’
‘That is very good news,’ replied the Superintendent, still signing the documents. ‘I believe you have just made the acquaintance of d’Orbay, the architect of my folly at Vaux. Your troupe must match the standard of the design he has produced, which I devised with him. I want the whole Kingdom to discover the talents of our artists.’
‘We shall be equal to it, Monseigneur, and I myself will have the immense honour of acting in the entertainment,’ replied Gabriel, encouraged by his host’s warmth.
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said the Superintendent, raising his head and looking straight at Gabriel. ‘But tell me, my young friend, I hear the Cardinal’s police are watching your troupe. Are you suspected of financial irregularities?’
Gabriel was as relieved that Fouquet had given him an opportunity to broach the subject as he was impressed by the Superintendent’s grasp of the situation, and he began to recount everything he knew about the police surveillance. He went into detail about the attack on the old theatre concierge, but wisely did not mention the coded documents.
‘I myself was almost abducted three days ago,’ concluded the young man, ‘by the same men who attacked our concierge. Monseigneur, may I make so bold as to ask for your advice on these strange happenings?’
The Superintendent smoothed down his slender moustache, as he always did when he was thinking. He was both intrigued and amused by this incredible tale, and was beginning to feel warmth towards the young actor. He had realised at their first meeting that Gabriel’s manners indicated noble origins. Fouquet told himself that he would like his own sons to be like this young man when they were older.
‘I must reveal something to you, Monseigneur,’ Gabriel continued, deciding not to hide his personal history from this man who might be able to help him with his research concerning his father.
The Superintendent listened more closely as he told him about his upbringing, his flight from Amboise and his attempts to find out if the men pursuing him had in fact been sent by his family. This idea made Fouquet smile, for he knew the source of all the agitation: the fire in Mazarin’s library and the disappearance of documents whose loss seemed to enrage Colbert. Isaac Bartet, an agent in the Cardinal’s service who had been playing a double game for several years, had informed the Superintendent about the entire affair. This same man had informed him a few moments earlier that Richard Morin had been arrested that afternoon.
‘Whether this is to do with your family or not, you need to take precautions. We must protect you,’ said the Superintendent, who had resolved to please the young actor but above all wanted to ensure that he held on to one or two crucial pieces in this chess game where everyone now seemed to be pushing around their pawns.
The Superintendent pretended to think for a moment, then went on:
‘I suggest that you leave and spend a few days at Vaux-le-Vicomte to guarantee your safety. When you arrive you will be greeted by La Fontaine, who has withdrawn there to write. I shall come and join you in due course. By then many things will have happened and I shall have had sufficient opportunity to get to the bottom of this affair.’
Delighted at this suggestion, which he almost took to be an order, Gabriel bowed and thanked the Superintendent for his trust.
‘Take your signed papers,’ said Nicolas Fouquet, ‘and go and inform Molière this evening that you have to leave Paris for a few days, due to a bereavement. Don’t tell anyone where you are going. Tomorrow morning I shall send a carriage to take you to Vaux-le-Vicomte. Go, young man,’ said the Superintendent, suddenly serious again. ‘Be off. What is being played out at present is not a farce written by your friend Molière; indeed it may turn out to be a tragedy.’
When Gabriel had bowed repeatedly and left his office, the Superintendent sat down at his work table and began to stroke his moustache again.
That young devil undoubtedly knows more than he’s told me. I must find out why the whole of Paris is looking for him, and above all what scheme Colbert has devised this time!
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Saint-Mandé – Tuesday 8 March, six o’clock in the evening
FOR the fourth time in only a few minutes, Fouquet looked up from the documents he was annotating and let his gaze stray through the window to linger on the shadows of the waning day. He sighed, set down his bundle of papers on a little side table next to the three-branched candlestick which provided light for his work, and closed his eyes. Was it tiredness that prevented him from working with his usual efficiency?
‘Monsieur Superintendent, Monsieur d’Orbay requests an audience.’
Opening his eyes again, Fouquet saw that the servant had entered without a sound and was standing in front of him. He looked at him for a moment, then nodded.
The servant left, closing the door behind him. Surprised, Fouquet closed his inkwell. D’Orbay, again?
He had just stood up when the door reopened. The servant stood aside to allow the architect to enter. He took off his cloak and hat, and Fouquet indicated one of the two armchairs which stood beside the fire.
‘So, François, here you are again,’ said the Superintendent as he sat down. ‘Kindly tell me what this is all about instead of jumping around like a lunatic!’
D’Orbay made an obvious effort to calm himself and sat down.
‘That lad you saw this afternoon, that lad you saw after I left, the one I met in your waiting room …’
Fouquet frowned in puzzlement.
‘Molière’s secretary?’
‘The very same.’
‘What terrible thing has he done to bring you back here this evening?’
Fouquet’s sarcasm died when he saw the architect’s marble-like expression.
‘Do you know his name, Nicolas?’
The Superintendent shrugged his shoulders, admitting ignorance.
‘Gabriel … Gabriel something?’
‘Gabriel de Pontbriand, Nicolas, his name is Gabriel de Pontbriand. Does that not mean anything to you?’
Fouquet shook his head.
‘Why, should it?’
‘What if I were to tell you that it is also the name of a man who calls himself Charles Saint John, and that it was their astounding similarity which caused me to recognise Gabriel?’
Fouquet started.
‘What! What are you saying? Are you sure?’ he went on in more measured tones.
‘Certain,’ replied d’Orbay. ‘I had a terrible shock when I noticed him in your anteroom. Your Gabriel is the son of our Brother André de Pontbriand, whom you know by the name of Charles Saint John.’
The ensuing silence lasted for quite some time.
‘Gabriel de Pontbriand …’ murmured the Superintendent.
‘The coincidence is most disturbing,’ said d’Orbay, noting Fouquet’s sudden look of dismay, ‘and I must confess that the shock I felt this afternoon turned my blood to ice. Our mission is too fragile and its importance too great to ignore such coincidences. That is why I wanted to put you on your guard without delay, even if I am the first person to acknowledge that we must not overreact. We have enough to do without allowing ourselves to be distracted. After all, this young man’s parentage may play no part in the troubles he has brought upon himself …’
‘I’m sure you are right, but all the same we must be vigilant. In any event, you were right to alert me. When I think that I granted him my protection and hospitality, without having an inkling … Yes,’ nodded the Superintendent in response to d’Orbay�
�s look of surprise, ‘he told me of attacks and threats, and gave me such a sincere and romantic account of his flight to Paris, incognito, to escape the mediocre life his protector had in store for him that I invited him to take refuge at Vaux, until things have calmed down.’
‘Well, so much the better,’ exclaimed the architect. ‘At Vaux we shall have him under our control, and it will be easier both to watch over him and to ensure that he does not intend to disrupt our plans. Let us take advantage of this respite to bring his entanglements out into the open and find out why there is so much hostility towards him. That would be the best way to rid ourselves of this disagreeable feeling of doom we both seem to harbour.’
‘What exactly does he know, in your opinion?’
D’Orbay frowned sceptically.
‘There is no reason why he should know anything. Or be capable of leading our enemies to us, or attract their attention. He knows nothing of his father and has not seen him for fifteen years, we can be certain of that.’
Once again, Fouquet remained silent for a moment.
‘Increased activity by Mazarin’s agents, Colbert and his police, that burglary … and now this ghost returning to haunt us. It’s all very worrying.’
He seemed lost in thought, then turned towards the architect.
‘When did you say the delivery was to take place?’
‘The Secret will leave Rome in a month,’ d’Orbay replied, lowering his voice. ‘It will be here one month later. And at Vaux a few days after that. Everything will be in place for the summer.’
Fouquet clasped his hands in front of his face.
‘Pray Heaven that we find the formula between now and then. Otherwise …’
‘Otherwise we shall act without it,’ d’Orbay interrupted him. The Superintendent glanced out of the window. ‘I know what you’re thinking, François. I understand your impatience. I too have confidence in the work we have carried out. I too believe that Vaux can become the temple of a new political era, which may finally re-establish the Truth of things in accordance with the reality of Christ’s teaching. But I do not want to overestimate our strength.’