The Sun King Conspiracy

by Yves Jégo

  Whatever can he be thinking? he pondered, stunned by the young King’s lack of reaction.

  Inside the chateau a final collation largely made up of sumptuous trays of fruit was being served to the accompaniment of violins. Conversation flowed, and everyone was full of admiration. Never had the French Court been invited to such a reception, and the splendour of the chateau and its gardens reinforced the impression of power and grandeur even more.

  On the pretext of discussing some financial documents, Nicolas Fouquet contrived to be alone with the King in one of the salons. Gabriel, who was looking for Louise, observed the scene from a distance, as did Colbert, who had been busily spreading his venom amongst the guests.

  ‘Sire, all of this is for you,’ said the Superintendent suddenly, taking in the chateau and its riches with a sweeping gesture. ‘I have no other ambition but to serve Your Majesty and to place my fortune at the service of the King!’

  The young sovereign looked at him darkly before answering.

  ‘It is all extremely luxurious,’ he said, eyeing the furniture, the tapestries and the paintings which decorated the room. ‘Extremely luxurious!’

  ‘Sire, permit me to provide you with further proof of my devotion tonight,’ went on Fouquet, mopping his brow; his fever was making him feel extremely uncomfortable. ‘I am in possession of an ancient manuscript of extraordinary value. A manuscript which, if used unwisely, could imperil the structure and government of the Kingdom.’

  The young King still appeared withdrawn.

  ‘Nevertheless, were you to accept it, this precious document could serve to enhance Your Majesty’s present and future glory. The document is incontestably of Biblical origin. It would enable the King of France to re-establish the legitimacy of his power, and at the same time guarantee the happiness of the people he governs.’

  ‘Is it your opinion, then, that the King of France’s power is not legitimate, Monsieur Superintendent?’ enquired Louis XIV pointedly.

  ‘Your Majesty is young; you wish to take the Kingdom’s affairs in hand and give France a place in the world which she has never known before,’ went on Nicolas Fouquet without acknowledging what the King had said. ‘This is a worthy ambition, but times have changed, Sire. The aspirations of ordinary people are evolving too. Tomorrow, the people will wish to express themselves in one way or another, to participate more actively in defining their own destiny. And if we do not listen to this wish, it will then become a demand, a rage, a rebellion. It will imperil our country! I can offer you the chance to instigate a new era! You alone can provide the impetus needed, and become the leading figure in this change.’

  The King was still looking at Fouquet distractedly, making him feel more and more ill at ease.

  ‘Sire, will you allow me to show you this document so that you can judge its contents?’

  The obstinately silent King stood before the Superintendent as though lost in his own dreams.

  ‘Sire, do you hear me? I beg you to consider my words! The fate of the Kingdom is at stake!’

  All at once the King came to life:

  ‘The fate of the Kingdom? And what do you mean by that, Monsieur Superintendent: that of a people, a monarchy or a sovereign? I hear what you are saying, but I question why you devote so much attention to the “wishes” of the populace and so little to the interests of your King. In what way is it in my interest to consider the wellbeing of those who wish to damage my power? And in whose name am I to question a tradition of which I am merely the repository, as were my ancestors before me and as my descendants will be after me?’

  ‘But there is only one interest, Sire, that of France, of which the common folk are the flesh and you the embodiment!’

  An icy smile flickered on the King’s lips.

  ‘You sometimes talk like those Jesuits who surround me, Monsieur Superintendent. Personally, I would prefer fewer arguments and more proof of the care you say you are taking to ensure my glory and the success of my policies. Moreover, your argument gives me no reason to go against tradition based upon the Church’s teachings.’

  ‘This text is precisely that proof, Sire. I have in my possession a torch which can set the country alight, and undermine the foundations on which it rests. But I wish to use that torch solely to light your way and guide your steps.’

  The King clenched his fist in a gesture of vexation.

  ‘Guide, guide!’ he growled. ‘I have no lack of guides; I can’t set foot outside my bedchamber without ten people offering to guide me! I want to be served,’ he continued, raising his voice.

  ‘But you cannot ignore the text,’ said Fouquet in reply. ‘It exists, and you must look at it. I am serving you by enabling you to discover it, before the world knows anything about it. You may then consider it and prepare to reveal it to the world. You will be the man who opens the eyes of the world! Sire, this document speaks the Truth, the only Truth that is …’

  ‘The Truth, Monsieur Superintendent,’ cut in the King, ‘has no need of discovery. It is already in our possession.’

  ‘But Sire, just imagine …’

  ‘And no one,’ the sovereign interrupted again icily, ‘has an interest in seeing it called into question unless he wishes to open a truly terrible Pandora’s box. I know how I wish to be served. And what I do not wish is that my Superintendent of Finance should seek to turn himself into a philosopher and exegete. Forget Biblical texts, Monsieur Superintendent. For pity’s sake, devote more of your energy to enabling me to possess the means to stage receptions as fine as the one we have attended this evening.’

  He thinks I am mad, thought the Superintendent, coming to his senses a little. Or is it that I am no longer speaking clearly? Has my fever led me astray?

  ‘I hear nothing of what you say about this manuscript,’ went on the young King. ‘Or more precisely, I hear nothing but words which a less benevolent spirit than mine would readily accuse of heresy, sacrilege or lese-majesty. “A torch”? “Undermine the foundations” on which the country rests? Why not also speak of republics, Monsieur Superintendent?’ raged the King, before struggling to regain his composure. ‘I cannot listen to these kinds of ideas. But tell me, are you ill?’

  Without waiting for a reply, the King walked a few steps away before turning round:

  ‘Farewell, Monsieur Superintendent, it is time for us to part,’ he said in a voice that was strangely measured and solemn.

  Crushed, and realising that he was going to gain nothing from the evening, Fouquet trailed behind Louis XIV, whose slow, formal walk to the door of the salon provoked a tidal wave of bows from the assembled courtiers.

  Fouquet stood at the foot of the steps and watched the King of France’s carriage move away. He was now shaking all over from the fever which had been with him all evening.

  La Fontaine approached him.

  ‘You look unhappy, and yet what a magnificent reception! It lacked for nothing! The Court will remember it for a long time, I can tell you!’

  ‘Let us hope the King does too!’ muttered the Superintendent, walking back up the steps of his palace.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Vaux-le-Vicomte – Thursday 18 August, two o’clock in the morning

  PALE, haggard and dishevelled, Fouquet removed the ribbon tied around his wrist and threw it to the ground. The shivers that ran through his body betrayed the fever which still racked him. Gabriel was about to open his mouth to say something but Fouquet gestured to him to be silent. From the great entrance hall, guests could still be seen in the grounds, strolling around the lakes in small groups, the women with their shawls pulled tight about their shoulders. Servants passed amongst them and began to dismantle the buffet tables set up in the groves. Two lines of guests formed multicoloured columns in the pale moonlight, hurrying to the chateau’s gates, and carriage wheels could be heard crunching over the gravel driveway.

  The two men remained silent for a moment, watching. The clicking of footsteps on the flagged floor made them tu
rn round. There stood d’Orbay, leaning against the doorpost, looking serious and tired.

  Fouquet and Gabriel looked at each other but said nothing.

  Finally d’Orbay approached them.

  ‘Well, here we are,’ he said, his voice faint and full of emotion. ‘Mass has been said, Messieurs, and I fear that our dream will disappear with the dawn’.

  Fouquet looked at the architect in astonishment.

  ‘It was probably madness to believe in it, but anyway, we cannot go back. What has happened has happened. We have tried to be faithful to our ideal to the end, rejecting the risk of division and civil war amongst our people. And we have dealt with ingrates throughout. Worse, nobody listened to us. But what does it matter now? We have gone too far to retrace our steps. This evening, Messieurs, our boats burned along with the fireworks. The King may pretend to misunderstand; but he understands very well. He knows the risk.’

  The architect looked at the cupola above their heads and reached up towards it with an open palm.

  ‘It’s there, just up there between the two ceilings.’

  He lowered his gaze and looked coldly at Fouquet, who was still impassive.

  ‘We must act immediately. A copy of the document must be taken to the Papal legate and to Parlement as soon as possible, and messengers will have to deliver it to all the provincial assemblies. Immediately afterwards, our troops from Belle-Île and Brittany will march into Rennes and Nantes, and then on to Angers, Orléans and Paris. Four weeks from now, Nicolas, when the explosion has resounded throughout the Kingdom of France, we can seize the reins of power.’

  His eyes were fiery as he looked deep into those of the Superintendent.

  ‘We must act, Nicolas,’ he went on, more urgently this time. ‘If we do nothing, we are lost and the Secret is lost with us.’

  Fouquet shook his head.

  ‘All is not lost François, I am sure of it. We must not yield to panic. The King did not reject my offer. He did not say no. He said nothing at all. I shall go and see him; I shall take the time to show him the document in detail. He will come to his senses. He will understand where the truth lies and will not resist it. He will meditate upon its meaning and acquiesce, I am convinced of it. We cannot risk a civil war. The King will be won over,’ he insisted.

  François d’Orbay sneered at him.

  ‘I cannot stop you believing in your dream, Nicolas, but you are on the wrong track. I shall leave for Rome tomorrow, to request our Brothers’ arbitration. At least place our troops on alert,’ he tried once more. ‘Send Gabriel with an order to mobilise.’

  ‘Two weeks, François, give me two weeks. Between now and then I will win the King’s consent. Go to Rome if you wish, but allow me that time.’

  ‘Very well. Two weeks, but not a day longer.’

  D’Orbay was about to continue the argument, but then let his hand drop in annoyance and turned on his heel.

  Gabriel began to follow him, but Fouquet held him back. The young man watched the architect leave, closing the door behind him. When he turned back, Nicolas Fouquet was staring at the cupola and its foiled plans.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  Vaux-le-Vicomte – Thursday 18 August, two o’clock in the morning

  ‘TO Fontainebleau!’

  From her seat inside the carriage, Anne of Austria heard the order ring out in the darkness and realised that the King was in no ordinary mood. It was still stifling despite the late hour, so when Louis sat down beside her with sweat on his brow, she thought he was suffering from the heat.

  A few minutes later, as the carriage travelled between the tall trees lining the road to Maincy, Anne broke the silence.

  ‘How I wish that your wife could have accompanied us!’

  The Queen Mother pursued what already seemed to be a strange monologue as there was still no reaction from the King:

  ‘I am sure she would have adored Molière’s play and admired the setting, despite her condition. What magnificent gardens!’

  The King, who was not normally short of things to say in these rare private moments with the Queen Mother, said nothing. It was as if he were immersed in contemplation of the streets of Maincy, which echoed with the sound of horses’ hooves and the jangling of the musketeers who made up his guard. His retinue seemed in high spirits, and it was clear that the evening had been well and truly celebrated even in the stables.

  No one has escaped the Superintendent’s generosity, thought the King.

  Deep within him, a muffled anger was coming to the boil as images of the folly returned to him. Why such excessive luxury? wondered the sovereign, and what does he hope to achieve by displaying such magnificence in front of the whole Court? Colbert is right, he told himself again. That evening the Superintendent’s words had seemed to him to be laden with threats. Behind this strange proposition that was supposed to make the French people happy, Louis XIV had a strong sense that his power was being called into question.

  ‘Are you upset, my son? Did Vatel’s cooking not agree with you?’

  The King’s mother wanted to be reassured by the faint smile which appeared on his lips, but decided not to continue the conversation any further.

  Louis looked at Anne of Austria as she sat there beside him. Her face was marked by fatigue, and by the effects of the oppressive weather. They were no longer the unlined features he remembered from his childhood, but those of a woman sorely tried by years of power and intrigue. Without being aware of it, he had become an adult. And, in turn, he was soon to be a father. Did he not owe it to himself to prove his new status to the country?

  ‘Ah, Madame, should we not make all these people return their ill-gotten gains?’

  The Queen smiled as she finally understood the reason for her son’s silence.

  ‘A few days ago, I received Colbert at Dampierre. He had no doubt come to test my feelings with regard to Fouquet,’ she said gently. ‘The Superintendent of Finance is certainly not without his faults, but he has succeeded in reforming the Kingdom’s Treasury. As for his immoderate taste for luxury, he is certainly ostentatious, but in order for the people to love their King, should he not retain as security a few ministers for them to hate?’

  ‘Madame, I am no longer a child and I no longer need to be advised on matters of State,’ retorted the King in a tone that brooked no reply.

  Silence fell again between the two travellers as the royal cortege reached the leafy outskirts of Fontainebleau. Gazing vacantly out of the carriage, Louis XIV glimpsed the roofs of the royal chateau. This sight reminded him of the ostentation of Vaux.

  Had the Queen Mother not been dozing, she would have been able to hear the King of France mutter:

  ‘He has stolen my dream. He will pay for this.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  Rome – Wednesday 24 August, eleven o’clock at night

  FRANÇOIS d’Orbay entered Rome in a torrential rain storm. The architect was forced to stop to prevent his mount slipping on the uneven paving stones or, blinded by the lightning, rearing up and unseating him, and he found refuge beneath the arches of the Coliseum. He waited there, huddled against his horse’s flank, as the raindrops hammered down on the stone and the earth, turning to rivulets on the unmade road surface which ran past the ruins of the ancient forum. A powerful flash of lightning zigzagged across the sky, fleetingly illuminating the silhouettes of the ancient buildings veiled by torrents of water. D’Orbay shivered: whether from cold or tiredness, he could not tell. Since he had left Paris six days earlier, he had taken only a little rest, changing horses frequently so as to arrive at his destination as quickly as possible.

  He stroked the neck of his horse, which seemed agitated again. The animal tossed its head then seemed to grow calmer.

  D’Orbay again pictured Fouquet’s fixed mask. He could still hear the firm tone of his voice as he was preparing to leave:

  ‘My destiny will be what it must be. We have to continue right to the end; we cannot deviate from our path. We trus
t in the King’s loyalty to his people and in the power of the Secret. For my part, I will not be the initiator of a civil war.’

  Everything had been said. He had hesitated for a fraction of a second, no longer, and in the look he had exchanged with the Superintendent, d’Orbay had seen the irremediable split which had thrown them onto either side of a crevasse destined to grow ever wider. Their two lives had for a long time existed together in the dream he had forged, but now they were moving apart, never to be reunited.

  ‘Come, my friend,’ said d’Orbay softly to his horse, ‘the rain seems to be slackening off. We have to leave; we no longer have much time.’

  François d’Orbay stood silently before his peers. He had finished his speech, and felt curiously lighter, as if once again he was sharing the weight that had accumulated on his shoulders and no longer bore it alone. And yet he had realised how desperate his course of action was with each successive sentence; he knew it could not lead to anything.

  Giacomo Del Sarto gazed impassively at the architect.

  ‘The risk is great and you were right to come and inform us. Nicolas must be allowed to pursue his logic to its conclusion; such is his judgement. Let us only pray that he has seen clearly. Out of prudence we should prepare for the possibility of failure … In other words, the possibility that we might have to use force, or even save what can be saved if we lose that battle too …’

  D’Orbay searched the doctor’s bright eyes for a trace of accusation, reproach or regret. And yet he saw none of these things. All he saw was the eternal flame borne across centuries by generations of men just like themselves, and the calm certainty that beyond the potential defeat of the present, others would emerge to take up their torches and wait in the shadows until the hour of victory tolled.

  The hour which I shall not see, he thought suddenly.