The Sun King Conspiracy (15 page)

‘F
OR the last time, talk. Confess. You were the one who set fire to the Cardinal’s library. You looted his office. It was at your home, this morning, that we found these texts that have been posted up all over Paris over the past few days,’ barked Charles Perrault, brandishing a bundle of pamphlets under the prisoner’s nose.

The interrogation had begun three hours earlier in the damp, cold cellars of the famous Conciergerie prison. The man with the mismatched eyes was called Richard Morin, and he had been arrested that afternoon at his home. And here he was dressed in nothing but his shirt, seated on a stone bench with his wrists chained together. For three long hours the prisoner had refused to answer any questions, either quoting entire passages from the Bible, or mumbling prayers with his lips closed. But the documents found at his address proved that he belonged to the network of religious zealots and was implicated in the recent distribution of a text attacking the Cardinal. Perrault knew perfectly well that the authors of this lampoon had been inspired by the accounting documents stolen during the fire in the Chief Minister’s library. He wanted to make Morin confess his link with the theft so that he could then obtain, freely or by force, the names of one or more co-conspirators.

‘I’ll ask you one last time, Morin, clear your conscience and tell me who you’re working for,’ Charles Perrault continued, this time
in a calmer voice. ‘I have the impression that your friends have abandoned you; if not, we would never have discovered your address. Do you not find it strange that this anonymous letter arrived on my desk yesterday naming Monsieur Richard Morin as the author of the lampoons and leader of a band of thieves and arsonists?’

‘Lies! Lies!’ roared the man, shaking his chains as though to try and rid himself of them.

‘It is you who are lying,’ retorted Perrault. ‘The proof was supplied to me barely an hour ago by Toussaint Roze, the man you attacked in the Cardinal’s apartments. He confirmed that he remembers perfectly that his attacker had one green eye and one brown. A description that fits you exactly!’

During this exchange, a musketeer from the Louvre had appeared bearing an urgent letter for Perrault. In it, Colbert asked his police chief to do his utmost to obtain a confession from the prisoner and to find out his exact links with Nicolas Fouquet. ‘By any means necessary’, concluded the message.

‘Ah well, you have brought it upon yourself,’ said Perrault. ‘Messieurs, it is now your turn!’ he added, addressing the three men who had been busying themselves with strange instruments at the back of the room for the past few minutes.

Morin was dragged roughly into the torture chamber and placed upon the ‘sellette’, a wooden seat where prisoners underwent their final interrogation before the torture itself began. Morin denied everything once more and begged for divine mercy.

‘You will undergo six torments, three times each,’ announced the chief torturer in a strong Catalan accent.

‘At each stage, you will have the opportunity to confess; if you do not, I shall pass on to the next stage,’ Perrault then said, searching for a flicker of panic in the eyes of the accused.

The first ordeal inflicted upon Richard Morin was the boot. A kind of box formed from four pieces of wood was tightened around each leg by means of ropes. Perrault heard the ankle bones break and, three times, saw the zealot withstand the pain without crying out. Next, the unfortunate man was suspended by a rope from a beam more than ten feet above the ground, his hands tied behind his back. The torture consisted of letting him drop back down, the first ten times without additional weight, then with twenty kilos suspended from his feet and finally with a weight of close to fifty kilos. Despite the dislocation of his limbs and the howls of pain which he could no longer contain, the prisoner continued to deny everything, refusing to divulge any information. At each ordeal, Perrault asked the same questions, in vain. The final torment involved a sawhorse. This was a prism-shaped wooden structure resting on four feet. Richard Morin was seated upon it and securely bound to it. The ends of his bonds were then attached to a screw jack, the manipulation of which tore apart the accused man’s limbs. His cries became more unbearable as the tearing became more intense.

‘He has exceptional resilience,’ remarked the chief torturer, untying the bloody body of the prisoner, who had finally lost consciousness. ‘I have rarely seen anyone endure these torments to the end without talking,’ he added, with a hint of admiration.

While the torturer rested having once again chained Morin’s broken body to the stone bench, Perrault fumed at his failure to obtain a confession from his prisoner. As he left the cellars with his henchmen, he promised himself that he would return at the first opportunity the following day, and make this devil of a man talk, at any price.

A few moments after their departure, as Morin was beginning to regain consciousness, an old man swathed in a black cape slipped into the torture chamber.

‘The cross of Jesus is our only pride,’ he whispered into the unfortunate man’s ear.

‘Master,’ said Morin, who instantly recognised the voice of the zealots’ leader, the voice which had humiliated him at Mont-Louis a month earlier by reproaching him for his negligence. ‘The love of God has helped me to keep silence, but for pity’s sake save me!’

‘That is why I am here, my son,’ said the man, his face almost touching Morin’s. ‘You betrayed our trust in taking the initiative to write that lampoon, I know not why. That is why we decided to sacrifice you by denouncing you. Understand that your poor existence, like mine, carries no weight compared to a cause which is greater than any of us. God gave you the strength to resist the pain and keep silent. Be calm. Then he will welcome you into His Kingdom.’

The zealots’ leader poured a vial of strong poison into Richard Morin’s mouth, instantaneously putting an end to his sufferings.

‘The cross of Jesus is our only pride,’ concluded the mysterious visitor, crossing himself before leaving the torture chamber as discreetly as he had come.

S
EEING Colbert slip through the half-open door of the Cardinal’s apartments, the tide of visitors waiting in the anteroom and all the way down the staircase rushed towards Mazarin’s confidant. Elbowing each other out of the way, trying to avoid being knocked over, they stretched out their arms in the hope that Colbert would notice what they were holding: a piece of paper here, a rosary there, a medal … With a thunderous expression, Colbert scanned the heaving crowd in front of him, protected from it by three servants who held it back. He ignored the shouts and calmly tried to identify familiar faces that would be useful to him.

‘I have here a letter from the Cardinal,’ yelled a man of the Church, sweating and brandishing a parchment.

‘Monsieur Colbert!’

‘My son, who …’

‘Make way!’

The voices mingled in an indescribable clamour as Colbert’s sharp-eyed gaze moved to the other side of the room. He signalled to the guards positioned along the walls, pointing out three women who were attempting to get through the door. Protests intensified as the crowd realised that soldiers were pushing them aside to allow the newcomers to come through.

‘By what right?’ demanded the indignant churchman who had come to demand his benefice.

‘The right of blood,’ replied Olympe Mancini with contempt, pushing back the hood of her cape to reveal her dark hair and eyes.

Resigned now, the courtiers who had come to claim crumbs from the Chief Minister’s succession ceased their whining to watch as the Cardinal’s three nieces walked past them and straight into the room they so longed to gain entry to. The door closed behind them.

‘Hortense, Olympe, Marie …’

Moist-eyed, the Cardinal stretched out his hands to his nieces. He blessed them when they approached, tracing the sign of the cross upon their foreheads. Kneeling beside the bed, the three young women remained silent while the old man caressed their lowered faces, tilting up their chins when he lamented that it was the last time he would look into their dear eyes. ‘Marie,’ he said, wincing, ‘I would dearly have loved to be present at your wedding and know that you were in the safe hands of that worthy man Colonna … Ah, my angels, how hard it is to leave the people one loves … Think from time to time of your old uncle and bear witness that I wanted the best for my loved ones … But why are you so silent?’ the dying man said in surprise.

Olympe’s voice was almost a whisper.

‘Uncle, it is sorrow which seals our lips.’

Mazarin looked away, choking back a sob.

‘And the fear of tomorrow, Uncle. Who will protect us, who will guarantee our future and that of our families if we do not have you? You have been so kind, Uncle … Deprived of your generosity, who will ensure the future of our children, of your blood?’

Standing at the back of the room, Colbert clenched his teeth. ‘A plague upon the family,’ he muttered.

Outside, the noise suddenly intensified.

‘They have no respect!’ exclaimed Colbert loudly, delighted to be able to channel his anger into a less perilous subject, and at the same time interrupting the eldest niece’s manipulations.

‘What is it, Colbert?’ murmured Mazarin, turning his exhausted eyes towards his colleague.

‘Undoubtedly visitors impatient to declare their attachment to Your Eminence,’ replied Colbert sarcastically, heading for the door.

Mazarin looked unimpressed.

‘Tell them to go and pray for my soul at church, not in my palace,’ he said, gasping between words.

Then he turned back to his nieces:

‘And you, my children, go forth without fear. I have seen to it that nothing may disrupt your future. Colbert is my witness to this.’

With his hand upon the door knob, Colbert silently turned to nod and smile.

With her nostrils quivering, Olympe just managed to hold back her fury at seeing her petition thwarted.

‘Go, and remember me,’ Mazarin repeated.

After they had gone, Colbert re-entered the room with a smile on his lips.

‘The noise will not trouble Your Eminence any further. I have had the visitors sent away, inviting them to pray for your recovery, and explaining that their laudable desire to show you their affection would only tire you and delay your recuperation.’

This turn of phrase produced a grunt from Mazarin, who waved the words away, knowing how illusory they were.

‘Come Colbert, you may stay. Was there not a single person amongst them who was of sufficient worth for me to see them?’

Colbert shook his head.

As though seized by sudden inspiration, Mazarin sat up in bed and laid his white, trembling hands flat on the purple coverlet.

‘What about the Abbaye de Prône, Colbert? Did we deal with it?’

‘Do not worry, Eminence, everything is in order.’

Another shadow passed across the Cardinal’s exhausted face

‘And what of the stolen papers, Colbert?’

‘Alas, Eminence, we arrested one of the attackers, but he had nothing on his person or at his residence, and he has not talked,’ Colbert said with anger. ‘Perrault is concentrating all his energies on finding the papers.’

Mazarin fell back, shaking his head.

‘We have a promising lead, two in fact, and I am hoping to resolve the matter without delay,’ Colbert assured him.

‘I have hardly any time left,’ commented Mazarin.

The door opened to admit the Cardinal’s personal valet. Approaching Colbert, he whispered a few words in his ear. Colbert’s face darkened for a second, then he shook his head and dismissed the man. He left with a silent bow.

When the door was closed once again, Mazarin raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘It is another visitor, Eminence, insisting that you receive him.’

Mazarin’s eyebrow remained raised.

‘Superintendent Fouquet, Eminence. I told him that you were resting.’

The Cardinal did not move.

In the ensuing silence, Colbert walked slowly across to the window and parted the curtain which kept the room in darkness. A ray of light pierced the gloom, illuminating the dying man’s impassive face.

‘One year,’ murmured Colbert, ‘one year …’

His mind filled with memories of his private meeting with the Superintendent a year earlier, the Cardinal’s final attempt to reconcile the two men. An hour spent listening to his rival’s reproaches, flattering him, putting on a brave face, bowing to that squirrel who treated him like a servant and had dared allude to the grass-snake featured on his coat of arms, seeming to question the veracity of his Scottish ancestors’ aristocratic origins … He felt renewed anger as he recalled what else Fouquet had said and implied. He had spent a year repeatedly reliving the humiliation of having to defend himself against direct accusations of slander, when all he had done was report back to His Excellency … Closing his eyes, Colbert drove away the memory which burned within him.
The time for bitterness and patience is coming to an end
, he thought.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw Fouquet walking swiftly down the front steps of the building.

As he watched the rejected Superintendent walk alone across the garden towards his residence, a smile lit up the face of the little man in black.

F
RANÇOIS d’Orbay paled when he saw the young man enter the great gallery. Those features, the face and that bearing were so familiar to him that he could scarcely believe his eyes. And yet he did not know him, he was sure of it. Like everyone else present that afternoon, the newcomer was waiting for an audience with the Superintendent of Finance. D’Orbay was so intrigued that he immediately introduced himself.

‘My name is François d’Orbay. I am the architect of the Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte,’ he said with a smile.

‘Charmed to make your acquaintance, Monsieur. I greatly admire your talent. And I,’ answered the young man, ‘am Monsieur Molière’s personal secretary.’

François d’Orbay then pursued the conversation in a discreet attempt to find out more about the young man. But the events of recent days had put Gabriel on his guard, inclining him to remain reserved. He had a talent for being extremely courteous without giving away one jot of information about himself.

‘Monsieur d’Orbay,’ announced a low, solemn voice. It was the servant responsible for showing the architect into Nicolas Fouquet’s office.

‘Alas, I am forced to abandon you, Monsieur,’ concluded d’Orbay, determined to carry out a swift investigation to discover this boy’s identity.

Once the architect had left, Gabriel occupied himself by gazing around the room. He spent a long time scrutinising the famous sarcophagi which had already surprised him during his recent visit with Molière. Louise was the one who had persuaded him to request this private meeting with Fouquet. After his encounter with the thugs, he too had felt it necessary to seek some protection by confiding in one of the Kingdom’s senior officials, who might be able to help him. Gabriel admired the Superintendent. In order to obtain the audience, he had used the pretext of various accounting documents for the theatre which required his signature. Gabriel did not know to what extent he would take Fouquet into his confidence, but he trusted him.

An hour later, it was the young actor’s turn to hear his name called out. He stood up, happy to be moving about after the long wait, and followed the servant through the corridors of the sumptuous residence. On the way he noticed the stucco work by Pietro Sassi which set off the ceilings so magnificently, and gazed admiringly at Veronese’s
David and Bathsheba
, which he encountered at a turn in the corridor. Arriving at the door of the Superintendent’s office, Gabriel felt a tinge of anxiety. ‘How will he react to what I have to say?’ the young man wondered, suddenly unsure whether this meeting was such a good idea after all.

The Superintendent was seated at his desk.

‘Please enter, Monsieur,’ he said warmly.

The room was not vast, but it had been furnished with care. Its character was entirely attributable to the cabinet-making skills of the famous Jean Lepautre.

‘Monseigneur, I have come at Molière’s request. He sends you respectful greetings and asks if you will please examine and sign
the documents I have brought with me,’ said Gabriel, handing the Superintendent a thick bundle of papers.

Nicolas Fouquet gave his visitor a friendly smile, then took the papers, which he examined and began to sign. ‘Do you know if Monsieur Molière has found his inspiration, and begun to write the entertainment he has promised me for the summer?’ asked the Superintendent.

‘He’s working hard on it, I can attest to that. I think I am even permitted to tell Monseigneur that the new play will be as great a success as
Les Précieuses ridicules
was last year.’

‘That is very good news,’ replied the Superintendent, still signing the documents. ‘I believe you have just made the acquaintance of d’Orbay, the architect of my folly at Vaux. Your troupe must match the standard of the design he has produced, which I devised with him. I want the whole Kingdom to discover the talents of our artists.’

‘We shall be equal to it, Monseigneur, and I myself will have the immense honour of acting in the entertainment,’ replied Gabriel, encouraged by his host’s warmth.

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said the Superintendent, raising his head and looking straight at Gabriel. ‘But tell me, my young friend, I hear the Cardinal’s police are watching your troupe. Are you suspected of financial irregularities?’

Gabriel was as relieved that Fouquet had given him an opportunity to broach the subject as he was impressed by the Superintendent’s grasp of the situation, and he began to recount everything he knew about the police surveillance. He went into detail about the attack on the old theatre concierge, but wisely did not mention the coded documents.

‘I myself was almost abducted three days ago,’ concluded the young man, ‘by the same men who attacked our concierge.
Monseigneur, may I make so bold as to ask for your advice on these strange happenings?’

The Superintendent smoothed down his slender moustache, as he always did when he was thinking. He was both intrigued and amused by this incredible tale, and was beginning to feel warmth towards the young actor. He had realised at their first meeting that Gabriel’s manners indicated noble origins. Fouquet told himself that he would like his own sons to be like this young man when they were older.

‘I must reveal something to you, Monseigneur,’ Gabriel continued, deciding not to hide his personal history from this man who might be able to help him with his research concerning his father.

The Superintendent listened more closely as he told him about his upbringing, his flight from Amboise and his attempts to find out if the men pursuing him had in fact been sent by his family. This idea made Fouquet smile, for he knew the source of all the agitation: the fire in Mazarin’s library and the disappearance of documents whose loss seemed to enrage Colbert. Isaac Bartet, an agent in the Cardinal’s service who had been playing a double game for several years, had informed the Superintendent about the entire affair. This same man had informed him a few moments earlier that Richard Morin had been arrested that afternoon.

‘Whether this is to do with your family or not, you need to take precautions. We must protect you,’ said the Superintendent, who had resolved to please the young actor but above all wanted to ensure that he held on to one or two crucial pieces in this chess game where everyone now seemed to be pushing around their pawns.

The Superintendent pretended to think for a moment, then went on:

‘I suggest that you leave and spend a few days at Vaux-le-Vicomte
to guarantee your safety. When you arrive you will be greeted by La Fontaine, who has withdrawn there to write. I shall come and join you in due course. By then many things will have happened and I shall have had sufficient opportunity to get to the bottom of this affair.’

Delighted at this suggestion, which he almost took to be an order, Gabriel bowed and thanked the Superintendent for his trust.

‘Take your signed papers,’ said Nicolas Fouquet, ‘and go and inform Molière this evening that you have to leave Paris for a few days, due to a bereavement. Don’t tell anyone where you are going. Tomorrow morning I shall send a carriage to take you to Vaux-le-Vicomte. Go, young man,’ said the Superintendent, suddenly serious again. ‘Be off. What is being played out at present is not a farce written by your friend Molière; indeed it may turn out to be a tragedy.’

When Gabriel had bowed repeatedly and left his office, the Superintendent sat down at his work table and began to stroke his moustache again.

That young devil undoubtedly knows more than he’s told me. I must find out why the whole of Paris is looking for him, and above all what scheme Colbert has devised this time!