The Sun King Conspiracy

by Yves Jégo

  ‘These obstacles – do you mean his murderers?’

  ‘There’s more to it than that. There’s more at stake in this sinister story than my own destiny or my father’s. But everything is linked, Louise: the threats against you, my father’s murder; we are all the playthings of a machination which involves the future of the entire country. A plot in which I must choose my role,’ he added, as if talking to himself.

  ‘I’m frightened, Gabriel,’ answered Louise, pressing herself against him.

  Gabriel closed his eyes and wrapped his arms tightly round the young girl’s shoulders. They remained like that for a moment, in silence.

  ‘It is nearly over,’ Gabriel went on. ‘Tomorrow everything will be over. Now go back upstairs. I have to go to Versailles.’

  Louise trembled at the sound of this word.

  ‘Yes, to Versailles,’ Gabriel confirmed. ‘The King is hunting.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Versailles hunting lodge – Wednesday 11 May, two o’clock in the afternoon

  ‘SUPERINTENDENT’S service or not, I say again: you cannot pass!’

  Leaning out of the carriage window, François d’Orbay slapped the flat of his hand against the embossed escutcheon depicting a squirrel that adorned the door.

  ‘For the Lord’s sake, Monsieur Musketeer, I shall give you one more chance to take back what you just said …’

  ‘Whoever you may be,’ interrupted the soldier, raising his voice, ‘do not imagine that you impress me. The King is hunting, and he is not to be disturbed! Hey, young man,’ he said in alarm, turning round suddenly, ‘are you deaf? Where do you think you’re going?’

  Having leapt out of the carriage via the far door, Gabriel was already running towards the brick building.

  ‘Guards, sound the alert,’ roared the musketeer, setting off in pursuit.

  The metal gate that protected the hunting lodge was set into a small guard post. All of a sudden three musketeers emerged from it and blocked Gabriel’s path. The young man stopped in his tracks and hesitated for a second, just long enough for the soldiers to charge at him and seize him.

  ‘Cowards,’ yelled Gabriel, struggling as d’Orbay joined them breathlessly, followed by the musketeer who had sounded the alert. ‘Three against one! I dare you to fight like men!’

  ‘You are about to discover the price of your behaviour,’ threatened the musketeer, seizing d’Orbay by the arm. ‘Go,’ he ordered the soldiers who were trying to bring Gabriel under control, ‘take that madman away. Two or three days in prison will cool his ardour …’

  Gabriel felt a terrible anguish grip his heart. To fail, so close to their goal! Clenching his teeth, he struggled even harder.

  ‘We’re going to have to knock him unconscious!’ roared one of the musketeers.

  ‘You are making a terrible mistake,’ cried d’Orbay as the man dragged him backwards. ‘We have here a letter of the utmost importance!’

  ‘Help!’ Gabriel shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Help!’

  ‘What is the meaning of all this noise?’

  The man who had just spoken was standing on the other side of the gate, silhouetted against the light, in the middle of a group of half a dozen men who had just come through the door of the hunting lodge. With short, sharp movements, one finger at a time, he was adjusting his leather gauntlets, which gleamed in the sunshine.

  Suddenly silent, the musketeer who had given the orders shaded his eyes against the glare.

  ‘Well, are you deaf? Answer me! What is the meaning of all this shouting?’

  ‘These two men are troublemakers, Captain …’ replied the man, rather uncertainly.

  ‘No, we are not,’ chimed in d’Orbay, freeing himself from his guard.

  Also blinking in the glare, he rushed towards the gate.

  ‘Monsieur d’Artagnan, the sun prevented me from recognising you. I am François d’Orbay, Monsieur Superintendent’s architect at his chateau in Vaux, and this lad is Superintendent Fouquet’s secretary. He is carrying an urgent letter from the Superintendent to His Majesty. Look at our carriage,’ he said, pointing to the coat of arms painted upon the doors.

  D’Artagnan signalled to the musketeers to release the prisoners.

  ‘They are zealous,’ he grunted. ‘Come, Monsieur, let me see this letter,’ he said to Gabriel, putting his hand through the gate.

  Gabriel frowned and rubbed his wrists.

  ‘Indeed not, Monsieur. Monsieur Fouquet told me it had to be handed to His Majesty himself.’

  Disarmed by such self-assurance, d’Artagnan smiled faintly.

  ‘Well, my noisy young fellow, you are certainly audacious! You wouldn’t be a Gascon, by any chance? Even a little?’ he added, still reaching out.

  Then he said more sternly:

  ‘Hurry up, I can feel my patience running out, Monsieur.’

  Gabriel did not move. He looked the musketeers’ captain up and down disdainfully.

  ‘I may only be from Touraine, Monsieur, but I know what “into the King’s own hands” means. And the subject matter is too serious …’

  ‘That is enough,’ interrupted the man with the leather gauntlets. ‘You have a letter for the King of France?’ he said, stepping forward. ‘Then give it to him and for pity’s sake let me get on with my hunting.’

  ‘Sire!’ exclaimed d’Orbay, suddenly recognising Louis XIV.

  Stunned, Gabriel spent a fraction of a second examining the features Louise had described to him. Suddenly he recognised the strength of character in the eyes and the thin lips, the carriage of the head that seemed to make him taller. Withdrawing the letter from his shirt, he knelt and held it out.

  The King took it without a word. Anxiety clouded his eyes when he saw the seal embossed with its squirrel. He turned it over in his hands, as though hesitant to open it.

  ‘Monsieur d’Artagnan, hold the hunting teams back. I need to get to the bottom of this.’

  He gave his hat and cloak to a manservant, took off the gloves he had so carefully donned, then turned to go back into the hunting lodge. As his foot touched the first step, he seemed to change his mind and turned to d’Artagnan.

  ‘This will take only a moment. And of course you will release Monsieur d’Orbay, who for love of me will forget to give an account of your musketeers’ zeal to his friend, Monsieur de La Fontaine …’

  The architect bowed.

  ‘As will Monsieur …’

  ‘Gabriel de Pontbriand, Sire,’ replied the young man, bowing again.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Palais du Louvre – Wednesday 11 May, four o’clock in the afternoon

  ‘READ it, Monsieur, read it!’

  With a contemptuous expression, nostrils quivering, the King tapped his foot irritably on the parquet floor. Without turning round, he waved the flat of his hand in the direction of the two letters that lay on the gaming table in his office.

  Colbert had just entered. Caught off guard, he took a few short steps forward and gingerly picked up one of the letters.

  ‘And then explain to me what my police are doing, Monsieur!’ growled the King without giving him time to read. ‘What is the use of spies? What is the use of spies if the Superintendent of Finance has to warn me about the despicable manoeuvring taking place in my palace! Just imagine if the forgery had arrived and if, for one reason or another, Monsieur Fouquet had not been able to send me that young man, Gabriel de Pontbriand, in time; or if this letter had not reached me, as was very nearly the case! Just imagine: I might have believed that lie! I could have been deceived! I could have got it wrong! Listen to this, Colbert,’ he went on more coldly: ‘the King of France could have acted unjustly. And I had to interrupt my hunting and return here at the gallop, without even being able to change my clothes,’ he added, pointing to his boots. ‘No, this cannot be.’

  When he heard Gabriel’s name, Colbert could not hide his surprise. Of course it would be him, impossible to track down and protected by Fouquet.
And, as if by chance, busy trying to save that scheming girl.

  Fouquet, La Vallière and that young Pontbriand – those three are always thwarting my plans, he thought as his anger grew. Pontbriand, at least I have his name. The game is by no means over … But I shall have to be canny. I must find those documents before they do, at all costs. Or if they have them already, he shuddered, I will have to take them from them. Gondi is not a man to talk for nothing. But first I must try to limit the repercussions of this letter fiasco.

  ‘Your Majesty’s anger is justified, and I thank Heaven that a tipoff – I do not know its source – meant that Monsieur Fouquet could intervene in this fortuitous way. I for one was not even aware that he knew Mademoiselle de La Vallière,’ he added in a tone of feigned ingenuousness.

  The King raised an eyebrow but did not reply.

  ‘Anyway, the most important thing is that this villainous conspiracy has been uncovered before any damage – even reparable damage – was done,’ continued Colbert, rubbing his hands. ‘I shall of course have this scurrilous letter analysed,’ he said hurriedly, slipping the sheet into the sleeve of his jacket.

  ‘Do it, Monsieur,’ said the King without looking at him. ‘Do it and find a culprit quickly, for my patience has its limits. I am aware of your efficiency and my godfather praised your networks of informants as being more effective than those of the official police … The fire at the Palais-Royal was intolerable. And now we have absurd conspiracies against a young girl who has done no harm to anybody. And for what reason? Because she is presented at Court and my wife does her the kindness of addressing a few words to her at her presentation? But take note, Colbert: these wretches have pushed calumny to the point of depicting her in this letter as my mistress, citing as proof certain personal details which only a few people close to me know. You see here,’ he said, ‘what is said about the S-shaped scar at the top of my thigh, given to me by one of the first wild boars I killed … That is proof of the falsity of this letter.’

  Colbert nodded and lowered his gaze.

  ‘Anyway, that matters little. This has to stop,’ said the King. ‘Alas, it is too late to hunt today,’ he added with a sigh, turning to look out of the window.

  When Colbert had gone, the King remained in his office for a while, savouring the silence and the calm, and allowing the tension which had gripped him to abate little by little. To his surprise he realised that what upset him most was not that there was a conspiracy, but that the victim of that conspiracy was Louise de La Vallière: greater than the fear of being manipulated was the fear that this manipulation might force him to cut his still-tenuous ties with the young girl who caused this curious tight feeling in his chest. He recalled how he had learnt his lesson when he had tried to impose his passion upon the Court, believing that his love for Marie Mancini could be combined with the interests of State. Poor fool that he was, he had been cruelly brought down to earth. But he had only been a child then.

  It’s different now, he thought. Very different.

  He rang the bell-pull until a head appeared at the door.

  ‘Paper, ink and a pen,’ he ordered.

  And when the servant looked puzzled:

  ‘You heard me! I am not going to dictate, I intend to write. Go, and be quick about it.’

  Quick. The word lodged in his mind. There was no more time to lose. Tomorrow she would have his letter. He would see her as soon as possible. And she would be his. To hell with procrastination, now is the time for action, he told himself, picking up the pen which the manservant had so hastily brought him.

  ‘Bring a steed to my door,’ he added as the servant backed out of the room.

  A smile lit up his arrogant features.

  ‘Because it is what we ardently desire.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Versailles hunting lodge – Wednesday 18 May, midnight

  LOUISE was not asleep. With open eyes she had watched the candle on the round table beside her flicker and die. Stretching out her arm, she could touch the hot wax that had trickled onto the base of the candlestick before the flame went out.

  Now, motionless in the darkness, she allowed her eyes to grow used to the gloom, and saw the shapes of objects reappear: things that had disappeared in an instant when the room had been plunged into darkness. Through the half-open shutters, she heard the sounds of the night and the muffled clamour of the forest that reminded her of Amboise. A ray of moonlight slid fleetingly across the large mirror hanging above the fireplace. She followed it until it disappeared, obscured by the fabric of the canopy suspended above her head. She let her gaze roam over the fine linen sheets, over the bedspread that had half fallen to the floor. She felt a desire to seize hold of the hand that lay upon that sheet, to slip her slender fingers between those strong, powerful fingers which, even in sleep, were still clenched almost into a fist. She sat up to look at the face of the sleeping man whose back was towards her. Once again, she felt her heart pound and could not suppress a smile.

  ‘My lover,’ she whispered, tracing the line of the man’s ribs with her finger. ‘My lover, the King of France.’

  Suppressing the desire to laugh, she slid out of bed and ran on tiptoe to the window. Pushing aside the curtain, she looked at the leaves swaying in the wind, and the clouds lit up by the moon as it ran above the forest.

  Now she could see things more clearly: the carafe of wine and the glasses, the chairs on which they had sat, her clothes too, she thought, treading on her abandoned gown where it lay on the carpet. As she walked past the mirror, she started at the sight of her silhouette before laughing at the prudish reflex that had made her instinctively cover up her breasts. Coming closer, she let her arms fall to her sides and smiled at her reflection.

  ‘Here is the mistress of the King of France,’ she murmured in a low voice.

  The touch of her palms on her thighs made her shiver.

  She turned back towards the sleeping King, towards his hands whose caress she could still feel on her back, on her legs. She reddened as she thought of the crude words he had uttered, the voracious kisses that were almost bites, the whirlwind which had swept her up when he laid his hand on her, the unknown fever by which she had felt herself carried, and swept away. She paused as she saw the sleeping man stir in his dream, waiting until he sank into calm again.

  She would have liked to know what he was dreaming, but she no longer had need of his words, not for the moment, nor of any of those almost violent acts that had frightened and delighted her at the same time. ‘Louise’: he had spoken her name with a gravity she had never seen in him, and he had told her how much he had been afraid of losing her, but that she need not worry now, he would protect her, and no enemy could harm her; ‘nor any so-called friend’, he had added, returning momentarily to his customary haughtiness. She had tried to stop him saying that he found her beautiful, and had blushed and protested when he said it anyway.

  *

  Oh! If only this moment could last for ever! A week ago I was in terrible trouble, and now I am the King’s mistress, she thought with fervour as she toyed with the ornaments on the marble top of the chest of drawers. When I tell Gabriel … Immediately she regretted her thought. The blood rose to her face. No, Gabriel must never know! Was she mad? Of course he had saved her, but … in another life were the words that came to mind. Gabriel de Pontbriand had saved little Louise de La Vallière. But little Louise, she thought, once again sliding pleasurably beneath the warm sheets, little Louise is no more!

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Paris, Porte Saint-Martin – Thursday 19 May, eleven o’clock at night

  THE woman scowled at the moonlight which projected her shadow onto the garden wall. With her hand, she swiftly traced an inscription in the earth she had just turned over, then immediately wiped it away, muttering a few guttural words. Straightening up, she spat onto her hands and began filling in the hole she had dug at the foot of a shrub and into which she had slipped three shapeless packages wrapped in bro
wnish cloth. Throwing in the last spadeful of earth, she gave it a few more blows with the back of her spade to pack it down.

  Only then did she take time to breathe, hands on hips, before wiping her forehead with a cloth attached to her belt. Unconcerned that her hair was dishevelled and sticking to her temples, she picked up her spade and was heading for the half-open door at the back of her little house when the sound of a carriage on the uneven paving stones of the street made her freeze. She held her breath for a moment, just long enough to be sure that the sound of hooves did not herald a patrol of the militia on night watch. No, it is only her. Right on time, she grinned to herself, hurrying towards the house.

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ she replied furiously in response to the sound of banging on the door. ‘Not so loud!’

  The door creaked open. The silhouette of a woman could be made out in the gloom of the space that served as a living area. The wooden table and the two benches flanking it were only partially lit by the fire in the hearth. Above the fireplace and along the walls, strangely shaped bottles were arranged on shelves, separated by books of spells and wooden or metal boxes piled on top of each other. On the ground, patches of damp oozed through the ochre-coloured earthen floor.

  Olympe Mancini pushed back the hood of her cloak and forced herself not to retch as the suffocating, sweetish odour hit her nostrils.

  Her hostess watched her slyly in silence, still rubbing her earth-covered hands on the rag knotted to her belt.

  ‘How may I be of service to you, Madame?’ she began in as friendly a tone as she was capable of. ‘Perhaps I can use my arts to unburden you of some inconvenience …’ she continued, deliberately staring at the young woman’s hands, which she kept crossed over her belly.

  Olympe looked her up and down haughtily.

  ‘That’s not what I’m here for. I had thought your sorcery would be more perceptive,’ she said maliciously.