by Yves Jégo
‘I have to say that it seems wiser to me to retain them in the first instance. With the sole intention, of course, of protecting them before handing them back to Your Highness as soon as matters are closed; and obviously with the hope that I won’t have to use them to prove the Superintendent’s criminal intentions …’
What hatred, thought the Queen, and how fearlessly he lies … unless there were copies of the documents that young man Pontbriand came to give back to me. God in Heaven, I cannot think that that young man was lying. But if Fouquet …
‘The air is still cool, is that why you shiver?’ enquired Colbert, sensing with delight that his poison was slowly being absorbed. ‘Madame, what are your own feelings on this? Do you think that the Superintendent’s defence will be difficult to dismantle?’
The Queen shivered again as she understood the nature of the trap. Decidedly not, she thought, and without a doubt it is Colbert himself who is the traitor, master blackmailer that he is. My silence against his. I allow Fouquet to fall and he preserves my honour and my son’s destiny.
Faced with a lengthening silence, Colbert decided to go on the attack.
‘I do not ask you for an answer, Madame. And please believe that my greatest desire is to be able to return those papers to you without delay.’
He is lying, thought the Queen sadly. Whether I really believe Fouquet to be guilty of sedition or decide not to defend him for fear of Colbert’s threats, the result is the same – he is the winner.
She raised her head and glared at Colbert.
‘I must thank you, Monsieur. It is indeed rare that one is given an opportunity to distinguish so clearly between two moral attitudes. You see, what has differentiated you from a man of honour is the fact that a man who can lay claim to that glorious title came to see me a little while ago, to hand me those documents of which you speak, without even asking for the smallest favour for himself. And yet he was merely a modest secretary, without position or power.’
With his jaws clenched, Colbert absorbed the blow and took his leave.
The Queen Mother shook with anger as she watched him walk away: ‘Dear God, but the company of roses is sweet,’ she hissed between her teeth.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Vincennes, Anne of Austria’s apartments – Friday 27 May, four o’clock in the afternoon
ALARMED by the melancholy which had overcome Henrietta of England as her marriage to the Duc d’Orléans approached, Anne of Austria invited her future daughter-in-law and her retinue to spend the afternoon with her. Seated around the King’s mother, the ladies were listening to Monsieur Lulli regaling them with one of his recent compositions on the clavichord.
‘What talent!’ exclaimed Anne of Austria, applauding vigorously when the musician had finished his piece. ‘Your music is an enchantment for both the body and the soul. It has quite sharpened my appetite,’ she said cheerfully, clapping her hands in the direction of the servants who stood on either side of the main door. ‘Bring some hot chocolate with cinnamon; I wish to introduce these ladies to the divine cocoa beans given to me by Monsieur Colbert,’ she added with dark humour.
Louise de La Vallière sat modestly in the background. She was hoping to take advantage of this reception to thank the Queen Mother for so swiftly granting the audience Gabriel had requested a few days earlier. Olympe Mancini was there too, in her capacity as steward of the Queen Mother’s household. She was discreetly watching those assembled, and most particularly Louise de La Vallière.
She chose the end of the musical sequence as an appropriate moment to approach Anne of Austria.
‘Madame, may I request the privilege of speaking to you for a moment?’ asked Louise de La Vallière, bowing her head before the Queen Mother.
‘Of course, my little one,’ replied the sovereign, leading her affectionately towards a window bay.
‘Majesty, a dreadful cabal has hatched a plot against me,’ the young girl began, a little upset. ‘People are attacking my honour for reasons I do not understand.’
Perhaps because of your relations with the King? thought the Queen Mother, without betraying what she knew. After all, she said to herself, Louis has displayed good taste, the young lady is pretty; and what is more, she does not seem stupid. At least she will make him forget Marie Mancini!
‘I can assure Your Majesty of my devotion to the royal family,’ continued Louise, ‘and I beg you never to believe the ignominies which certain people seem to delight in spreading about me!’
‘Your devotion to the royal family had not escaped me,’ replied Anne of Austria, with just a hint of perfidy. ‘Have no fear, Mademoiselle, I am aware of these base accusations and such gossip does not impress me. As long as you know your place, you will find a friend in me!’
Relieved, Louise curtsied respectfully and lowered her gaze to conceal her turmoil.
‘Your chocolate, Majesty.’
Olympe approached, bringing the two women cups of the hot liquid. She handed the first to the Queen Mother, who took it with a smile. Then she turned and handed the second to Louise.
‘No, no, please, you must have this one,’ said Louise, pushing away the cup. She was most surprised to be served in this way, against all the rules of etiquette, by the steward of the Queen Mother’s household.
‘Come,’ said Olympe awkwardly, offering the cup of chocolate once again, this time with a broad smile.
Louise took the cup and was about to sip it when the Queen Mother stopped her with a wave of the hand.
‘One moment, my dear. Permit an old woman to indulge a whim! Your chocolate seems creamier than mine. May I ask for your cup? I have a guilty passion for frothy chocolate!’
Disconcerted, Louise obediently handed her the cup.
‘But …’ stammered Olympe, ‘Majesty, you cannot …’
‘What is the matter?’ asked the Queen Mother sharply, staring at Olympe all of a sudden.
Although she said nothing, Olympe was obviously distressed.
‘What is the matter with you?’ asked the Queen Mother again.
Then, taking a step forward, she dropped the cup which shattered on the wooden floor. The chocolate spread over the ground in a star shape.
‘Heavens!’ cried Olympe.
‘Come, it’s not serious,’ commented the Queen Mother coldly.
The sound of the cup breaking made Henrietta turn round.
‘Look, you’ve made someone happy,’ she said with a laugh. The puppy given to Anne of Austria by the King to ease his mother’s loneliness was indeed now lapping up the liquid, watched anxiously by its mistress.
Louise spoke again as Olympe walked away.
‘Majesty,’ she said with a bow, ‘the fear which I have confided in you is my sole excuse for the lack of education I’ve shown in omitting to thank you once again for granting the favour of a meeting to my friend, Monsieur de Pontbriand. Your generosity …’
‘Monsieur de Pontbriand is a true gentleman, Mademoiselle, and a charming boy too,’ replied the Queen Mother kindly. ‘It was my great pleasure to receive him. People who come with requests are many, but those who come to give something spontaneously are rare. I am therefore in debt to you and I owe you my thanks … What is more … Oh my God!’
Anne of Austria interrupted herself at the sight of her puppy, which had rolled over onto its back. Its limbs were trembling and there was foam on its lips. Before she could reach it, the poor little creature was dead, a bluish liquid trickling from its mouth.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Château de Vincennes – Saturday 28 May, ten o’clock in the morning
‘TOO hot! Still too hot!’
With a gesture of irritation, the King rejected the pail of water which the manservant was about to pour into the copper bath in which he sat.
‘I told you to warm it! Warm it, you fool, not boil it!’ Sblood, I am not a pig to be skinned!’
The servant ran out as fast as his legs would carry him, the water slopping out of his pail
leaving steaming trails on the stone floor. The King re-immersed himself in his thoughts. The dazzling spring colours visible through his bathroom window, the blue of the sky: everything converged to drive away his momentary anger.
Even the constant feeling that there was still work to be done to ensure the establishment of his authority could not dislodge his smile at the thought of Louise’s face and the stolen moments they had shared over the past fortnight. Everything about her delighted the young King: her beauty, her passionate temperament, her lust for life, her spontaneity.
And I am going to be a father, he thought, untroubled by the change of subject. Anyway, here I am thinking about politics again, he mused plunging his head beneath the water as if to drive away these notions.
When he opened his eyes underwater, the face of Marie Mancini came back to him, just as the scar of a poorly healed wound continues to remind its owner of its presence from time to time. Marie and Louise: Louis XIV consigned these two names to the inner recesses where he isolated those young man’s dreams he no longer quite had the right to enjoy. As for the Queen, she had now deserted those inner recesses where, moreover, she had made only timid appearances. Visiting her in her bedchamber was a duty, and one which only the King’s sensual nature and overflowing vitality rendered bearable. True, the news of her pregnancy had delighted him, but only as the announcement of a victory on the battlefield might. The glory he envisaged demanded an heir.
‘It has to be a boy,’ he sighed softly.
Then he spoke out loud:
‘Come, some water.’
Footsteps heralded the servant’s approach. Readying himself for a cascade of hot water, the King once again slid full-length into the bath.
‘My son, I have caught you unawares and I beg you to forgive this intrusion.’
Recognising his mother’s voice, Louis XIV suddenly turned over, splashing everything around him.
‘Madame?’ he demanded in astonishment. ‘Obviously the King of France cannot have a second to himself!’
‘Come come, my son,’ replied Anne of Austria with a smile, sitting down on the small wooden chair at the foot of the bath. ‘True, it has not happened for a long time, but I can remember supervising your bath on several occasions, including those when I do not think you could keep your head above the water on your own.’
It was the King’s turn to smile.
‘Alas, I have not come here today to be moved by talk of times past. And the reason I have not visited your office for a private audience is that I need to be certain that our conversation remains confidential.’
The King sat up in his bath.
‘You unsettle me, Madame. What is this about?’
The Queen saw from her son’s frown that he was troubled.
‘Don’t worry. I have not come to reproach you for your conduct, or to talk about your wife.’
The King’s expression became even darker.
‘I have already informed you of my feelings on that matter, as did Monsieur Cardinal in respect of his niece, and I shall not return to them, however disagreeable I find the rumours which unfailingly reach my ears.’
‘People often speak ill of others, Madame, even within the walls of my own palace,’ grunted the King, adopting a tone which made it clear that he did not intend to talk about it any further. ‘You have been the victim of sufficient slander yourself, I believe?’
Mother and son looked at each other for a moment.
‘Indeed, my son,’ went on Anne of Austria. ‘People often speak ill, you are right. But there are more serious matters. People conspire. And attempt murder. Even within the walls of your own palace.’
The King shuddered at these words, which reminded him too much of his recent conversation with Colbert.
‘What? What are you saying?’
Anne of Austria got to her feet and walked to the window.
‘The truth, Louis. There has just been an attempt to poison one of the companions of your brother’s future wife, whose marriage is to be celebrated in a fortnight’s time. In my apartments.’
The King opened his mouth to speak but no sound escaped his lips. Suddenly it seemed as though the water around him had frozen. The Queen went on with her story without looking at him.
‘The young woman escaped death by a hair’s breadth – and she was saved by a miracle. How pale you are, Louis,’ she remarked in an even tone, turning round. ‘And I believe the name of the young person is not unknown to you: Louise de La Vallière.’
The King stood up and took the towel proffered by a valet.
‘That’s enough, Madame. Do not play games with me,’ he said coldly. ‘I hear what you are saying and what you are not saying.’
‘Then act, Sire,’ continued the Queen in the same tone of voice. ‘Right now it matters little what attaches you to her, and what I condemn as a mother, a mother-in-law and a Christian. All that matters is that an attack on her is an attack on you, and as Queen of France I will not tolerate that. You must act ruthlessly, my son, and without delay. Personal morality demands that you do so to save this girl whom you have placed in danger; but above all, your royal dignity demands it for the sake of your public glory and your authority.’
Draped in his towel, the King gazed with new-found emotion at the austere, dignified form of his mother, hearing in the sincere tone of her voice that which had guided his entire existence.
‘You are right, Madame,’ was all that he said.
The Queen raised a finger.
‘One more thing, my son, before I leave you to your duty. No one knows what has happened except those close to me and those who are guilty of the infamy. This should not deter you from taking action. The punishment will be understood by the guilty parties, and those who do not understand it will fear it, which is no bad thing. Through the offices of a young man whom I believe to be honest and who has rendered me a great service, I have acquired further information which you should also take into account.’
‘Speak, Madame,’ replied the King.
‘The steward of my household, the Cardinal’s own niece, Olympe, has for reasons unclear conceived feelings of hatred and jealousy towards Mademoiselle de La Vallière. She is the one who carried out the attempt, I am convinced of that. As for the leader of this conspiracy, I hesitate to grant credence to those pointing a finger at your own brother. I hesitate because then I would have to acknowledge my own guilt at having failed to turn him aside from his appalling deviancies …’
‘Enough, Madame,’ the King interrupted gently. ‘I know my duty and I know the Duc d’Orléans too well not to be aware of his weaknesses as well as his good qualities.’
The Queen nodded silently.
As she walked past her son, she brushed his cheek with the tips of her fingers, which were almost entirely covered by the lace of her oversleeve.
The King stopped her on the threshold.
‘Just a moment: the name of the young man who has made such serious allegations?’
‘He told me that his name is Gabriel de Pontbriand, and that he is in the service of Monsieur Fouquet.’
The King watched her leave the room in silence, then stifled a shout of rage. Louise! How dare they?! When he had even promised that he would protect her. How stupid he had been! His power was nothing. His mother was right – he would make them tremble! He would trust no one.
His pain slowly turned to anger, modified only by his surprise at hearing the name of that young man in connection with Louise’s rescue.
‘Pontbriand,’ he murmured thoughtfully, ‘and Fouquet again …’
Then the blood that boiled in his veins made him angry again.
‘They will fear me,’ he seethed, leaving the room watched anxiously by his servants, who dared not enquire if he needed anything. ‘I shall crush them all! I am the King, I will have no more advice, no more help, no more support!’
Tears of rage burned his eyes.
‘Their presence humiliates me, all of them.’
> How he missed his godfather. Even his mother’s face seemed like an attack on his power.
‘Am I still a child, that she must open my eyes! My mother’s counsels, the Superintendent’s cleverness! To hell with my advisers! I am the King!’
Realising that he had spoken out loud, the King glared thunderously at his principal valet.
‘Dress me,’ he snapped. ‘And send for Colbert immediately.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Palais des Tuileries – Saturday 28 May, three o’clock in the afternoon
LOUIS XIV’s rage had not abated. He strode up and down his office, shouting at the Duc d’Orléans.
‘Monsieur, my brother, I shall no longer tolerate conspiracies at the French Court. The era in which people fomented their own underhand schemes in the corridors of this palace is over once and for all. Do you quite understand me? At. An. End,’ shouted Louis XIV, ‘and that includes blood princes.’
‘But …’
‘There is no “but”! Who do you take me for, that you dare to attack those close to me? You are a subject of this Kingdom like any other and I demand the same obedience from you and the same respect for my person, in the absence of which …’ growled the King, angrily seizing his brother by the jabot of his shirt to bring his face up to his.
The gesture was so violent that the Duc d’Orléans paled.
‘You must understand once and for all,’ continued the sovereign when he had let go of him. ‘By attacking Louise de La Vallière, you attack me. If I allow myself to be scoffed at, the State would suffer the humiliation. To achieve your aims and conceal your involvement, you thought it a good idea to place a weapon in the hands of Olympe Mancini …’
‘But …’ the Duc d’Orléans attempted once again.
‘Monsieur, stop interrupting me at every opportunity,’ the King snapped. ‘The information given to me by the Queen Mother has been corroborated by the investigation carried out at my request by Colbert. You were wrong to believe that my affection for the Cardinal’s nieces would extend to pardoning this crime. Olympe deserves death a hundred times over. But out of respect for my dear godfather, I have decided to grant her the favour of exile. She is to leave this very day for the provinces, where she will pray for the eternal repose of the Cardinal’s soul, and spend the rest of her days begging for God’s pardon.’