The Sun King Conspiracy

by Yves Jégo

  WITH his arms folded, Colbert hesitated for a moment before repeating his order:

  ‘More to the left … further still!’

  The docile workers carrying the heavy antique bowls moved them inch by inch along the wall of the entrance hall, opposite the stone staircase which led up to the first floor.

  ‘There,’ exclaimed the new Steward of Finance, ‘that’s better.’

  He stepped forward and measured with his feet the space between each of the bowls and the black marble cabochons that separated the white marble tiles on the floor. Satisfied that the gaps were equal, he moved away again to enjoy the effect.

  ‘Good,’ he said, rubbing his hands and setting off upstairs two steps at a time. ‘Now for the chest of drawers on the landing!’

  Resigned, the workers followed in his wake.

  ‘This has been going on for four days,’ whispered one.

  ‘He obviously never sleeps,’ moaned another.

  ‘Come, come, hurry up,’ Colbert urged them, at the same time quickly scanning a document handed to him on the stairs by a secretary.

  ‘Ah!’ he broke off, examining a sheet from another bundle his colleague had given him before leaving as swiftly as he had arrived. ‘Time is pressing and my visitors will have arrived for the meeting. More’s the pity,’ he sighed regretfully as he glanced at the chest of drawers he had wanted to move. ‘We shall continue later.’

  As he walked back to his office on the ground floor, overlooking the garden, Colbert spent a moment enjoying the sight of the new interior: ‘my’ new interior, he thought. For several years, Colbert had been accommodated free of charge in this small private residence adjoining the Cardinal’s. In the four days since he had become its effective owner – subject only to Parlement’s ratification of the will – he had come to regard each room and each piece of furniture with passion. As though endowed with new energy, he had sacrificed some of his rare hours of sleep to undertake the total redecoration of the house to which, until then, he had paid scant attention.

  Toussaint Roze – whom Colbert had appropriated without delay – stuck his head through the door of the anteroom.

  ‘Monsieur Lulli is here, Monsieur,’ he announced.

  Without answering, Colbert indicated that his reflections were not to be disturbed. The visitor could wait. This was another rule the new owner had established.

  ‘Where was I?’ he went on softly, rubbing his eyes which lack of sleep made appear even heavier than usual.

  Now that the first stage had been achieved, with Fouquet miraculously distanced from his dream of becoming Chief Minister, he would have to build upon that success. First he would feed the King’s mistrust towards the Superintendent of Finance, started by the intervention of the Cardinal before his death: Things are moving in the right direction, thought Colbert. Next he would cut off Fouquet from his networks as much as possible: That is today’s task, he murmured, glancing again at the list of names lying before him. Once that is done, I must also think about keeping an eye on the King’s volatile temperament, he told himself thoughtfully. And shed some light on that curious story of stolen documents the Queen Mother told me about. There is something about it that’s being hidden from me, something that is not entirely above board … I don’t know what part the Superintendent, the travelling entertainer and that scheming woman play in it, but I shall find out every detail in the end.

  A carnivorous smile twisted his mouth:

  And then I shall think about my position, he concluded, ringing the bell which the Cardinal had used for so long. Toussaint Roze reappeared at the familiar sound:

  ‘Why have I not seen the royal warrant for the Vice-Protector of the Academy of Painting and Sculpture? I spoke to Monsieur Le Tellier about it and he was supposed to be bringing it here.’

  ‘I am expecting it this morning, Monsieur.’

  ‘Good. I shall look at it over lunch. Now, send in whoever is waiting to see me.’

  As Toussaint Roze closed the door behind him, Colbert glanced at the garden, musing that he would also have to redesign the copses.

  ‘But plants grow so slowly; it takes too much time,’ he grumbled in annoyance.

  The sight of the walls enclosing the little park had made him think about the gardens at Vaux. His informers brought him regular descriptions, which made him so angry that he refused to read them.

  The door opened again as he looked away from the scarcely flourishing vegetation.

  ‘Monsieur Lulli, Monsieur,’ announced Toussaint Roze, leaving them alone.

  In came the Italian musician, bent double in a respectful bow. He clasped his hands and stretched them towards Colbert in an air of supplication.

  ‘Ah, Monsieur Colbert, I am in despair!’

  ‘Come, come, Monsieur,’ urged the Steward, a little surprised by this attack of theatricality. ‘What is the purpose of your visit?’

  ‘With the passing of Monsieur Cardinal, Monsieur Colbert, I have lost more than a protector, a patron, and the source of my inspiration … The Cardinal, Monsieur Colbert …’ lamented the Italian, whose interminable sentences and gabbled diction were further complicated by his pronounced accent.

  Colbert raised a hand to halt the torrent of words.

  ‘That is sufficient, Monsieur. I understand your distress and it is justified. I share it, as does the entire Kingdom. But for pity’s sake, what is it you need? What is it you lack? What do you want?’

  Thrown by Colbert’s cold tone and directness, the musician was struck dumb for a moment.

  ‘Well …’ he began. Colbert gestured that he should continue. How I detest him, him and his kind, he thought as Lulli began a rambling discourse trying to explain that he wanted nothing for himself, how gladly I would crush them; what the devil was the Cardinal thinking of, putting up with them? And what weakness on Fouquet’s part to support them … At least the trade in paintings, of which the protectorship of the Academy of Painting and Sculpture will give me a monopoly, will enable me to earn some money! But this, this cheap theatrical whining. Anyway, since he’s asking …

  ‘Very well, Monsieur,’ he cut in. ‘You wish to be Steward of Music? I have heard your request and I shall look upon it favourably when I speak to His Majesty about you.’

  Colbert withdrew his hand in irritation as Lulli attempted to seize it.

  ‘That will take a little time. I have to take the oath for my new offices. Besides, I have been charged with putting the Cardinal’s affairs in order,’ he said, puffing out his chest, ‘and this will occupy my days to a large extent. But don’t worry, I shall see to it.’

  Lulli opened his mouth to thank him, but Colbert glared at him.

  ‘Do not thank me, Monsieur, before anything has been arranged. Moreover I ask nothing of you except an assurance of your fidelity …’

  Lulli nodded vigorously.

  ‘Your exclusive fidelity,’ Colbert concluded, looking him straight in the eye. ‘We understand each other completely, do we not?’

  Lowering his eyes, the musician nodded again.

  Once Lulli had gone, Colbert allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction.

  ‘One. A small one, but one all the same. The next one is more important,’ he added greedily. ‘You are to summon Molière as soon as possible,’ Colbert said to Toussaint Roze, who had returned having shown the musician out, ‘preferably before my imminent departure for Fontainebleau, where I am to join the King,’ he added, unable to prevent himself assuming an air of superiority. Then the joyous but cruel gleam that had appeared in his eyes grew brighter.

  ‘Is he here yet?’ he asked, looking once again at his list of appointments, and at a nod from Roze, Colbert commanded:

  ‘Show in Monsieur Everhard Jabach!’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Fontainebleau – Monday 14 March, eleven o’clock in the morning

  FOUQUET detested his office. It was located in the financial administration building constructed under Louis XIII, which adjo
ined the Oval Court, a few yards from the main body of the Château de Fontainebleau. It was late morning, and he was coming to the end of some tedious signatures. The last document he had to examine concerned a decision the King had taken the previous day, to transform the Église de Saint-Louis in Fontainebleau into an autonomous parish and to allocate it to missionaries specialising in the care of lepers.

  Well, thought the Superintendent, the King really does seem to be dealing with everything now. And here am I transformed into a parish clerk! Hearing the clock on the front of the nearby Albret residence strike eleven, Nicolas Fouquet broke off from what he was doing. The hour of his audience with Louis XIV was approaching, and he would have to set off without delay.

  Louis XIV had come to Fontainebleau for the first time at the age of six, and he liked to return regularly to escape the burdens of etiquette at the Paris Court. This time the King had brought forward his visit, hoping no doubt to dispel the emotion and sadness of his godfather’s death. He had even decided to take up residence there, despite the fact that a large proportion of the furniture which travelled with the King was still in Paris. He had arrived the previous evening and was already in his hunting clothes again. His gloves were folded and threaded through an impressive leather belt which displayed his favourite cutlass to good effect; it was with this blade, given to him by Mazarin on his thirteenth birthday, that he killed the finest stags in the nearby forest. As Fouquet walked into the room, preceded by the sovereign’s principal valet, he stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded. There in front of him the King of France was dancing, dressed in all his hunting finery!

  ‘Come in, come in, Monsieur Superintendent,’ said the King, barely turning his head so as not to lose the thread of the figure he was executing. ‘You see, I rehearse everything just like a strolling player. I am practising the “Ballet of the Seasons”, so as to be ready for the celebrations I shall be holding here next spring.’

  Not entirely sure how to respond, Fouquet gazed admiringly at the young sovereign’s agility as he danced, the rhythm indicated only by the tapping of the dancing master’s cane on the wooden floor.

  ‘That will suffice,’ said the King, extracting a fine lace handkerchief from his sleeve and mopping his brow. ‘I must speak to Monsieur Superintendent – it is time to turn our attentions to matters of State.’

  Louis XIV signalled to his dancing master and valets to leave, and sat down in his armchair.

  As he stood before his King, Nicolas Fouquet did as etiquette dictated and executed three magnificent bows, so deep that he swept the floor with the plume of his hat. From the King’s response – a nod of the head – he knew that he was permitted to speak.

  ‘Sire, I listened to Your Majesty at the Grand Council which followed the passing of His Eminence and I have asked to speak to you this morning about a matter concerning the management of the Kingdom’s finances, which is worrying me. It is my duty to tell Your Majesty the truth about the past. Necessity forced me to deviate from the proper respect for prescribed forms and procedures in my management of the Treasury. Your Majesty will no doubt hear rumours of all this.’

  Astonished by these unexpected confidences, Louis XIV looked searchingly at his Superintendent of Finance.

  ‘Your Majesty should know,’ continued Fouquet, ‘that everything I did was in perfect agreement with and under the sole authority of Cardinal Mazarin. We took enormous risks in order to re-establish confidence in the State’s solvency, in particular following the terrible liquidity crisis of 1654. Often, Sire, without Your Majesty’s knowledge, I staked my own possessions in order to guarantee the King of France’s signature. Today you are taking on the burden of the country’s government. It was my duty to tell you the truth. I have come humbly to beg your pardon for the improprieties committed solely in the interest of the Kingdom’s finances. My crime is that I have always sought to do my best to protect my King, and to respect the orders of the Cardinal your godfather to the letter,’ ended the Superintendent, bowing his head.

  Louis XIV seemed impressed by this admission.

  ‘Indeed,’ he replied, ‘I have heard certain rumours of racketeering that implicate you. The service of the State as I see it demands extreme rigour. I expect exemplary self-denial on the part of my ministers. From now on, the Kingdom’s interest must prevail over personal and family interests, Monsieur Superintendent.’

  ‘Those are words which I gladly make my own, Sire. How many times have I uttered them! You know how much your dear godfather loved his family. In recent days, you will have been able to measure the consequences resulting from the greed of those close to him, at a time when it has become necessary to sell off inheritances.’

  Fouquet knew he had struck home with this allusion to Mazarin’s will. There was nothing the King did not know about his Chief Minister’s financial abuses, and doubtless even less about Colbert’s role in concealing the sources of the fortune belonging to the Italian’s clan. He should have no difficulty imagining that Fouquet also knew Mazarin’s affairs. Was this not the right moment for him to bury it all along with the dear Cardinal? Also, the King knew that Fouquet had never failed him. On the contrary, the King had benefited on numerous occasions from sums acquired thanks to his minister’s financial agility.

  ‘Monsieur Superintendent,’ said the King, ‘your course of action honours you. Let us forget the past; I grant you my pardon. In future, I ask that you adhere to the usual rules. Also, I order you from now on to put an end to loans at usurious rates, to cease the practice of excessive discounting of bills and to settle immediately all transfers and extraordinary arrangements.’

  ‘Sire,’ replied the Superintendent, relieved at these words, ‘I promise that I will continue to serve Your Majesty with all the zeal and affection imaginable.’

  ‘To provide you with a further indication of my trust,’ said the young King in a softer voice, ‘I command you to create a council for overseas trade, in order to provide the Kingdom with the means to fight off competition from certain of our neighbours. Along with Messieurs Aligre, Colbert and Lefèvre d’Ormesson, you shall be taking decisions which are of the utmost importance to the Kingdom’s prosperity. Let us forget the past so that we may work for the greatness of France,’ concluded the King, standing up as Fouquet bowed low. ‘Monsieur d’Artagnan awaits me and I am in a hurry to hunt out that full-grown stag whose boldness my master of hounds so praises,’ added Louis XIV as he strode out of the room to join his hunting party.

  In the corridor Fouquet met Lionne, who immediately petitioned him regarding his gambling debts and asked him to grant a new deadline for payment. As magnanimous as the sovereign, Fouquet once again yielded to his request. It was the best way to align himself with this powerful member of the King’s Council. Fouquet made his way back to his office with a light heart, and found himself face to face with Colbert.

  ‘Monsieur Colbert, how pleased I am to see you,’ he said cheerfully. ‘His Majesty has entrusted me with creating and directing a council for overseas trade. I suggested that you should be a member, knowing of your taste for maritime matters. Despite the King’s initial reticence due to the considerable burdens currently resting on your shoulders, you should know that he nevertheless granted me this request. So we shall meet again shortly to talk about that,’ concluded Fouquet, and he went on his way without giving Colbert another glance.

  ‘How delightful,’ answered Colbert darkly.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Westminster, London – Wednesday 16 March, nine o’clock in the morning

  WALKING along the banks of the Thames, François d’Orbay turned off the path as soon as a bend in the river provided a glimpse of the Tower of London’s distant outline. He plunged deep into the alleyways which led up from the muddy quays to the centre of the city, several times thanking heaven for his good knowledge of the city’s landmarks. In fact the fog which had veiled the horizon when he awoke seemed to be growing thicker with every minute. Given the narrow windi
ng streets, lined with tall wooden houses, he would have had little chance of finding his way without the help of a native. And in these troubled times, that was an extremely perilous proposition. Turning round, he tried again without success to make out the contours of the Tower which could guide him on his way. The few lamps illuminating the inn signs looked like yellowish haloes. Lowering his head, he quickened his pace.

  Ten years had passed since their last meeting. He had been so young back then, almost an apprentice. So much had happened since. He felt suddenly apprehensive, as if the experiences he had accumulated during that period – the journeys, the encounters, the family he had created – might serve to emphasise how much their paths had diverged.

  He was about to stop again, when the dark mass of the abbey suddenly loomed up before him. The fog obscured its height, concealing the greater part of the building, but he was overjoyed as he recognised the iron gate.

  The fog may thicken all it likes, he thought as he climbed over it. Now it is my ally. He set off along the path leading to the church door, then turned onto the earthen track which forked off after a few yards and led towards the willows in the graveyard. When he reached the curtain of trees he too vanished, swallowed up by the mist.

  André de Pontbriand shivered, feeling the cold chill his feet. Hidden behind a tree, he was pleased to see François d’Orbay appear through the foliage. Almost on time, he thought. As he followed him across the little wooden bridge spanning the stream which ran alongside the tombs, he carefully observed his former pupil’s movements, gait and moments of uncertainty. He smiled when he saw him frown as he searched for the designated tree, then crept after him.

  François d’Orbay stood stock-still, gazing at the weeping willow. He was just bending forward to decipher the inscription on the tomb when a voice made him turn round.

  ‘It is the tomb of John Donne. I am fond of his poems and I like to stroll here from time to time. Even if it is early in the morning and the weather is hardly welcoming …’