The Sun King Conspiracy

by Yves Jégo

  Cowed, and hanging his head low, Philippe d’Orléans said nothing but waited anxiously for his punishment.

  ‘As for you, Monsieur, I am giving you one final chance to rehabilitate yourself in my eyes and to show yourself worthy of my father’s inheritance. You will marry Henrietta of England as planned. You will control your impulses in order to lessen my mother’s grief, and you will cease your mania for conspiracies once and for all!’ Louis XIV angrily signalled the end of the conversation.

  Unable to find the courage to reply, the Duc d’Orléans left the room. After all, he had emerged rather well from the affair and promised himself that, from then on, he would steer very clear of any kind of intrigue.

  ‘Send in Colbert,’ barked Louis XIV, returning to his work table and picking up a letter.

  ‘Colbert,’ ordered the sovereign in a voice still filled with rage, as the Steward of Finance entered and bowed almost to the ground. ‘You are to go immediately and inform Olympe Mancini of the decisions I have written down in this letter. You will see to it personally that my orders are carried out without delay. She is to have left Paris before nightfall. Do you hear me?’

  ‘I shall see to it, Sire,’ replied Colbert, curious to find out the contents of the letter.

  As soon as he left the King’s office, Colbert stopped by a candelabrum in the corridor to skim through the document setting out Olympe’s punishment. He went swiftly to the other wing of the palace, to the apartments occupied by the steward of the Queen Mother’s household. Through the carved wooden doors, he could hear the young woman sobbing. No doubt the Duc d’Orléans has already notified her of her fate, Colbert said to himself as he entered the salon. When she saw him, Olympe exploded.

  ‘I will tell everything! Don’t think you can escape from this just like that! It’s out of the question that I should be the only one to pay! You were perfectly aware of what was being plotted,’ raged the young woman as she approached him, ready to pounce.

  ‘Calm yourself, Madame,’ said Colbert, with a tone of cold authority. ‘You had a narrow escape, and your clumsiness could have cost us dear. How could you be so stupid as to risk your head like that?’ demanded the Cardinal’s former secretary. ‘Poison is a subtle weapon … doubtless too subtle for you!’

  ‘But …’

  ‘No “buts”,’ went on Colbert. ‘No one asked you to be so clumsy. Consider yourself fortunate to have emerged with your life intact. Exile is not death! But I warn you, death will find you in any exile if by some misfortune you feel the preposterous desire to blurt anything out! In a word, leave here quickly and quietly, before the King changes his mind and sends you to the scaffold!’

  Sniffing tearfully, Olympe Mancini realised that she had lost. She alone would have to take responsibility for her actions.

  ‘You say exile is not death! I want to believe you, Monsieur. But you do not know how miserable our provinces can be in the winter,’ said the young woman, her voice sugary again. ‘In order to guarantee my silence, would it not be wise to endow my enforced stay with the minimum of comfort conducive to meditation and silence?’

  Evidently these Mancini sluts will never change, Colbert said to himself.

  ‘We shall make ample provision for that, Madame, ample provision!’

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  Palais du Louvre – Friday 10 June, ten o’clock in the morning

  ‘FIFTY-THREE cannons of green cast iron, including four Swedish carbines and a culverin; one hundred and fifty seven of iron, thirty-three of them mounted on bastions; two mortars in green cast iron and sixty naval gun carriages in service. This is very good work!’ Colbert said greedily, looking up at Charles Perrault who stood in front of his desk. ‘But how the devil did you manage to draw up this inventory?’

  ‘To get onto the island, I took it upon myself to send a vessel to the Breton coast with ten barrels and a wine trader from La Rochelle on board. They passed through the security surrounding the Superintendent’s estates with no problems, and the wine probably also helped to loosen several people’s tongues later,’ replied the Chief of Police with false modesty.

  Colbert eagerly read more of the memorandum drawn up by Perrault.

  ‘Seven hundred and sixty muskets from Sedan, eight hundred and ten from Liège, some carbines, eleven hundred and seventy grenades, ten thousand six hundred and seventy three cannon-balls of all calibres … My dear Perrault, your precision is impressive and … worrying,’ exclaimed the former accountant. ‘How can you be so sure of your figures?’

  ‘My envoy in Belle-Île performed a fine trick. Under the pretext of a trade in cast iron, he was able to bribe the accountant at the fort. The inventory included in this document is an exact transcription of the one sent last month to Monsieur Superintendent!’

  ‘Excellent!’ Colbert said simply, returning to his reading. ‘And all of this is supposed to be just for equipping ships or for the defence of the colonial trading posts? I knew it! Under the pretext of maritime trading, Fouquet has in fact built up a substantial army, even though the Kingdom is at peace,’ he said, laying the papers back down on his desk. ‘The lands in Belle-Île which he so loves are not destined to compete with Amsterdam, as he maintains, but to serve as an actual armed base, even as a fortress for him if necessary!’

  ‘I estimate the number of labourers currently working on the island’s fortifications to be fifteen hundred,’ went on Perrault, seeing that the Cardinal’s former secretary had finished reading his memorandum. ‘According to my spy, there never seems to be any shortage of money. As for the name Fouquet, it is seldom uttered. The inhabitants of the island talk of the Lord of Belle-Île, if anything! As for the men at arms who make up the visible troops, there seem to be around two hundred, according to a count carried out by our spy.’

  When he heard this number, Colbert chuckled.

  ‘I knew it, and now your report is here to prove it, Perrault. This man who wishes to pass himself off as a simple shipping owner, concerned with increasing his wealth and France’s expansion as a trading power, is in fact preparing for something quite different.’

  ‘You mean …’

  ‘I mean that I now need further evidence of these felonies in order to construct a solid basis for a court case whose repercussions will surprise you,’ Colbert went on confidentially. ‘I trust you, my dear Perrault. I know of your devotion to the King and your unfailing fidelity. Because of this, I know I can rely on you for a mission which is, to say the least, delicate!’

  Acknowledging the compliment, Charles Perrault bowed respectfully.

  ‘This is a grim time. To my mind, the Kingdom is at great risk if we do not act. The moment is propitious, and I am told that the Superintendent of Finance is once again suffering from an attack of malaria. He has recently retired with his entire household to his chateau at Vaux-le-Vicomte. Find a way of discreetly entering Saint-Mandé and unearth everything you can to support your memorandum! Act alone and with discernment,’ added Colbert with an enigmatic smile.

  Taken aback by this request, but at the same time flattered by the trust it implied, Charles Perrault said nothing and withdrew, bowing to the ground.

  Colbert was still smiling as he watched the Chief of Police leave his office. He looked out of the open window through which the warm sun shone into the room.

  The squirrel is in the trap! All I need is for Perrault to bring me back a little more evidence, and the King will no longer have cause for delay. No, there is surely no escape for the accursed Fouquet. I have all I need to uphold a court case from which the Superintendent cannot escape! thought Colbert, tapping his fingers on the memorandum describing the weaponry stored on Belle-Île. Particularly since I shall use an intermediary to buy back his office of Procureur. That manoeuvre will deprive him of his remaining influence over the judges! After that, and before I arrange for his arrest, I will have to brush aside any objections from the Queen Mother. That won’t be the easiest task, but I have done harder things,
he said to himself. Moreover, the anxiety which our recent conversations have caused her will play in my favour. Anne of Austria will sacrifice the squirrel with difficulty, but she would rather cut off one of her arms than allow the smallest risk of harm to her son. It really is a beautiful day, concluded Colbert, standing up to take a closer look at the gardens of the Louvre and enjoy the sun’s warmth.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  Palais du Louvre – Sunday 12 June, eleven o’clock in the morning

  ‘COME on, come on, give it to me,’ ordered the King in a voice that was both impatient and happy, and he stretched out his leather-clad arm.

  ‘Is Your Majesty sure that his glove is properly in place?’ asked d’Artagnan anxiously.

  ‘My dear Captain, I am not made of china and I do not need to be so carefully protected!’ replied the King disdainfully, stepping aside. ‘So give it to me, Monsieur.’

  At that moment Colbert was shown into the King’s office. He recoiled instinctively when he saw the man who was approaching the sovereign.

  The King’s falconer also wore a protective leather glove, and he carried a gerfalcon on his arm. The nervous movements of its wings revealed a span of over a yard. The man stood beside the sovereign and then, pressing his arm against the King’s, began to slide the clawed talons from his own leather gauntlet to Louis XIV’s. Fascinated, the young King watched him in delight as he made whispering, whistling sounds to the bird of prey, whose head, covered in a black-leather hood, bobbed jerkily up and down. To Colbert, it seemed to go on for ever. Taking refuge close to the table where he had just placed a voluminous fawn-coloured satchel, the little man watched the ceremony warily. He could not help thinking that introducing this symbol of war and brutishness to this place devoted to intelligence, calculation and strategy was a violation.

  The King was now walking around the room with his eyes fixed on the gerfalcon attached to his raised fist. An almost childish pride shone on his face.

  ‘You shall tell the ambassador how much this gift delights me,’ he declared to the assembled company without taking his eyes off the gerfalcon.

  One by one, each of the men he passed let out murmurs of admiration, which seemed to delight him even more.

  ‘We must have this scene captured by an artist,’ said the sovereign.

  When he noticed Colbert, he smiled at the uncomfortable look on the Steward’s face.

  ‘Well, Monsieur Colbert, see what the Turk has sent me! Is it not magnificent?’

  Colbert tried not to close his eyes when the gerfalcon spread its wings and let out shrill little cries very close to his face.

  ‘Indeed, Sire’, he agreed respectfully.

  ‘Is my gift by chance the cause of the anxiety which clouds your face?’ asked the King.

  Colbert was indignant.

  ‘Not in the least, Sire, but I bear the weight of cares which I take seriously, particularly as they concern the Kingdom and Your Majesty.’

  Louis XIV grew sombre as he was brought back to reality.

  ‘You are right, Monsieur – work calls. I cannot reproach you for it, even if moments of joy are very rare … Well, serious matters, you say?’ he went on, holding out his fist to the falconer.

  ‘Extremely serious, Sire,’ confirmed Colbert. ‘Your Majesty knows that I would not dare to disturb the course of his diplomatic activity were it not for a matter of the greatest importance.’

  The King smiled.

  ‘It’s all right, Colbert. The Cardinal did warn me: “a tireless worker, but as sad as a day without bread”.’

  Colbert suffered the gibe without flinching.

  ‘Anyway, to work. Messieurs,’ added the King, signalling to the throng to leave as a manservant hurried forward to free him from the laced-up leather gauntlet.

  ‘Well, Monsieur Colbert?’ said the King when they were alone in his office, now returned to its primary use. ‘So what am I to fear?’

  ‘A conspiracy, Sire, and a rebellion.’

  With clenched teeth, Louis XIV stared at the map laid out on the table. It showed the painstakingly drawn contours of Belle-Île, surmounted by a network of defences and turrets. A port appeared clearly on the map, along with some roughly drawn boats. Written on each element of the fortifications were columns of figures listing munitions, weapons, and names. Furiously, the King lifted the map, pulling out from underneath it a map on a larger scale, showing Brittany as far as Nantes. Here too, the defences and available resources were indicated with the same precision. Colbert’s voice cut through the silence, making him look up.

  ‘Sire, I too would not have had any faith in these documents were I not certain of their provenance, and if they did not merely add a final touch to a host of weighty presumptions. But I had to face up to the evidence. Yes, Monsieur Fouquet cheats in his accounts, mixing his privy purse with that of Your Majesty, returning to his former methods when he sought to make us believe that the Cardinal, God rest his soul …’

  At these words, he raised his eyes to Heaven and clasped his hands, a scandalised expression on his lips.

  ‘… was solely responsible for them. Yes, Monsieur Fouquet uses his Breton possessions to transfer his resources to America and the Indies via trading companies. And as if all of this: theft, fraud, misappropriation of public funds, calumnies of all sorts, aggravated by the attempt, in his madness, to corrupt innocent or gentle souls like that young fellow Pontbriand or Mademoiselle de La Vallière, alongside whom his assiduous presence has been verified …’

  The King blanched as he heard these words.

  ‘… as if all of this, as I say, were not enough,’ continued Colbert without betraying anything of his satisfaction, ‘Monsieur Superintendent has added to these infamies the threat of rebellion against his King by establishing – doubtless in case his misappropriations were discovered – an armed refuge in Brittany, from which an insurrection could be launched.’

  Out of breath now, Colbert fell silent. The King stood motionless and pale-faced. Stunned by the profusion of documents and facts skilfully engineered to mask approximations, half-truths and lies, the King felt a profound lassitude wash over him. So I shall never be done with it, he thought with sudden anguish. I shall always have to be fearful of plots and conspiracies.

  Looking up, he saw Colbert’s greedy expression and shining eyes.

  ‘The proof is here,’ insisted the little man with a theatrical sweep of his hand, indicating the mass of documents which had spilled out of his leather case.

  ‘Very well,’ said the King tonelessly.

  He gave a long sigh.

  ‘What is really needed is for the century to be purged,’ he murmured.

  The Steward looked up inquisitively.

  ‘Lock your files securely in a chest,’ added the King, heading for the door.

  On the threshold, he seemed to change his mind.

  ‘The Cardinal did not deceive me, Monsieur Colbert. I shall not forget that.’

  Colbert gave a deep bow. By the time he straightened up, the King had disappeared. He then went to the table and began to fold the documents one by one before putting them away in his case. When he had finished, he looked around the empty room in satisfaction.

  ‘Sad as a day without bread,’ he murmured with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘It matters not, if I achieve my ends.’

  Buckling his case, he put it under his arm before heading for the door himself. As he emerged into the corridor, he glanced through the window and saw the King in the palace courtyard, surrounded by a crowd of courtiers who had come to see a hunting demonstration by the precious gerfalcon. The bird of prey was at that moment flying from the hand of the falconer, who had removed the hood which blinded it. In a flash, it swooped upon a dove which had been freed from a little willow cage and seized it in its talons with a shrill cry. The falcon was now wheeling in concentric circles, with the dove clutched in its powerful grasp.

  Colbert frowned in disgust and continued along the gilt-panelled corri
dor.

  ‘Purge the century?’ he repeated in a low voice.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  Vaux-le-Vicomte – Wednesday 17 August, six o’clock in the evening

  ‘BLAST that kitchen boy!’

  For the tenth time that day, Vatel, the cook at Vaux-le-Vicomte, lifted the two-pronged fork he used to turn the roasts and poultry with disconcerting ease as they hung above the fire. In the darkness of the immense basement kitchen, his size was emphasised by his shadow, which danced on the walls in the light of the flames.

  ‘How many times do I have to tell him? Don’t stoke up the fire too high if you don’t want the meat to crack and all its juices to dry up!’

  Crouching behind their ovens, his kitchen hands watched anxiously as this new bout of anger developed.

  ‘And these cakes,’ he yelled even louder, moving his fat body swiftly towards the babas and choux pastries carefully set out in rows on long copper trays. ‘This cannot be true …’

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ whispered the kitchen boy furthest away from Vatel.

  ‘… Jesus, Mary and Joseph! You must want me dead,’ said the cook unconsciously echoing the boy, although he had heard nothing.

  Sighing, his face crimson with anger and from exposure to the fire, Vatel yielded to a moment of discouragement. He mopped the sweat which was dripping down his forehead and into his eyes.

  ‘Come on, you heap of incompetents!’ he roared, rallying. ‘We only have one more hour until the meal is served! The King, Messieurs, you are cooking for the King! Have a little pride in your work, for the love of God!’