The Sun King Conspiracy

by Yves Jégo

  Protocol followed its course, with the King receiving the homage of his Spanish, Austrian and French visitors. They all glared at each other, each trying to determine the real reason for these ambassadorial visits, which were ostensibly out of courtesy towards the new young monarch so recently returned to the throne. Gabriel imagined this was the reason for the perceptible tension in the room, for its ambient chill and austerity. Unless it was the weight of suspicion, he mused, observing the large number of guards around the dais who watched the visitors attentively, scrutinising their garments for signs of possible weapons.

  ‘Gabriel, Gabriel.’

  The whispered call made the young man turn just as Fouquet, having approached Charles II, was bowing and handing him a letter from the King of France.

  At first all Gabriel could see was a large silhouette in the corner by a side door, a few yards to his right.

  ‘Gabriel,’ the figure persisted, still in a low voice.

  I’ve heard that voice before, thought Gabriel, moving slowly towards it while trying to keep one eye on Fouquet.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he asked, also softly.

  A hand gripped his wrist and pulled him roughly into the shadow by the door. Gabriel could not suppress an exclamation of surprise.

  ‘Monsieur Barrême!’

  The mathematician gestured to him to keep his voice down, and drew him out of the room.

  ‘Sh! No names. Be quiet and follow me.’

  ‘But what are you doing here?’ replied Gabriel without moving. ‘And where am I to follow you to?’

  Barrême turned round, looking angry.

  ‘Don’t you ever stop asking trivial questions at inappropriate moments? I noticed that tendency the last time we met.’

  Gabriel still didn’t move.

  ‘In Heaven’s name, Gabriel,’ Barrême continued, his tone more urgent. ‘We only have a little time before they notice your absence. If you want to know what was in those papers you showed me …’ he added, lowering his voice even more.

  Gabriel glanced into the stateroom and saw that Fouquet was still talking to the King. He hesitated for a second, then signalled to Barrême to lead the way.

  What a strange character, he thought as he followed in the fat man’s footsteps.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  London, André de Pontbriand’s residence – Friday 22 April, half past five in the afternoon

  THE man who called himself Charles Saint John could bear it no longer. He could neither concentrate on the thick book of accounts for his modest trading company, nor watch the comings and goings in the street as he usually did when he could not focus his attention on the task in hand. Ever since Barrême had told him that they would be there that afternoon, the tired old man had been in a sort of frenzy.

  ‘I haven’t seen him for fifteen years. What is he like? How will he react? What does he think of me? How can I explain those fifteen years of abandonment?’ he kept asking himself. Over the years he had become resigned to never seeing any member of his family again.

  Charles Saint John’s two-storey house stood in a labourers’ district. The ground floor was permanently filled with stacks of merchandise from the various maritime trading companies he did business with. Two clerks were in charge of the stores and checked everything that passed through. This line of business was an ideal cover for the old man, allowing him to make numerous journeys without arousing the least suspicion, and it was also his sole source of income. He lived on the upper storey, which was simple and comfortable. Next to his bedroom he had set up an office which also served as a library. Over the past fifteen years he had built up a substantial collection, mainly of poetic works. He had also made his own attempts at writing and had kept several manuscripts, but he had never dared to have them published.

  When he returned to the window again, he saw a carriage stop outside his house. The coachman jumped down to unfold the three steps which enabled travellers to descend more easily, then pointed in the direction of the trader’s house. The old man’s heart began to pound. Barrême was first to emerge from the vehicle, swiftly followed by Gabriel. The man waiting so impatiently at his window did not immediately react, as if he were dumbstruck by the sight of someone who was no longer the little ‘Cherubino’ he remembered. Ashamed at this hesitation, he felt beads of sweat appear on his brow as he said to himself:

  ‘Gabriel … My little one!’

  ‘Where on earth are you taking me?’ said Gabriel, grabbing the fat man and looking up at the modest trading house he was about to enter.

  ‘You are nearly there, so just be patient,’ answered the mathematician, pushing him inside the room where customers were received. ‘Go upstairs. Someone is waiting for you,’ he added, pointing to the stairs.

  Gabriel went upstairs alone. When he reached the first-floor landing he tensed, fearing another attack. As he approached the half-open door, a voice called out:

  ‘Come in!’

  The young actor was taken aback, but responded to this invitation and entered the office where a white-haired man stood with his back to him, his arms motionless. Slowly, almost theatrically, the figure turned to face his visitor. Gabriel looked silently at the man and was first struck by the light of the pale blue eyes. The young man began to feel awkward, and decided to say something:

  ‘Monsieur …’

  ‘I am pleased to see you. I never believed that this moment would come,’ interrupted the old man, walking slowly towards Gabriel as if approaching a bird that he didn’t want to scare away.

  As the man drew nearer, Gabriel was overcome by a huge wave of emotion. ‘That voice,’ he said to himself, looking closely at the old man, ‘and now those eyes, this face …’ He took a step back. ‘Who are you?’ he asked almost inaudibly.

  Without answering, the man came nearer still, then raised an arm and took Gabriel clumsily by the shoulder.

  The young man could feel his fingers trembling.

  ‘How tall you are now,’ said the man softly.

  Gabriel noticed his eyes grow misty.

  ‘You can’t be …’ stammered the young man, realising in a flash just as the man who had pretended to be Charles Saint John took him in his arms.

  ‘My child, my dear child, I have found you at last,’ rejoiced André de Pontbriand as he embraced his son.

  A host of images flashed through Gabriel’s mind. He was so emotional and stirred up that he could not immediately answer his father. His father remembered from his childhood, for whom he had wept so many times in those lonely nights in Amboise, about whom he knew nothing, and whose strength and counsel he had so missed. Here he was, behind this old man’s mask. He recognised him without really knowing him, this familiar man who was at the same time a complete stranger.

  Some seconds passed in silence. André de Pontbriand remained there, with his arms wrapped around his son, as if he were seeking to make up for all the years of painful separation. Then he loosened his embrace and stepped back to take another look at his child, this man with the strong face, whose cheeks were bathed in tears.

  ‘But what are you doing here, using a false name? And why did you abandon us, and allow us to think you were dead? I should at least have an explanation before I accept your embraces!’

  With a bitter smile, André de Pontbriand looked at his son’s clenched fists and the fire in his red-rimmed eyes. Now that his initial astonishment had passed, Gabriel’s emotions were turning to anger. He is so like me, thought his father.

  ‘You are right, my boy,’ he answered sadly. ‘I sacrificed you to a cause that is greater than all of us. In my heart I carry the responsibility for my exile like a wound which will never heal. You are a man now, and you have a right to know the truth. Do not judge me yet! I shall answer all your questions. But before I do so, may we sit down?’ he went on, indicating the part of the room which had been furnished as a sitting room. ‘I shall have some tea brought up. You see, after all this time I have allowed myself to be seduced by
English habits!’ he added with false levity.

  André de Pontbriand took a sip of his tea, then began his account of the past fifteen years.

  ‘First of all, I have to tell you that, since the age of twenty, I have had the honour of serving a noble company of men as your grandfather did before me, and his father and grandfather before him. There are just fourteen of us spread out across the world in order to protect a Secret of incalculable value. This sacred cause brought me here to London, and subsequently prevented me from rejoining you. The announcement of my death was designed to protect you from danger, after our cause was betrayed. Just so that you know, the man who betrayed us called himself Naum. Fifteen years ago he received a large sum of money from Cardinal Mazarin in exchange for a document on which my name appeared. The document, which he stole from me, is the key to the Secret, without which no one can access it. Fortunately I had taken care to encode it, having been initiated by your grandfather into the mysteries of the art of cryptography. The Cardinal’s police had identified me and were searching for me, and the stakes were so high that I had to go into exile and cut off all links with my past. You see, my dear Gabriel, to save the honour of the Pontbriands and to preserve your integrity, I took the terrible decision never to see you again; I melted into the skin of Charles Saint John.’

  Gabriel shivered as the veil which had shrouded his childhood was partially lifted. His head swam.

  ‘But why?’ he demanded, bewildered. ‘Why?’

  ‘Let me explain, and please give me time,’ cut in his father. ‘We have both waited so long …’

  The old man told him all about his life in London, his new profession, and his journeys to trade in far-off places. Then he asked his son about the rest of the family.

  As he listened, Gabriel gazed intently at the room in which he was sitting, trying to record each sensation, smell, sound, each detail of the furnishings. How many times, in dreams, had he visualised his father walking through unknown and always fantastical settings. The ordinariness of this interior both fascinated and moved him.

  Gabriel’s flight to Paris to escape his uncle’s authority and join Molière’s troupe made André smile, happy to discover his son’s bold nature. The conversation lasted a long time, for the two men had fifteen years to catch up on.

  In turn, the young man gave his father a detailed account of the incredible discovery and the peculiar chain of events which had taken surprising directions finally leading him to London. When he heard the names Nicolas Fouquet and François d’Orbay, André de Pontbriand smiled again. Gabriel questioned him several times about the Secret and about this mysterious company of fourteen members, which intrigued him. But he was frustrated by his father’s responses, which were mostly cryptic. He wanted to know more.

  ‘Don’t torture me like this, my son,’ André said with a laugh after a little while. ‘Only initiates may know the rules of our company and the nature of the text we protect. You are already in sufficient danger and you know too much. My faithful friend Barrême told me about the bundle of papers you showed him.’

  He fixed the young man with his steely gaze.

  ‘What have you done with those papers?’

  ‘I have them here in London, in my baggage,’ replied Gabriel.

  ‘My carriage is at your disposal. Go and fetch them and come back to dine with me. We still have so much to talk about.’

  Only too happy at this prospect, Gabriel stood up to leave, impatient to get to the bottom of the mysterious tale.

  ‘Hurry back,’ the old man could not help saying. ‘And take great care.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  London, André de Pontbriand’s residence – Friday 22 April, nine o’clock in the evening

  WHEN Gabriel returned to his father’s house, he found him still in his office on the first floor. He looked tired.

  ‘My son, I am so happy that you were able to come straight back,’ André de Pontbriand declared.

  ‘Here you are,’ replied Gabriel, holding out the red leather case bulging with the notorious papers. ‘This is what I found on the floor of the prompter’s box at the theatre.’

  ‘Let me see,’ said André, putting on his pince-nez. ‘Sit down, my son, this will probably take a little while.’

  André de Pontbriand minutely examined the parchments contained in the document case one by one. As he read them, he sorted them into separate piles on the large mahogany table he used as a desk. Gabriel watched his father admiringly, taking his time to rediscover the man by observing him closely. Little by little, he noticed expressions or family traits that brought back vague childhood memories.

  ‘There we are,’ the old man said at last, rubbing his eyes. ‘As you see, I have sorted the papers into three categories. That’, he said, his voice filled with emotion as he pointed to a sheet lying on its own, ‘is the document sold by Naum to Mazarin. On the back is the coded despatch note followed by my signature, which you recognised.’

  André de Pontbriand slid his trembling hand over the document. Gabriel gazed in silent amazement as his father battled with emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

  ‘If you knew how important this piece of paper is to me,’ said the old man barely audibly, letting the document slide slowly from his grasp. ‘And beyond me, for the future of the world! And you have brought it back to me …’

  Tearing himself away from his memories with some difficulty, he silenced Gabriel, who was about to ask another question, and turned to the rest of the papers.

  ‘This here,’ he went on, indicating the second pile, ‘is an infinitely simpler form of encryption, known as Italian code. For years it was accessed quite easily by all those associated with the Court, but it hasn’t been used since it was broken during the Fronde. It is known to have been the code used by Anne of Austria for her secret correspondence. At first sight I think I can identify these as official deeds. I will need a little time to get to the bottom of them and discover their contents. And those over there are financial papers, written in such a way as to prevent them being accidentally read by some junior employee. It seems to be some kind of hidden accounting that shows the various manipulations undertaken by His Eminence to increase his own wealth. Look at this one, for example,’ said André, showing one of the documents to his son. ‘It reveals the shadowy arrangements that were devised for the purchase of the Montereau and de Moret toll houses by third parties in the Cardinal’s pay.’

  ‘Now I understand why Colbert and his henchmen are so fiercely determined!’ Gabriel exclaimed.

  ‘Whoever lost or hid this leather case in your theatre must have known perfectly well what they were looking for,’ André went on. ‘But let us return to the documents in the Italian code,’ he added, turning to the second pile. ‘Allow me a few moments to translate these deeds. I think they might well contain an important State secret.’

  As his father opened drawers and took out strange little rulers covered in figures, and then busied himself copying them onto the documents in question, Gabriel reflected that he had been entirely unaware of the explosive nature of the writing case.

  Now I understand why the whole world seems to be against me, thought the young man, even more impatient to know the truth.

  ‘Well, Monsieur de Pontbriand, you have been sitting on a bomb!’ exclaimed the old man after a long period of silence. He was evidently satisfied with his work. He stood up and walked round the table to show the document to Gabriel, who seethed with impatience as his father read on, looking more and more astonished.

  ‘First of all, we have here the official deed of marriage between Anne of Austria and His Eminence Cardinal Mazarin! Do you know what that means, my son? If the Fronde members or those in their service had been able to get hold of these parchments, I believe the Kingdom of France would have exploded, with incalculable repercussions. What is more, this code is child’s play for anyone with a little knowledge of the cryptographic art!’

  Gabriel could not beli
eve his ears. The rumour had spread all over Paris, it is true, but nobody had imagined that proof of the marriage between the King’s mother and the Chief Minister could be so easily accessible.

  ‘But that is nothing compared to the letter attached to the deed.’

  Gabriel was in a state of high excitement.

  ‘What does it say? Who sent it?’

  ‘Anne of Austria, my son, sent it to Cardinal Mazarin. And its content is incredible: this letter, Gabriel, dated 1638, twenty-three years ago, is from a young mother writing after the birth of her child to the child’s father …’

  ‘Mazarin was the King’s father?’

  His head was spinning.

  ‘My son,’ said André, ‘now you know enough about the affairs of the Kingdom to appreciate the importance of these papers. They would be capable of unleashing a civil war …’

  ‘But what are we to do with them?’

  ‘We will have to act with extreme caution. I imagine Colbert is actively searching for them. Your life and mine would carry little weight in comparison,’ he concluded sombrely. ‘You said you would be in London for a few more days. First, I shall take the necessary steps to reassure my Brothers about the fate of our company’s papers. As I told you, I am not worried in that respect. The codes have not been broken; they are indecipherable to everyone except me. One day I shall explain to you how I can be so certain,’ added André in answer to his son’s questioning look. ‘As regards Mazarin’s secret accounts and the proof of his marriage, you shall take those papers back. I imagine that the private residence in which the King of England has accommodated you is the best-guarded place in the Kingdom. Before you leave, we shall discuss what to do next.’

  Gabriel found his father’s cold determination suddenly reassuring. He realised just then how much he had missed this paternal protection.

  ‘It is getting late, father,’ said the young man, seeing from the clock that it was half past eleven.