The Sun King Conspiracy

by Yves Jégo

  The woman instantly shrank at the accusation. ‘Madame,’ she stammered, ‘there are words …’

  ‘You do not know me,’ Olympe cut in, walking around the room and looking up at the collection of dusty flasks. ‘I, on the other hand, know who you are, and the nature of your art. You are Catherine Voisin, witch, poisoner and abortionist! I am here in the name of interests which are beyond you, and which you could not even imagine. If you even try to find out more, I promise you that the Chief of Police will soon be taking an interest in the curious plants you tend by night in your garden.’

  Catherine Voisin trembled.

  ‘And the other packages you deliver for those extremely unorthodox nocturnal ceremonies.’

  Olympe allowed her threats to have their effect before continuing, turning towards the woman.

  ‘But if all goes well and if you manage to hold your tongue, you have nothing to fear. Abortions and Black Masses are of no interest to my associates. What does interest them, on the other hand, is to ensure an effective and undetectable means of cutting short the passage of someone they know through this vale of tears.’

  Reassured that the conversation had returned to her trade, Catherine Voisin managed her honeyed smile again.

  ‘Yes, yes, I see. Is it a man, strong, thin, a small woman?’ When she saw Olympe’s look of suspicion, she said, ‘I have to know for the dosage; one does not kill a rat in the same way as a dog.’

  Alone in the carriage with the curtains drawn, Olympe took the small glass phial from beneath her cloak. Holding it carefully in her gloved hands, she raised it to the level of her eyes and gazed for a moment at the turbid, milky-blue liquid.

  This time, Colbert will be pleased, she thought. What a simple mechanism life is! And so fragile! The clatter of wheels resounded in her ears as the carriage travelled through the darkness, while the face of Louise de La Vallière danced before her eyes.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Saint-Mandé – Monday 23 May, ten o’clock in the morning

  STANDING on the topmost white stone step overlooking the park, Nicolas Fouquet watched his children playing with hoops. His eyes followed their game as they ran about and tumbled, letting out shouts of joy and peals of laughter, and the Superintendent could not bring himself to return to his office. Distractedly, he picked a red flower from one of the majestic vases decorating the flagged area, and toyed with it, pulling off its petals one by one.

  ‘Armand, let go of it!’ shouted one of the childish voices, suddenly petulant.

  Lowering his eyes, Nicolas Fouquet looked at the flower stem, which was now bare. With a sigh, he cast it to the wind and turned on his heel.

  As the double doors opened to admit the Superintendent, his visitor turned away from his contemplation of one of the canvases hanging on the wall.

  ‘Monsieur Jabach,’ Fouquet greeted him, ‘I very much regret having made you wait, all the more so since I abandoned you to a work unworthy of you. Your eyes will resent me for wounding them with so little refinement compared to what they are accustomed to gazing upon.’

  The financier bent forward in an exaggerated bow, the fabric of his customary black garments pulled tight by the extent of the movement.

  ‘Not at all, Monsieur Superintendent. This canvas is in fact very fine, and the scene …’

  ‘The battle between the Horatii and the Curiatii.’

  ‘… is handled with great skill. Incidentally, the hospitality of your house could change lead into gold,’ smiled Jabach.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ continued Fouquet, his serious tone indicating that he wanted to get to the point of their meeting.

  ‘The honour is all mine,’ replied the financier, pretending not to have understood that the time for civilities was over.

  ‘Monsieur Jabach,’ said Fouquet, showing his guest to a chair, ‘I shall not beat about the bush. My clerks tell me that two bills drawn on your establishment for a sum of …’

  He stretched out a hand to a file laid out on a small sideboard beside his own chair and briefly flicked through it.

  ‘… two hundred thousand écus have just been rejected by your accountants. I am also informed that the file was immediately passed to one of the King’s stewards, that is to say, one of my subordinates?’

  Jabach merely blinked and pursed his lips.

  ‘Monsieur Colbert, to be more precise.’

  The Superintendent’s voice became more terse.

  ‘Doubtless this is a careless mistake compounded by a coincidence, but I am hoping for an explanation without delay, Monsieur Jabach, in the name of the frankness which you so praised in my presence not so long ago.’

  Jabach opened his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  ‘Monsieur Superintendent, I am your banker and through you the King’s banker. Your account with me is important, you know that. But do not ask me to play according to any rules other than those of my profession. Politicians take risks, Monsieur Superintendent, and bankers manage them. The subtle distinction is important.’

  Fouquet’s tone turned icy.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘That I cannot pursue a loan without a minimum guarantee. Without it I would be the one taking all the risk … and I would have no chance of recovering the sum.’

  Fouquet leapt to his feet, striking the back of his armchair with the flat of his hand.

  ‘But the guarantees exist!’

  ‘For you, Monsieur,’ Jabach defended himself, ‘but not for the Treasury. And whereas Nicolas Fouquet is a good customer and a good payer, the State – do not make me suffer for my frankness, Monsieur Superintendent – is an unreliable payer.’

  ‘There’s nothing new about that!’

  ‘In principle no, Monsieur Superintendent, but over and above the principle, in finance, there are rules for large transactions. And in the absence of credit these make clear stipulations. Monsieur Superintendent, listen to me carefully,’ went on Jabach, standing up too as if to parry the anger which had brought colour to Fouquet’s cheeks, ‘and remember our meeting! You talk of frankness: did I not warn you against the dangers of taking on risks which exceed your limits, in your own name? And all this for the benefit of a third party whose solidarity and gratitude towards you were not assured? You were the one who told me that you would make sure you were protected.’

  ‘I can accept the vagaries of politics,’ hissed Fouquet, ‘but I will not put up with treachery! And since you speak of our past conversation, shall we make a new pact? Let’s continue to play your game of truth. The decor of my office is less fitting than your gallery, but never mind, we must make do with what we have.’

  Jabach looked pained.

  ‘Do you dare to claim that Monsieur Colbert’s involvement in this matter is pure chance, and that it has nothing to do with your sudden revelation of the perilous nature of my pledges?’

  Jabach shook his head.

  ‘I did not say that your pledges were perilous, Monsieur Superintendent. I would not presume to judge your practice of using your own credit for the benefit of the royal Treasury. I will even say that, to my mind, it bears witness to a great deal of devotion and gallant spirit. I only said that even your credit, which I alone may judge, can have limits, and that those limits have now been reached. In this I have not betrayed you, not ever. As for the involvement of a third party in this affair …’

  The financier hesitated.

  ‘Well, all right, since we are playing let us play to the end: it is true that the information I received relating to the shipping companies your family has acquired, and to your investments in Brittany and the construction of your chateau at Vaux, did influence my opinion. That is true. But what was I supposed to do? Forgive me, Monsieur, but I return to my argument: politics is for politicians; I am merely a banker.’

  The little man approached Fouquet, fixing his dark eyes upon him.

  ‘I am beholden to no one, Monsieur Superintendent. What is more, I have no worth in that respect, si
nce no one would wish to be attached to me or to one of my people, even as an owner. You think of power and, nobly, of serving the King. I do not have those preoccupations. I seek to survive. I have seen too many of my kind end up on the scaffold, Monsieur Superintendent, to be anything other than wary of flattery and promises.’

  It was Fouquet’s turn to look at him in silence.

  ‘Not taking sides is in itself taking sides, Monsieur Jabach. Your reasoning is hollow. I pray only that Monsieur Colbert’s promotion to Vice-Protector of the Academy of Fine Arts, in other words to all-powerful master of the Kingdom’s art market, in no way influenced your decision.’

  Jabach’s eyes flashed.

  ‘I should have added that I am not sensitive to insults either, Monsieur Superintendent,’ he snapped, heading for the door.

  ‘The traitor,’ muttered Fouquet as he watched the little man walk pompously away. ‘La Fontaine told me so often enough.’

  He clenched his fists.

  ‘I must act quickly; there isn’t a moment to lose. I must have that credit. I shall deal with Jabach later.’

  Anger suddenly gripped him again.

  ‘Colbert’s traitor!’ he shouted out.

  His voice echoed in the empty room.

  The sound of someone crying made him turn round.

  ‘Papa,’ sobbed his youngest son, frightened by the noise, ‘Marie-Madeleine has stolen my hoop!’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Dampierre – Tuesday 24 May, eleven o’clock in the morning

  AS soon as spring came round, Anne of Austria liked to withdraw to the Château de Dampierre. She delighted in long daily walks in the park, ending them in the magnificent rose garden. This year she was allowing herself a short siesta each afternoon, doubtless an indication of the fatigue which came with age. That morning, the Queen Mother was reading in her boudoir with the window open so as to savour the scents of the garden and enjoy the May sunshine. She was wearing one of the black gowns she had worn ever since the death of Jules Mazarin. With the coming of old age, the King’s mother had rejected everything that might appear too ostentatious. The manner in which her son had distanced her from power caused her a great deal of suffering. She, who had held this dear Kingdom of France in her hands, missed affairs of State.

  ‘Monsieur Gabriel de Pontbriand,’ came the sudden announcement from one of the Cardinal’s former servants, who had remained in her service.

  The young man entered, sweeping the ground three times with the feather on his hat in an expansive, elegant movement which he had now perfected. He was dressed in an immaculate white shirt, and his favourite boots of fawn-coloured leather reached up to his knees, giving him a military appearance.

  What a handsome boy! thought the Queen Mother, reaching out her hand to receive her visitor’s kiss.

  ‘Welcome to Dampierre, Monsieur de Pontbriand,’ said Anne of Austria engagingly. ‘You are welcome here as a friend. A recommendation by the charming young Mademoiselle de La Vallière is my equivalent of a safe-conduct,’ added the King’s mother, indicating an armchair covered in sunshine-yellow velvet.

  Impressed by the sovereign’s dignified and rather severe expression, Gabriel tried not to display any sign of his anxiety.

  ‘Majesty, the generosity of your welcome warms my heart. I wished to meet you in memory of my father, André de Pontbriand, who lived in London,’ Gabriel began, looking directly at the Queen Mother, who evidently wondered where he was heading.

  ‘London is an extremely beautiful city,’ interrupted the sovereign with a sigh, suddenly lost in her memories.

  ‘Before he died, my father asked me to deliver these papers to you, so that they would not fall into the hands of anyone who might misuse them.’ Gabriel reached into the leather satchel he wore across his body, and extracted a bundle of papers tied with a red ribbon.

  Anne of Austria frowned questioningly. She slowly untied the ribbon and began to read without a word. Then she turned white and scanned each parchment feverishly.

  ‘Young man do you know … do you know … But how did your father manage to procure these? Do you have any idea of the significance of these papers?’ asked the Queen Mother, studying the young man’s face.

  ‘I do not, Majesty,’ replied Gabriel, lying with aplomb. ‘All I know is the myriad troubles which have afflicted me ever since they came into my possession. I have the feeling that those who seek these papers are willing to do anything to obtain them!’

  ‘Who, other than you and your father, could have got hold of these papers, young man?’

  ‘No one, Majesty, I guarantee it. No one!’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ replied the Queen Mother, her face clouding suddenly.

  Gabriel decided to risk telling Anne of Austria what he knew and the manner in which he had obtained the papers. He recounted in detail the attacks which had befallen him. He revealed the circumstances of his father’s death, but without mentioning the assassins and their leader. He also omitted any mention of the other documents.

  ‘I thank you for your frankness, my child,’ said the Queen Mother when he had finished. ‘The existence of these papers must remain forever secret. Your father no doubt paid with his life for possessing them. For your own safety, I advise you to forget all about this!’

  Gabriel rose to his feet and bowed to the King’s mother, moved by the sovereign’s dignity and self-control; and she got up herself to accompany the visitor to the door, which was most unusual.

  ‘My boy,’ she said, her voice suddenly affectionate, ‘I shall not forget what you have done. From now on you may consider yourself under my protection. Please tell Mademoiselle de La Vallière that I am infinitely grateful to her for sending you to me.’

  ‘Dare I ask, Majesty, if in your kindness you might extend your protection to Mademoiselle de La Vallière? In truth I fear more for her future than for my own,’ he replied sombrely. ‘I have reasons to believe that powerful individuals, some of them close to you, are plotting her downfall.’

  ‘Great heavens, Monsieur, what are you saying? Close to me, what do you mean?’

  ‘Olympe Mancini, Majesty,’ Gabriel replied quietly.

  The Queen looked thoughtful.

  ‘Very well, Monsieur. Your request is granted. I shall agree to what you have asked. It’s the least I can do in consideration of what I owe you. But do you have no concern for yourself?’

  Gabriel bowed again but did not answer. He left the room with a lighter heart, telling himself that he had been right to take this course of action.

  Anne of Austria asked to be left alone. She walked slowly back to her armchair and picked up the bundle of papers. One by one, she read through them.

  Everything is here! she told herself. The dogs have been thwarted, thanks to the courage and fidelity of the Pontbriands.

  The King’s mother got to her feet and walked towards the fireplace. The hearth was empty on this fine spring day. Anne of Austria rang for a servant and asked for a fire to be lit. She watched patiently as the servant laid the fire, then slowly approached and threw the documents into the flames. Then she took a few steps back.

  As the deed of her marriage to Cardinal Mazarin and her letter admitting the King’s parentage burned in the fireplace at the Château de Dampierre, the Queen Mother wept silently.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  Château de Vincennes – Thursday 26 May, three o’clock in the afternoon

  ‘ROSES make loyal friends, Monsieur Colbert, and silent companions.’

  Colbert attempted a gracious smile, and smelt the flower which Anne of Austria cut and held out to him.

  ‘Loyalty is in fact a quality I’m extremely fond of, Madame,’ he replied with a bow.

  Slowly, Anne of Austria and the new Steward of Finance strolled through the gardens personally designed by the Queen Mother, which lay in the shadow of the tower containing her apartments.

  ‘But one which has no place in this meeting which you have taken it up
on yourself to arrange, Monsieur Colbert?’ replied the sovereign. ‘Surely you have not deserted your offices and come to visit an old woman just to gaze at flowers and stay silent.’

  ‘Madame!’ exclaimed Colbert. ‘I am neither a flatterer nor a man of fine words, and it is not my habit to try to please anyone except my sovereign or the Cardinal – God rest his soul. Perhaps you are suspicious of me because you misunderstand my character. Then I shall come straight to the point. The reason I wished to see you without delay and without witnesses, Madame, was to inform you of grave matters concerning State security and the instructions that were passed down to me by the Cardinal.’

  Colbert paused, hoping to see anxiety or at least surprise in the Queen’s eyes. He saw neither.

  ‘The Cardinal, Madame, wished to reveal to me certain secrets, and shortly before his death told me that he was worried about the disappearance of documents that contained them. Must I be more precise, Madame?’

  ‘Meaning, Monsieur?’ said the Queen, with a hint of emotion in her voice.

  Is it possible that Jules talked? she thought.

  ‘Well, Madame, I have found those documents. I believe they were stolen from the Cardinal’s library at the same time as other equally confidential papers, at the behest of certain individuals who wish to gain control of the Kingdom’s political affairs, who act on behalf of highly placed persons …’

  ‘And what else, Monsieur?’

  ‘Roses are dumb, Madame. In their presence I therefore dare utter the name of Superintendent Fouquet, although in truth I am not yet in a position to prove it. I say “not yet”, for the evidence is accumulating.’

  ‘Now then, supposing you had such documents, Monsieur, would not your most urgent task then be to give them to me?’ went on the Queen in a distant voice, trying to mask her suspicion.

  Colbert hesitated for a second before replying.