The Sun King Conspiracy

by Yves Jégo

  Pushing back his chair, Colbert began to pace up and down the room, staring at the men gathered there.

  ‘Don’t deceive yourselves, things are different now. You must serve your cause, but don’t mistake your enemies. They are the people who oppose royalty because of the spiritual order on which it is based. I also fear these people greatly, encouraged by the King who personally told me of his suspicions,’ he lied, omitting to mention that it had in fact been the Queen Mother. ‘Together we can fight these enemies. Do not allow your blindness to deprive Our Lord of the fighters he needs,’ he concluded, lowering his eyes with solemn intensity.

  As he gradually perceived that he was winning over the men around him, Colbert was filled with an excitement, which shone in his dark eyes.

  ‘You have a choice, my friends: either walk away unfettered, to continue your activities all the more freely since they will be done in accordance with the King’s wishes as expressed through me. Or leave here with chains about your ankles, en route for the Bastille tonight and the scaffold tomorrow. It is your turn to speak. Have you nothing to say? Come,’ he added as he headed for the door, ‘I will go back outside, into the open air. You have ten minutes in which to make up your minds. After that, I will answer for nothing.’

  As he arrived at the threshold he paused, as if to correct an oversight.

  ‘Ah! Of course, Father, you will be coming with me. His Majesty has today once again summoned me to Vincennes for the council, and I am certain that you will be exceedingly useful to its members.’

  Without waiting for a response, Colbert opened the door and went out.

  Silently, the leader of the zealots crossed himself and murmured an unintelligible prayer. Then, putting on his cloak, he too left. When he heard the door creak behind him, Colbert smiled, realising that he had won this round and secured allies who would be all the more loyal because they owed him their survival.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Vincennes – Thursday 10 March, nine o’clock in the morning

  LAYING his hands on the table’s green marble top, Colbert savoured the delicious sensation of coolness that emanated from the stone. Out of the corner of his eye, he covertly observed the other eight men assembled in the room for this first council of ministers without the Cardinal: Séguier, the old Chancellor of France, who kept his right hand hidden to mask its uncontrolled tremor; Le Tellier, with his careworn brow; Hugues de Lionne, looking as haughty as ever; La Vrillière, so anxious about any kind of change that his eyes kept darting into every corner of the room; the two Briennes, so insignificant that they were more and more difficult to tell apart; Guénégaud, the epitome of a great lord; and finally Nicolas Fouquet, lost in contemplation of the allegorical painting adorning the mantelpiece.

  The door opened suddenly, startling La Vrillière. The two Briennes looked round and Séguier reacted belatedly, when he saw everyone else move.

  The King strode briskly in as they got to their feet. Dressed in a bright-blue coat belted with a white silk sash, and a broadbrimmed hat decorated with two white feathers, he halted with his hand thrust forward, resting on the pommel of his ivory cane, and gave the assembled men a searching look from beneath his heavy eyelids.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he said, addressing the Chancellor without removing his hat or sitting down, ‘I have summoned you here along with my ministers and secretaries of State in order to tell you that until now I have been perfectly content to allow my affairs to be managed by Monsieur Cardinal.’

  The cane tapped lightly on the stone floor.

  ‘Now it is time for me to take charge of them myself. There will no longer be a Chief Minister. You will assist me with your counsel, when I request it.’

  The nine men bowed solemnly.

  ‘Monsieur de Brienne, you will collaborate with Monsieur de Lionne on all military matters. Monsieur Superintendent, you will benefit from the cooperation of Monsieur Colbert, whom I have made Steward of Finance, a new office especially created for this occasion. Messieurs, you will give reports of your activities directly to me. We shall meet for that purpose in the coming days.’

  Colbert attempted a gracious smile, with the addition of a small bow in the direction of the Superintendent, but unable to conceal his excitement, he succeeded only in producing a frightful grimace.

  ‘The face of politics is changing, Chancellor. My principles will be different from the Cardinal’s in the government of my State, in the control of my finances and in external negotiations. You know my wishes. It is now up to you, Messieurs, to carry them out.’

  The King left the room, deigning to exchange a few words with the courtiers chosen to come and pay homage to the Cardinal. In the front row stood the Archbishop of Rouen, Harlay de Champvallon, president of the clerical assembly.

  ‘Your Majesty ordered me to refer to the Cardinal on all matters,’ he began deferentially. ‘Now he is dead, to whom does Your Majesty wish me to refer?’

  Listening only distractedly but catching the last sentence, the King suddenly turned towards him and looked at him with new interest.

  ‘To me, Monsieur Archbishop. You are to refer to me.’

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Maincy – Thursday 10 March, noon

  ‘DO not be afraid, Monsieur de Pontbriand. I wish you no harm.’

  The man who had just entered the carriage in which Gabriel was sitting was masked. The vehicle, which Fouquet had placed at the young actor’s disposal, had come to a halt, and the man had taken advantage of this to briskly open the door and sit down opposite Molière’s secretary. Gabriel was disconcerted to hear his family name being spoken.

  ‘What do you want with me? Who are you?’ Gabriel cried as the carriage set off again through the narrow, paved streets of the tranquil village of Maincy, a few leagues from the Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte.

  ‘You are Gabriel de Pontbriand, son of André de Pontbriand. When you were five years old, your father left Amboise for England and since then you have had no news of him. Your mother and your uncle told you that he had died in London. You live in Paris on Rue des Lions Saint-Paul,’ said the man in a strangely calm voice. ‘Your uncle is searching for you and the police are watching you.’ Gabriel was thunderstruck.

  ‘But who are you?’ demanded the actor angrily.

  ‘My name matters little. I am a friend of your father, whom you strongly resemble. You are in great danger and I have come to warn you.’

  ‘You knew my father? Why do you speak of him as if he were still alive, and what danger do you wish to warn me about?’ Gabriel asked feverishly.

  ‘That is not important now. Today your life is threatened. Monsieur de Pontbriand,’ continued the man coolly, ‘do not seek to understand, do not try to find out the origin or content of the documents in your possession.’

  ‘What documents?’ the young actor demanded in fury.

  ‘Monsieur, time is moving on and we shall soon be arriving at Vaux. Must I really describe to you in detail the coded documents in your possession? Perhaps you’ll claim you don’t know Monsieur Barrême either. You should stop meddling in all this. The Kingdom is about to experience a period which could prove both crucial and tragic. Extricate yourself from the net in which you have unwittingly been caught. For pity’s sake, forget those documents, or give them to Barrême. That would be wise behaviour. They contain secrets that are greater than our own sorry lives!’

  The carriage stopped again, this time in the middle of the countryside at the end of the immense driveway bordered with oak trees that ran along the edge of the Superintendent’s estate. At that moment the intruder left the vehicle as abruptly as he had entered it.

  ‘We shall meet again, “Cherubino”,’ he shouted, jumping to the ground and then mounting a horse which was waiting calmly beside a tree. ‘Until then, think carefully and be cautious.’

  Gabriel sat open-mouthed while he watched the horse gallop away.

  ‘“Cherubino”, that’s the nickname my dear father used fo
r me! Who is that man? How does he know all this? What was the meaning of that warning?’

  The young man asked himself a thousand such questions as the carriage set off along the majestic avenue that led to the steps of the Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte.

  Galloping off along the road to Melun, the mysterious coach passenger flung his mask to the ground. He was relieved and happy to have been able to talk to Gabriel.

  The resemblance to André is incredible, François d’Orbay said to himself. Let’s hope that my warning at least encourages him to be more cautious!

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Maincy – Friday 11 March, early afternoon

  CHARLES Le Brun, the illustrious painter whose task it was to decorate the Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte, stood outside the door of the former Carmelite convent at Melun. He had been waiting stoically in the cold for almost half an hour.

  At last the carriage appeared, drawn by four horses from Vaux-le-Vicomte’s neighbouring chateau, and stopped in front of the building which Fouquet had reacquired from the nuns of the Carmelite order in 1658. The Superintendent of Finance emerged from the carriage, followed by Jean de La Fontaine and Gabriel.

  ‘So, my dear Le Brun, how is our work progressing?’ Fouquet asked, taking the painter by the arm and easing him out of his respectful bow.

  ‘Extremely well, Monseigneur, our heddle setters work miracles every day. Vaux will be decorated just as you wanted it to be. What’s more, I have some happy news. Our production rate is at its maximum, which means that I can guarantee here and now that we will meet our deadlines. I can’t wait to show it all to you,’ added Le Brun.

  ‘Monsieur de La Fontaine, whom you know, and this young man who is with me, are also most eager to visit your hive. Come, Le Brun, open up your workshops and reveal its wonders to us.’

  The four men entered the convent’s inner courtyard. Gabriel was stunned by the bustle of activity inside and the methodical organisation which was evident everywhere. The production area was divided into workshops and stores. It really is a hive; the image is highly appropriate! thought the young man. In a corner of the courtyard, beneath an awning, lay heaps of bales of uncarded wool from different sheep farms in the Kingdom, which had been commissioned to provide raw material of the highest quality. Le Brun guided them round with a commentary:

  ‘It takes us three days and seven processes in order to treat the wool and transform it. Allow me to tell you, Monseigneur, that from one pound of oiled wool we obtain three thousand feet of double thread which, at the touch of our master heddle setters, turns into the framework and body of the tapestry.’

  ‘Do you have any supply problems?’ asked Fouquet.

  ‘When we began, Monseigneur, the mediocre quality of the wool we received obliged us to send back many bales. I must say that now, thanks to your lands on Belle-Île, our raw materials arrive more regularly. Your farmers are dedicated to selecting the finest fleeces,’ replied Le Brun.

  After they had visited the dyeing workshop, their tour took them to the tapestry designers’ studio. Here, the designs were painted onto full-size canvases in reverse. Le Brun was very proud of his Dutch designers; he had brought them over expressly, and they copied his paintings with incredible talent.

  ‘Look, Monseigneur,’ the painter declared proudly standing before an immense design which had been laid flat on the table. ‘This will be the portière – I showed you the sketches for it.’

  Fouquet bent over the work.

  ‘I admire your talent, Monsieur. That squirrel in the centre has a graceful delicacy that is quite delightful. I cannot wait to see it in silk and cotton, and to admire the effect at Vaux.’

  Gabriel was fascinated. Each of the three hundred workers seemed to have a precise understanding of what he had to do. Everything seemed as carefully choreographed as a ballet, in particular the work of the heddle setters whose incredibly agile fingers brought to life the works of art designed by the painter. In the storeroom, Gabriel had the leisure to admire and feel the tapestries accumulating there before their delivery to Vaux.

  This was the moment Le Brun chose to ask his patron about an embarrassing matter.

  ‘Monseigneur, yesterday I delivered the inventories Monsieur Colbert asked for, but …’

  ‘What’s that?’ Fouquet interrupted him. ‘What inventories are you talking about?’

  ‘It seemed strange to me too,’ said the painter, relieved to be able to unburden himself. ‘Monsieur Colbert asked me for a complete inventory of the production area. I spent two days writing a memorandum, which detailed the exact state of our stocks, a complete list of our workers and master journeymen, their salaries and the number of our machines. I thought you had been informed of this request.’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ Fouquet raged. ‘What is Colbert up to? This is my home and I fully intend to remain master of it. You should not have acceded to that request without informing me.’

  Gabriel, who was only a few feet away, did not miss a single word of the discussion. So, Colbert continues his machinations: first he tried to sabotage Molière’s plays, and now he has a minister under surveillance. He’s completely brazen, and he appears to have no scruples, he thought with a frown of disgust.

  ‘This confirms my suspicions,’ said La Fontaine. ‘He was supposed to act in the Cardinal’s name, but now that His Eminence is dead, you must not tolerate these intrigues any longer. Monsieur Superintendent,’ went on the storyteller, leading Fouquet into a more discreet corner of the storeroom, ‘when will you finally realise that Colbert, that venomous master of deceit, is engineering your downfall? I am convinced that he has spent the past few weeks trying to pressurise the dying Mazarin into suggesting to the King that the position of Chief Minister should be abolished, with the sole aim of barring your route to power. You are too good-hearted or, if you will allow me, too naïve. You must do something!’

  Fouquet was disturbed by Colbert’s audacity in daring to give orders in the Superintendent of Finance’s own house. La Fontaine is right, Gabriel told himself as he stood silently some distance away. His gaze fell on the motif drawn from Fouquet’s coat of arms. A squirrel confronting a snake, he thought with a sigh.

  ‘My dear Jean, I am sure you are right,’ said the Superintendent after a long silence, taking his friend’s arm and returning to Le Brun, who was still standing in the centre of the room. ‘I shall request an audience with His Majesty without delay, to clear this up. I shall also see the Queen Mother. You know the affection she has for me. In fact I have a sum of money to pay her, and that will give me a pretext to speak of all this and ask her advice.’

  Le Brun, still ashamed of his blunder, was waiting somewhat anxiously for the Superintendent.

  ‘In future, try to be less artistic in your management of the production area,’ said Fouquet with a smile. ‘I shall forgive you on account of the marvels produced here under your direction. You have enchanted us, Monsieur Painter. Still, since the art of the inventory seems to be another of your strengths, you will kindly provide me as swiftly as possible with a memorandum containing all the information you gave to Colbert.’

  Le Brun bowed, clearly happy to have emerged so well from the affair.

  ‘Your workers seem underfed,’ added the Superintendent of Finance. ‘You must be wearing them out with work. To show them my gratitude, you may pay them an additional tenth of their salary from this week on. What is it, Gabriel?’ he turned to the young man.

  ‘I … I was wondering where all these people live, all these workers and artists: is there a building allocated to them?’

  Le Brun’s expression soured. Then, when Fouquet gestured that he would welcome an answer to this question himself, he replied, scowling at Gabriel.

  ‘Well …’ he began, ‘we have of course been concentrating our efforts on production … Not all the additional building works have yet been finished and …’

  Fouquet cut him off in a voice that was suddenly icy.

  ‘I h
ad forgotten this matter. Thank you, Gabriel, for your pertinent intervention. It enables me to make good my oversight, which pleases me. But it also obliges me to repeat my instructions to you, which displeases me,’ he growled. ‘I would appreciate it if you would swiftly finish the work necessary to convert the old Carmelite convent and lodge these people there in a decent manner,’ said the Superintendent firmly. ‘I will no longer tolerate the sight of these workers being housed worse than animals, and within a few leagues of my chateau! Damn it, Monsieur Le Brun, how many times do I have to reiterate the value I attach to the living conditions of everyone who is in my service!’

  Gabriel gazed at the Superintendent with silent admiration.

  ‘I shall see that it is done, Monseigneur,’ was all that Le Brun said in reply, his head bowed. ‘I shall see that it is done.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  François d’Orbay’s residence – Friday 11 March, eleven o’clock at night

  STANDING by the window of his large office, with his long, sinewy hands clasped behind his back, François d’Orbay watched the rain fall in large droplets onto the paving stones. The downfall prevented him from having a clear view of the courtyard, which was deserted and lit only by two storm lanterns mounted on either side of the door. His visitor was late, but curiously the wait did not displease the architect. He sighed and took a few steps towards the centre of the room where he caught sight of his image in the mirror hanging on the wall. His features seemed harder, his face leaner. He stepped a little closer. So, the years are beginning to show, he thought with bittersweet irony. The silence, which filled the house, disturbed only by the pitterpatter of rain on the roof and windows, seemed restful to him. He left the room, crossing the salon and the entrance hall, and headed in the direction of his children’s apartments, groping his way through the half-light from memory with one hand brushing the wall. The sound of his feet on the tiled floor woke the governess, who half sat up in her bed in the anteroom. He gestured to her to lie down again and continued towards the door of the room where his little boy and girl were sleeping. A weak ray of light filtered through the shutters of the window, which opened onto the garden, enabling him to find his way. He topped for a moment at the head of the two beds, then knelt and pulled the covers up to the children’s chins.