The Sun King Conspiracy (10 page)

C
OLBERT shivered in the biting wind and walked faster so that he would arrive on time for the service. Bitter cold had set in, and a layer of ice now covered the majority of the city’s narrow streets, making the uneven paving stones even more treacherous.

For his part, Jacques Bénigne Bossuet was thinking less about his feet than his hands as he entered the pulpit. The cold air in the sacristy of the Église des Feuillants had numbed his joined hands as he meditated until it was time for him to preach. And now he found it impossible to warm them again. He recalled the day in the winter of 1659 when he had climbed into this same pulpit for the very first time, on the occasion of the church’s inauguration. How long ago that first day of glory in Paris now seemed, and longer still his years of apprenticeship in Metz! Clenching his teeth, he allowed his gaze to scan the silent ranks of his congregation. He made out a few faces he knew here and there, and a few others that were well known. Turning away, he took a deep breath, set down the thin sheets of paper on which he had penned a few notes, and began …

‘My brothers, it must seem to come of its own accord, attracted by greatness, and serving as interpreter for the wisdom which speaks …’

Colbert gave a start as he realised that he had lost the thread of what was being said. An unpleasant feeling of distrust passed through him. With a sidelong glance, he checked that his neighbours
were paying attention to the clear voice of the small thin orator.

‘Too delicate,’ he grumbled to himself, ‘too refined in his reasoning, too angelic …’

He could not free his mind of double-entry accounting and the tortuous methods of Mazarin’s financial networks, and he was plagued by obsessive thoughts. With a sudden movement, he thrust one hand into his pocket and took out a notebook and a small surveyor’s pencil, feverishly noting down three names to check. He noticed with some annoyance that he could not call to mind the theme of the sermon that Bossuet was delivering in that sonorous voice with its ponderous intonations.

‘But what is this wisdom?’ the orator went on. ‘How does the divine spirit open itself to human intelligence? Eloquence enhances the arts, politics and poetry, all human endeavours in which inspiration is imperfect. In what way could this eloquence, designed to dress up the weaknesses of our imperfect reasoning, imagine that it might be of some use in expressing Truth itself, the perfect revelation? Could the work of Our Lord be human because it arrays itself in rags? My brothers, we find the answer to this question by looking at it from the opposite direction: concentrating not on the divine word but on the ear and the eye to which it is addressed. Not only has the divine word no need to adorn itself in finery, but it requires veils so that its dazzling light does not terrify the poor blind creatures to whom it deigns to appear! This is why the Holy Scriptures must be explained: because they are resplendent in their immutable, absolute exactitude. They are the cornerstone upon which everything is built and upon which the magisterium of our Holy Mother Church and the radiance of royalty both prosper. They are their foundations and their legitimacy.’

Satisfied, Colbert put away his notebook. The subject had
suddenly come back to him.
That little schemer Bossuet talks to us of ‘eloquence in the word of God’. And who does he think he is deceiving?
he thought with a smile, incapable of not projecting his own ambition onto others.
Is he speaking for the Spirit, or are his words directed towards the Queen Mother sitting in the front row?

Colbert fumed silently, his temper betrayed only by the jerky movements of his leg which he could not control.
Damn you, Monsieur preacher; speak, speak, I am quite happy for you to speak. I am the one counting. And we shall see …

Colbert recovered his composure and, with narrowed eyes, began to follow the rhythm of the words once again.

A lock of blonde hair escaping from a mantilla disturbed his concentration, however. He felt exasperation taking him over once again. The pale hand which pushed back the rebellious lock and a slight movement of the head, revealing a charming profile, confirmed his first impression: it was indeed Louise de La Vallière sitting there on one of the benches to the right of the choir, facing the pulpit.
Little goose
, thought Colbert, who had not missed a word of what the King had said,
she looks as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and
… His thoughts faltered …
And they’re all completely taken in by her. Ah, it’s even worse than if she were merely intelligent!
he raged, with a black look at Bossuet.
All the more reason for Perrault to get to the bottom of this for me. That scheming girl and the little actor …

He froze as he felt a hand on his arm.

‘Perrault!’ He was so startled that he almost cried out. ‘Well, what is it?’

‘I have news, Monsieur.’

Making a face that was almost a grimace, rolling his eyes and pressing his lips together, Colbert indicated that he did not consider this an appropriate time.

Perrault acted as though he had not noticed:

‘Fouquet,’ he whispered almost inaudibly, ‘it’s Monsieur Fouquet, Monsieur …’

Colbert froze. He indicated the church porch with his chin.

As they emerged onto the front steps, a gust of icy wind assailed the two men.

‘So, Fouquet …?’ Colbert prompted.

‘… this evening, at his home in Saint-Mandé, he met the young man we were talking about.’

Colbert smiled unpleasantly.

‘They had a long discussion, apparently about patronage and the theatre. Alas, I was unable to acquire all the details of their exchanges …’

With a wave of the hand, Colbert indicated that this mattered little.

‘And the boy, who is he?’

‘I am still trying to find out, Excellency,’ Perrault replied, bowing his head.

As he listened to him, Colbert thought it over again. His intuition had not failed him! Fouquet was active. Fouquet was trying to find out …

‘But what?’ He ground his teeth in frustration. ‘I must know what!’

He clenched his fists, not realising that he was now talking out loud.

‘Something is being hidden from me!’

Anxiously Perrault, who had heard only these last words, wondered what to say.

Colbert dismissed him curtly:

‘That young man, concentrate on that young man. Go to it!’

He watched Perrault hurry away, trying not to slip on the steps, and disappear round the corner of the church. As he turned back towards the doors, they began to open.

‘Amen,’ he said, hastily crossing himself.

Then he too hurried away before the first of the faithful emerged.

I
N the pre-dawn cold, a man sneaked past the closed shops in Rue Saint-Antoine, his eyes feverish. From time to time, unable to control his anxiety and agitation, he glanced around to check if he really was alone in the frozen streets. He had a mallet in his hand and a linen bag beneath his cape. Every ten or twenty yards he stopped in front of a church door or a wooden shutter to pin up a text taken from his pouch. The man with the mismatched eyes was the author of these lampoons, and he had decided to put them up himself in Paris that night. For several days he had been tortured by the knowledge that he had failed to bring back what his leader had needed, and was dejected that the latter refused to take the radical step of assassinating the Cardinal. His attempts to retrieve the lost documents had been unsuccessful, and he had desperately tried to remember the contents of his incomplete booty. He had skimmed the papers before handing them over, and although he did not fully grasp their meaning, he had seen enough to fuel his anger and justify the irrepressible desire for action which he felt rise within him.

The King will have to submit if Paris rises up when it discovers the extent of the Italian’s illegal trafficking, and here is a document which will incite those gentlemen to act
, he told himself, furiously nailing his last copy to the door of a cobbler’s shop. Without turning round, he threw the empty bag onto the paving stones and hurried away, disappearing round a corner into a narrow alleyway.

When he left his lodgings in rue des Lions Saint-Paul a few hours later that morning, Gabriel de Pontbriand was lighthearted. Louise’s regular visits were not entirely unconnected with this state of mind. His childhood friend had visited several times since their reunion, so that they could share memories. She also recounted her discoveries about life at Court. Gabriel was delighted that they had become close again and overwhelmed that he had become her confidant. Molière, whom he regarded as a benefactor, had contributed to his happiness by telling him about the role he had created for him in the play commissioned by Fouquet to celebrate the completion of his chateau, Vaux-le-Vicomte.
So
, he said to himself as he came out of his lodgings,
I am going to become an actor at last and perform in front of the King. My dream is coming true.
This thought made him smile.

‘You look cheerful, Monsieur Gabriel,’ commented the washerwoman who waited eagerly each day for the handsome young man to emerge from his room. ‘But Paris is sad; the city is buzzing with tales of Court intrigue and the news that Cardinal Mazarin will soon be dead. Of course, you’d know more about that than I do, thanks to the company you keep,’ added the girl a little perfidiously, alluding to Louise de La Vallière’s frequent visits.

‘Do not deceive yourself, my dear Ninon, I know nothing and the King does not take me into his confidence! If I am happy, it is at the sight of you,’ replied Gabriel charmingly, stroking the washerwoman’s scarlet cheek.

The young actor made his way to the cobbler’s shop where he had left a pair of old boots in the hope of making them last for a few more months. Gabriel enjoyed strolling along amongst ordinary folk in the noisy, bustling streets of the capital. This contrast between the
Court, which he observed in the evenings at the theatre, and the street, in which he felt so at ease, was like a perfect form of alchemy. For him, it was the intoxicating flavour of Paris. Arriving at the cobbler’s in Rue Saint-Antoine, he breathed in deeply, savouring the smell of leather which permeated the entire workshop. The shop was vast and extremely well ordered, with several journeymen and apprentices at work. Master Louvet, a renowned craftsman whose customers included the noblest families in Paris, stopped what he was doing when he saw him.

‘Monsieur Gabriel, what a pleasure it is to see you this morning! Your boots are ready, but I’m not sure I can guarantee that they’ll survive beyond the spring. They’re as worn out as the Cardinal’s lungs!’

‘Thank you all the same,’ replied the young man, taking the parcel the cobbler handed him.

‘On the subject of the Cardinal, have you seen this lampoon now circulating in the capital?’ asked Louvet, presenting him with a sheet of paper. ‘I found this one on my own door this morning.’

Gabriel knew that there had been a proliferation of these kinds of texts at the time of the Fronde, a few years before. Known as Mazarinades, these pamphlets gave voice to those who, with varying degrees of talent, aspired to incriminate their rulers. As he had never come across one before, he was intrigued to see what it was like.

Let us therefore lift up our voices to the Heavens, and cleave the air with the force of our cheering, may birds all fall dead onto tables made ready in the streets, may fountains of Grave, malmsey and hippocras wine be seen at every crossroads. The Sun does not only illuminate the expanses of air, it does not only cause the heat of its rays to be felt on the surface
of our Globe, to produce Plants, and to make the animals rejoice, but it also causes its influences to appear in the earth’s entrails, and makes known its virtue by generating metals, minerals and precious stones, the production of which is as admirable as its means are unknown and secret to us. Rejoice, Paris, and console yourself now that your Messiah has come back to visit you. His absence had filled you with sadness, and covered you in mourning, his presence will fill you with joy once again, and enrich you with magnificence and glory: the Abundance which walks in his wake will furnish the material for your delights more than ever, the Justice which accompanies him will return the possessions which belong to you and the force which surrounds him will strengthen more than ever the Columns of your peace; and at last his coming will give you the realisation of your most eagerly awaited wishes and the enjoyment of your most passionate desires …

In a similarly tortuous style, the remainder of the document announced the arrival of the Messiah who had come ‘to punish the powerful who have betrayed their Lord’.

Above all, this long text denounced the ‘unprecedented’ accumulation of wealth on the part of the Cardinal and the King. The argument rested upon figures and dates notably concerning a purchase of weapons on behalf of the State from the well-known merchant Maximilien Piton. This order, claimed the anonymous message, had given rise to double accounting and to the payment of commissions whose amount inflated the real invoice considerably. With its accusations strangely backed up by a wealth of precise detail, the lampoon went on to say that the operation had apparently involved a network of agents and multiple letters of credit, which had been cashed all over Europe, as a result of which Mazarin had
been able to pocket several hundred thousand livres. The lampoon also detailed another murky affair involving land for building in Paris. Since all vacant land in the city was owned by the King, the royal estate had acquired it very cheaply before selling it on in the same state, but at a vastly inflated price …

‘It was the usual suspects,’ whispered the cobbler, ‘Berryer, that is to say Colbert and therefore Mazarin … This confirms what the common folk have suspected! The author seems well informed, but if I were him I’d watch out for the Cardinal’s police. This kind of literature could lose him his head!’

Gabriel, who had started at the name of Berryer, did not reply. Paying for the repair of his boots, he left the shop with a sombre look on his face. He had been overwhelmed by a feeling of foreboding as he read the lampoon. The death of his father, the coded documents hidden in his bedroom, the police searching the theatre, the attack on the old concierge and this accusatory lampoon were all intermingled in his mind; and although he could not establish the precise link between them, he was somehow certain that one existed. On the sill of an open window a kitten was playing with some wool. Gabriel stopped, took the animal in his arms and began to stroke it.

‘What do you make of it all?’ he asked the animal as it wriggled excitedly.

He allowed the cat to escape from his arms and distractedly watched it scamper off, dragging the tangled skein of wool with it.

‘No matter how much I pull at the threads,’ he murmured to himself, ‘the ball of wool that holds my interest is still as tangled as ever …’