by Yves Jégo
‘That painting … The coincidence is too great … And there was another,’ he moaned as he rummaged haphazardly through the mass of packages of all sizes, flinging away those which hindered his search.
Finally, as he lifted up a larger frame, he happened upon a package identical to the first. He stood rooted to the spot for a moment, then began to tear off the paper wrapped round it. When he saw the second canvas, Mazarin’s former secretary blanched: it depicted a man on his deathbed, with his family praying beside him. Amongst the figures at the front one could easily make out a tearful son.
Colbert’s face drained as put down the painting. It was then that he noticed a card stuck to the back of the canvas.
With trembling hands, he brought it closer to the light:
Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth, he read. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.
Dumbfounded, Colbert turned over the card:
Cursed be the avaricious, for they shall not enjoy their ill-gotten gains; cursed be the hard-hearted, for they are destined to suffer. Consider your current fate enviable. The deprivation of unwarranted financial resources and personal suffering are merely warnings designed to temper your sense of victory, and to convince you of how dangerous it would be for you to continue your search for those papers illicitly owned for a certain period by Cardinal Mazarin. You would then expose yourself to a crueller fate.
Colbert almost suffocated as he finished reading. Threats, in his own home! And blaspheming the Scriptures!
The dogs, he thought. The accursed dogs: Deprivation of resources!
He almost choked, then bent forward to look at the note again.
Personal suffering?
He was so lost in thought that he did not hear the door open.
‘Monsieur,’ called the familiar voice of his personal valet, breathless after he’d been searching for him, ‘Monsieur!’
Colbert gave his servant an incandescent glare.
‘What is it, at this hour?’ he growled.
‘A misfortune, Monsieur, a misfortune!’ cried the valet.
A dreadful premonition rooted Colbert to the spot.
‘My God, Monsieur …’
‘Well, speak!’ roared Colbert.
‘Your father, Monsieur …’
Colbert collapsed into his chair, dropping the sheet of paper, which fluttered to the ground.
‘He was found this morning, in his bedchamber. Dead.’
‘Dead,’ repeated Colbert in a daze.
Feeling faint, he put a hand in front of his eyes to drive away the words which danced before them: cursed be the hard-hearted, for they are destined to suffer …
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
At sea, near Nantes – Monday 12 September, ten o’clock in the morning
THE wind had got up during the night, forcing the ship to lower its sail for a time. Despite this it was making good progress, its prow gently cleaving the swell.
Gabriel reached the bottom of the companionway which led to the passengers’ cabins. He paused for a moment to get his bearings in this still unfamiliar space, then continued on his way towards the aftercastle. There, at the foot of the steps that led to the bridge, he sat down, protected from the sea-spray by the sail chests.
He watched the sea foam spatter the boat’s prow as she reared up before plunging her nose into the hollow of a wave. He was fascinated by the empty vastness of the sea; he had only ever seen the ocean once, and had not dared to do more than dip his bare feet into the water.
‘Can you swim, Monsieur?’ the captain had asked him during supper in his cabin the previous evening. ‘No? Well, you would make an excellent sailor. I am suspicious of seamen who can swim – it makes them complacent about their ships!’ he had exclaimed with a laugh, delighted with himself.
Gabriel had evaded questions about his final destination and the reason for his departure. He was a young man whose family wished to send away for a while. The pretext of an educational voyage had been well received, and the captain’s ribald and benevolent smile seemed to imply that he had understood this to mean ‘a moral scandal or duel’. In any case it was a better cover – more credible and much safer. When he arrived in New Amsterdam, he would still have time to decide what direction to take …
Taking off his gloves, Gabriel reached inside his cloak to remove the sealed letter which he had promised not to open until he was at sea. He looked at it quietly before making up his mind to open it. He felt that this act would erase a little more of this period of his life, people’s faces, this whole mad year which had turned his existence upside down.
A pang of nostalgia and sadness filled him as he thought of those last days in France. He had spent the journey to Nantes thinking about Louise’s absence at their meeting place at the Porte Saint-Martin, of that hour he had spent waiting in vain for her silhouette to appear in the doorway …
Once I have read and destroyed this letter, nothing will remain of my past life and nothing will link me to it. I too shall have disappeared, as my father did twenty years ago, he told himself, still hesitating. Then he quickly broke the blue wax seal and began to read.
My dear Gabriel,
When you read this letter, you will no doubt be far from Touraine. If it was given to you by François d’Orbay, this signifies that our quest has not been accomplished, but also that you have agreed to become one of us, and to take up in your turn the torch which I bore. Historical irony: when your parents chose your Christian name, your father told d’Orbay it was because no destiny seemed finer to them than that of the Messenger, bringer of the divine word …
In the future, perhaps, it will be your task to complete our mission or to pass on the responsibility for it in your turn. Between now and then, you will have seen your Brothers disappear, and you will have had to leave others behind, without hope of return. I pray that these ordeals pass for you without leaving bitterness in your heart, the only danger we must fear. Gabriel, let your mission enter your heart, let your destiny merge with this collective, arduous task, which is so much greater than our individual existences. Such is the legacy that I am offering you. It is both little and much.
In the wooden box François gave you, you will find a translation of one of the documents stolen from Mazarin, which you were the bearer of. In it are passwords, contacts and addresses needed to access a part of the fortune improperly amassed by Mazarin and his henchmen. This treasure is now your responsibility. With you, it will be the most effective guardian of our Secret.
In your hands rests the fate of the Fifth Gospel, that is to say, the original version of the text of the holy Scriptures which Saint Peter modified, as I explained to you in the gardens at Vaux. You may now cast your eyes upon what has made thrones tremble, caused blood to flow and could still engender terrible misfortune if it escaped the hands of its guardians.
I imagine you at this stage of your reading, burning with the ardour of youth to seize upon this Truth: have you not yet guessed what its nature may be? Think, Gabriel: one may kill Kings, contest their legitimacy, whittle down their territory; one may intrigue to bring down a pope or to elect one. Everything is conceivable in the realm of politics. But nothing can break the link by which the sacred legitimises temporal power and ensures its survival. And from whence comes this power that makes sovereigns ‘God’s lieutenants on earth’? From the latitude allowed on the subject by the Scriptures. ‘You are my rock, and upon that rock I shall build my Church,’ said Christ to Peter; and also, ‘Do you love me? Then take care of my sheep.’ Did these not seem strange, Gabriel, these phrases next to each other?
If they did, you are now in a position to unravel this mystery: while generations have relentlessly sought to interpret it, you are about to understand it. Because you know that a pure, uncorrupted version exists.
An admirable fraud, in truth: for centuries men have slit one another’s throats in the name of different interpretations, when in fact the source of the text
to be interpreted was false …
Yet the teaching of Christ was extremely clear:
‘Cursed be he who claims to settle the affairs of men in the name of my Father;
‘Cursed be he who links the name of my Father with the quarrels of the Powerful. Let them build empires of dust but let them not place my Father’s name on the pediments of their palaces of gold.
‘He who tells you that he bears the sword, metes out justice to men and organises the life of the city in the name of my Father, in truth I tell you, he is a liar.’ And again, ‘Happy are those who have not the ambition of power; they shall be given a Kingdom at my Father’s side.’
Those phrases are true. The previous ones, the ones which you know, are false.
The Truth is as simple as this: we have been asking for centuries why the question of political power is so absent from the Scriptures. It is because it was taken out. Christ’s teaching is that there can be no political power based on spiritual Truth and that any attempt to link the power of the Church with the affairs of men, or indeed to legitimise the power of men through the spiritual source of his Church, is a heresy!
But better still, the teaching of Christ, this true text whose nature was confirmed to us on 17 August, tells us why this is impossible. Listen, Gabriel, listen to the message of Christ:
‘Is there a hierarchy amongst the stars? And an order of precedence amongst the grains of sand? In truth I say unto you, that never does one grain of sand amongst the others imagine it can impose its truth upon the other grains of sand. All are equal and so it is with my Father’s sheep. The law amongst them must be that of justice, and this justice, that of equality. Let he who reigns therefore reign through the power given to him by his Brothers: only he who chooses this way treads the road to my Father’s house.’
What do you say to that, Gabriel? Imagine this news spreading through the Empire of Christians, imagine the crowds realising all at once that the sacred power of the King they obey is not only a lie but a fabrication … Imagine them realising that they no longer owe their allegiance to the King or to the Pope. What would happen, in your opinion? That is why our mission is to find a man capable of orchestrating this revelation without opening Pandora’s box. That has been my role, Gabriel: and now you have been initiated into our secret, in a more brutal manner than I was, or any of our Brothers. But necessity has demanded it.
Gabriel, I can imagine the look of fear on your face: but do you really believe that the truth is an easy thing to look in the face? If that were the case, the history of men would not be what it is. Such has been the terrible strength of Saint Peter: he knew that the content of the texts would never really be placed in doubt.
But be reassured: time will enable you to familiarise yourself with this scandal. You will learn to accept that there are eleven and not ten Beatitudes in the fifth chapter of Matthew; that Peter did not deny Christ thrice but four times, and that this fourth time was removed from the text which reached us; that he did not deny being one of Christ’s companions, but instead denied altering the nature of the Saviour’s message. You will learn to recognise between the lines the additions and the subtractions: the passages added and the passages suppressed.
This is what is contained in the manuscript which we have at last been able to decode.
Take the time you now have to assimilate this heritage. One day, perhaps months or even years from now, perhaps even after you are gone, during the lifetime of whoever succeeds you, this message will emerge again, and attempt to make its Truth heard without causing a cataclysm.
Take care of yourself, Gabriel. Now, as I leave for Nantes to attempt to save my mission, all my wishes go with you; I wish so much that you did not have to make this journey alone.
Farewell, Gabriel de Pontbriand. Be worthy of your Brothers, in the image of your father. I hope with all my heart soon to be able to return victorious, and to tear up this letter with my own hands.
Nicolas Fouquet.
Gabriel’s hands were trembling so much that he could not fold up the letter. With the back of his sleeve, he wiped away the tears that filled his eyes. Then his chin dropped onto his chest. Motionless, he felt the crumpled paper between his fingers as though it were alive. At last he stood up, his curls flying in the wind which blew ever stronger, and headed for the ship’s rail.
‘Take care,’ said a sailor who was coiling rope, his bare feet clamped to the deck, ‘it’s slippery over there.’
Gabriel walked past without seeing him and went on towards the bow. Before him, the foam of the waves formed a blurred horizon on which sky and sea mingled. The pieces of paper which he tore before flinging them to the wind whirled above the figurehead for a moment before swirling down and disappearing into the green water.
Gabriel remained there for a moment, gazing at the empty ocean. Then he returned to his cabin.
The box was there in his trunk, beneath his clothes.
The hull resounded with the waves that slapped against it, and the whistle of the wind in the sails sounded like shrill music. Gabriel seemed not to hear. His lips moved gently as he began to recite by heart: ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God …’
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
Château de Fontainebleau – Tuesday 1 November, eleven o’clock in the morning
‘A SON! The Queen has given us a son!’
Louise was amazed to see the King of France open the window of the bedchamber where Maria-Theresa had just given birth, lean out and shout for joy at the top of his lungs.
‘Come now, let’s close that window! Your son and your wife will catch cold,’ Anne of Austria told him gently, her expression radiant.
Obeying his mother just this once, Louis XIV approached the bed where the Spanish Infanta lay, exhausted by her labour.
‘You have done good work, Madame! The child is magnificent. He shall be called Louis of France,’ he said, gazing at his young wife with unusual tenderness.
Then the sovereign left the bedchamber so that the women could get on with ‘their affairs’. Louise’s gaze followed him as he walked away. When the door had closed, she stood still for a moment before she too approached the bed, her expression fixed, unable to take her eyes from the intricate little cradle in which the Dauphin had been laid.
Colbert, who was waiting with the principal ministers in the corridor, was first to congratulate the King. Then the monarch confronted the swelling ranks of courtiers. As he walked through the tide of humanity, Louis XIV remembered the events of this year, 1661.
At last, he told himself, watching men and women bow to him as he passed by. At last I shall be able to show them what I am capable of!
Notes:
1 Philippe, Duc d’Orléans, also known as Monsieur, brother of Louis XIV.
2 The regicide François Ravaillac, the Catholic zealot who stabbed Henri IV to death on 14 May 1610 while his carriage was stopped in traffic.
3 Mascarille was a shrewd servant in Molière’s L’Étourdi.
About the Author
Yves Jégo
Yves Jégo is a member of the French Parliament. He is the author of several history and politics books, and the co-author of three historical novels.
Denis Lépée
Denis Lépée is an environmental adviser. He is the author of books on Ernest Hemingway and Winston Churchill, as well as historical novels and thrillers.
Sue Dyson
Sue Dyson was a writer and translator, perhaps most widely known as bestselling novelist Zoë Barnes.
Copyright
First published in France as 1661 by Éditions Timée
Copyright © Yves Jégo and Denis Lépée, 2005
First published in Great Britain as The Sun King Rises in 2008
by Gallic Books, 59 Ebury Street,
London, SW1W 0NZ
This ebook edition first published in 2016
All rights reserved
© Gallic Books, 2016
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p; The rights of Yves Jégo and Denis Lépée to be identified as authors of this work have been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
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