by Yves Jégo
How often have I been able to see them sleeping like this? he thought. One year in Rome, another in London, all that incessant travelling: the years had passed so quickly, and the burden resting on his shoulders was so weighty. He was always in a hurry, suspicious of everything and everyone, always fearing betrayal and imagining the worst. God, how all consuming this passion was! How many times in the past ten years had he escaped prison or death? How many times had he taken insane risks without informing his family, without his wife knowing what he was thinking when he remained silent for minutes on end? But then again, I have been lucky, he thought with a shiver. He closed his eyes to drive away the familiar faces of those not so lucky, and then opened them again. The two children were sleeping soundly. He gently lifted the little boy’s inert arm, taking away the wooden horse he had kept close to him, and placing it beside the bed; he pushed aside the locks of hair, which trailed across the little girl’s forehead. Then he stood up regretfully. The voice of his personal valet jolted him out of his reverie. He stood in the doorway, calling to him in a whisper:
‘Monsieur! Monsieur! Your visitor has arrived.’
The architect sighed and turned to follow his servant. On the threshold of the room, he took one last long look before closing the door, ensuring that the latch made no sound.
Giacomo Del Sarto sat by the fire, stretching his hands out towards the flames whose light played on his face, emphasising his pale complexion. His black cloak was spread out over a nearby chair, and water trickled from it onto the ochre-coloured hexagonal floor tiles. He pointed to it in disgust as d’Orbay entered:
‘All I did was step out of the carriage and take a few steps, and here I am, soaked to the skin. It seems that we are destined to meet each other only on stormy days!’
He stood up and they embraced warmly. Then they both sat down in silence as the valet left the room.
‘Well,’ began Giacomo Del Sarto when the door had closed, ‘what is going on? I left Rome as soon as I received your message. I didn’t think we would be seeing each other again so soon after our last meeting. You had me worried, you know. I don’t like these emergency procedures.’
D’Orbay sighed and poked the fire.
‘I had no choice. I needed your advice and there was no time to convene our Brothers. What’s more, I don’t think that would be wise in the current climate.’
Giacomo leant forward, his brows knitted.
‘Things are that bad?’
‘Alas, they are. There have been strange goings-on these last few days. There seem to be various influences acting upon one another … First, you should know that the lost documents have reappeared.’
The visitor almost shouted out in surprise:
‘What? Where?’
‘It is a curious story. It seems that our worst fears were well founded: the documents which as you know André had to abandon when he escaped, were indeed in the hands of Mazarin. Fortunately for us, they remained unintelligible to him. The code was never broken. And I am convinced we were well served by the Italian’s pathological suspicion. He dared not mention the secret to anyone in case they already understood it … In short, the dog died without knowing …’
‘But the documents,’ cut in Del Sarto, ‘how were they released from Mazarin’s clutches? Who has them now?’
‘I am coming to that; this is where the story becomes intriguing. A group of zealots partially burned down Mazarin’s palace to cover up a burglary. I do not know exactly what they were looking for, but I am now convinced that without realising, those criminals stole our documents and then lost them in their flight. They were found by a young man who by chance then crossed paths with Nicolas Fouquet and has since become his protégé … A young man whose identity I knew the moment I saw him, before I even knew his name, so striking is his resemblance to his father.’
Giacomo absorbed this and sank deeper into his armchair, clasping his hands.
‘You have guessed too,’ went on d’Orbay, getting to his feet. ‘Yes, the young man who got his hands on the documents is André’s son, Gabriel de Pontbriand. A curious irony of history, don’t you think?’ he asked with a slight tremor in his voice. ‘Fifteen years ago the father escapes death by a miracle and loses the documents. For fifteen years we tremble, not knowing where they are, protected as they are only by the code which governs them. And then Providence, or whatever you like to call it, takes delight in plunging a second Pontbriand into this vipers’ nest, just when we are almost at our goal …’
‘Can we get them back from him, without telling him?’
‘I fear, alas, that it will not be as simple as that. According to Barrême – who as usual said too much but at least thought to alert me when the young innocent came to him asking him to decode the papers – he saw the signature, which is not in code. He knows that this is the only thread linking him to his father. I could of course silence him,’ he said in a sinister voice. ‘The thought did cross my mind, I must confess. But I do not have the right. That is why I wanted to see you.’
‘And what about Nicolas? We must not lose sight of the essential point. What does he say about this?’
D’Orbay shook his head.
‘We have spoken of it. That is another reason for my bringing you here. The most recent information since the death of Mazarin seems to indicate that the young King is determined to abandon his games and his idleness in order to govern. He no longer wants a Chief Minister. This does upset our plans somewhat. We would have preferred to retain an easily manipulable monarch. That was our hope when we met in Rome, and it would have been simpler. Still, instead of prevaricating, I think we should hasten our plans in the light of these events. I have already given orders for the works at Vaux to be speeded up, and I have no difficulty in justifying that. The longer we wait, the less we will be able to impose our view on the King. Conversely, by acting swiftly we can take advantage of the fact that his resolve has not yet translated into actions. And we are more certain to succeed because, through young Pontbriand, we now have hope of recovering the key to the Secret, and of being able to read the document, which will soon to be on its way from Rome. On the strength of this additional trump card, Nicolas will be able to convince the King, of that there is no longer any doubt.’
He sat down opposite his visitor and gazed at him seriously.
‘I believe we will have to act this summer at the latest, as soon as we have recovered the manuscript and the key which allows us to decipher it. But we will have to take risks. What do you think?’
‘That is for you to judge, François,’ replied Giacomo softly. ‘First, try to recover the formula. For that, I think you will have to go to London as soon as possible,’ he added. ‘As to the rest, consult Nicolas. I will agree to whatever you decide.’
D’Orbay appeared relieved.
‘That is what I was hoping to hear. I have to confess, the post horses have already been reserved as far as Calais. I will leave immediately. It is one more breach of our safety rules, but too much is at stake.’
The Grand Master nodded with a half-smile. Taking d’Orbay’s hands, he clasped them tightly before getting to his feet to retrieve his cloak.
‘I on the other hand shall stay here for two days. Long enough for a debate at the Sorbonne and a private consultation. Then nobody will be surprised by my visit to Paris.’
Six hours later, before the dawn lit the paving stones, which glistened with the previous night’s rain, François D’Orbay was walking down the staircase, dressed for his journey. As he crossed the entrance hall, he thought of the little bodies slumbering behind the bedroom door and quickened his step.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Versailles hunting lodge – Sunday 13 March, seven o’clock in the evening
THE last rays of sunlight were disappearing above the forest, leaving a few rosy streaks amongst the fat clouds massed on the horizon. Lost in contemplation, Louise de La Vallière gazed through the window of the anonymous carriage which
had come to fetch her from the toll-gate in Faubourg Saint-Germain. In an effort to control the emotion which made her hands tremble, she had spent the whole journey looking out at the countryside, as the carriage brought her via the Meudon road to the marshy valley where the Versailles hunting lodge stood. The young girl frowned with disappointment as they rounded the final bend and she spotted the building’s rectangular mass.
‘I’d imagined it would be bigger,’ she murmured to herself.
Then she felt herself blush at her own audacity, and her heart began to race again. She could see the fascinating image of the King’s face in her mind’s eye; it had filled her dreams for the past fortnight, ever since her presentation to him and the receipt of that note. She had not dared reply but there had been a second note, and a third … and now she was on her way to this momentous meeting. ‘I am hunting at Versailles that day and dare to hope that you will consent to join me for supper there at the haven inherited from my father which I cherish most particularly. If you do me this honour, you will find a carriage awaiting you at the toll-gate of the Abbey de Saint-Germain at five o’clock. There is no need to respond. Not daring to ask for a “yes”, even a “perhaps” is enough to fill my heart with hope.’ She recited the words of the message for the hundredth time. Everything, right down to the absence of a signature, touched her, moved her and thrilled her by adding to the romantic nature of the adventure. She felt fleeting remorse at not having spoken to Gabriel about these exchanges, though she had found him anxious and curiously distant during the past few days. He had refused to answer her when she questioned him about this silence.
The carriage’s final jolt as it stopped at the end of a little road lined with cypress trees brought her back to reality. As she stepped down from the carriage, she noticed that it was now completely dark.
‘Take care, Madame, the ground is uneven,’ said the manservant who lit her way.
The cold made her shiver and she pulled her stole up over her head, holding it tightly about her shoulders. At the end of the pathway, a lantern hinted at the lodge’s contours. As she began to walk along the earthen path, Louise imagined she was dreaming again as she had as a child. She had walked just like this, or even run, towards the prince who would tear her away from her life in Anjou, carry her far away from her family, far from the burdensome reality whose boredom she could not share with anyone except Gabriel, her confidant and playmate.
‘You’re a boy,’ she would say. ‘You can leave, run away, fight, become a buccaneer … But I have nothing to look forward to.’
How she had wept when he disappeared without trace!
The lodge was quite distinct now, its rows of red brick interspersed with white stone from the quarries nearby.
‘My God, it’s a far cry from Amboise,’ she murmured as she stepped onto the paved terrace that led to the entrance.
*
The hunt had been disappointing. They had tracked a young stag all day, only for it to escape in the end, toying with the hunting party and leaving them exhausted and robbed of their victory. Furious, the King had abandoned the hunt there and then, working off his anger by riding his mount at breakneck speed through the woodland which sloped down towards the valley. The musketeers had difficulty in following him and were dismissed at the gate, the King demanding that his carriage be readied without delay, and that he be left alone. The coach left shortly afterwards with the entire retinue, but without the King, who had discreetly remained in the apartment which had been appointed for him on the upper floor of the hunting lodge. An hour later, the sovereign’s anger had abated only slightly. Still in his hunting clothes, having merely scrubbed his upper body with cold water and exchanged his leather baldrick for an indoor jacket of purple silk, Louis XIV was still wandering about his office, his heavy boots echoing on the wooden floor. The creaking of carriage wheels and the neighing of horses drew him to the window, which overlooked the surrounding woodland and the track that led to the back of the lodge to facilitate secret arrivals. Narrowing his eyes to see more clearly, the sovereign suddenly made out the bright patch of Louise’s gown. She was walking quickly, scarcely lifting her skirts whose hems concealed her feet giving the impression that she was moving without touching the ground. The King observed the graceful silhouette with a satisfied sigh as its features gradually became clearer. She looked up as she approached the building, and he smiled, knowing that she could not see him. He realised that it was the innocence and dignity that emanated from her slender neck, her narrow, almost triangular face, and her large bright eyes that was so moving. Tearing himself away from his contemplation of her as she reached the front steps, the King of France automatically glanced in the mirror as he left the room. He saw the reflection of a young man of twenty-three, whose eyes still burned with the embers of rage, now softened by a roguish glint.
The King wiped his mouth, drank a mouthful of wine and looked up at Louise.
‘Do you like the quails? And the wine? It comes from the vineyard at Vougeot. Monsieur de Condé did me the honour of giving me several cases because I was weak enough to tell him that it was to my taste. But you are not eating anything,’ he added, serving himself again from one of the numerous dishes lined up between them on the pristine tablecloth.
‘The Prince de Condé?’ murmured Louise.
The King merely smiled.
‘Such is my cross, Mademoiselle. Everyone thinks they can interpret my words and imagine that they please me by repeating things which once solicited a word of appreciation from me, when that word may have been spoken simply by chance …’
Noticing that the young girl was blushing, the King pulled himself up:
‘Look here,’ he said, reaching into his shirt for a small key that was attached to his neck by a golden chain, ‘do you know what this key is, Mademoiselle?’
At the young girl’s stunned expression, the King continued:
‘It was given to me by a loyal friend, who was delighted to be able to bring me a gift of cocoa transported back from the Indies alongside a cargo of spices. He had a hermetically sealed box made, and locked the cocoa inside it. Then he gave it to me, making me promise always to carry the key about my person for fear that someone might rob me. So I am in charge of the cocoa, and nobody can get to it without my permission …’
He was trying not to laugh.
‘You will note that I accepted it because he is a very dear friend. And I like the idea because it makes me think of him.’
He fell silent for a moment and considered the young girl’s astonished expression.
‘What do you think, do tell me! Do you think I should give it up, take the key from my neck, and hand over the burden to someone else? Don’t be afraid, speak: the King demands your advice,’ he said with mock-severity.
Louise now gently raised her eyes.
‘Not at all, Sire, I think you should keep it. Just make one or two copies of it to enable others to share the cocoa.’
‘How right you are,’ commented the King with a smile. ‘But you have listened enough. Tell me about yourself.’
‘About myself!’ cried the young woman. ‘But Sire, there is nothing to say. I was born seventeen years ago in Amboise, I had a happy childhood thanks to the generosity of your uncle, God rest his soul, and I owe it to his protection that I was chosen as a companion for your future sister-in-law. There is nothing else to say. I have neither a cargo of cocoa to deliver to Your Majesty, nor witty conversation with which to entertain you …’
Louise broke off anxiously. The King had suddenly got up from the table, throwing his napkin onto his plate. Seeing that he was still smiling, she regained her composure and stood too, amazed to see him walk round the table and personally draw back the chair behind her. As she was curtseying, he took her hand without a word and led her towards the garden. The clouds had drifted away, and stars were now twinkling in the darkness.
‘I love this soft, damp air’, said the King of France. ‘It brings back the taste of m
y childhood. For me this is a place of repose, and also a dream, the dream of something different,’ he said thoughtfully as he gazed up at the sky.
All of a sudden she shivered, and he asked anxiously if she was cold. She shook her head, but without listening to her he rushed inside, leaving her dazed and alone, only to return a moment later carrying a silk shawl.
‘It was given to me by the Venetian ambassador to support the countless unlikely tales he told me about his compatriots’ exploits in China,’ commented the King in a low voice as he placed it around Louise’s shoulders. ‘Just think, the threads which cover your back have travelled thousands of leagues from China to Versailles,’ he added, standing back to judge the effect of the silken fabric.
‘Look, I am cold too,’ he went on, holding out his hands to the young girl.
Crouching a few yards away in the shadow cast by the trees, a dark figure who had observed the entire scene watched the King and the young girl go back into the lodge, side by side. The silhouette remained there for a few more seconds before disappearing, swallowed up by the darkness.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Jean-Baptiste Colbert’s residence – Monday 14 March, eleven o’clock in the morning