The Sun King Conspiracy (18 page)

H
UDDLED in the shadow of the bushes, Colbert had patiently observed the procession of silhouettes as they moved, one by one, across the space that separated the buildings of Mont-Louis from the adjoining Saint-Côme chapel. A small door was hewn into the chapel’s apse. Each time it opened a little way, the light enabled him to count the arrivals one by one. He had grown nervous when the succession of people entering the chapel had ceased for several minutes, but his worry was instantly dispelled with the arrival of the last man, in a state of obvious agitation, escorted by two torchbearers. Smiling, Colbert pulled his hood down a little further over his face and turned to the soldier who was crouching beside him.

‘They are all here. Now remember: at my signal, but only at my signal. Until then, absolute silence – your men must not move a muscle. Remind them that they are only to surround the building closest to us.’

Then, with surprising agility given his sickly appearance, he stood up and headed for the darkened chapel, shivering with each gust of wind.

Not a sound disturbed the night’s icy cold, save the whistling wind. Slowly, Colbert crossed the open space to the door. He remained there, motionless. When nothing happened, he half opened the studded wooden door and slipped inside.

‘Let us pray to Our Lord to grant us grace amid this turmoil to
understand the proper conduct he expects from us.’

Hearing the voice tear through the silence, Colbert froze. All that separated him from the conspirators’ meeting was the enormous pillar he found himself behind, which masked the light from the two torches illuminating them. Silence fell once more. Colbert held his breath and strained to hear.

A different voice spoke next.

‘One does not weep for the death of a mad dog! Providence has settled our doubts by dispensing with that evil-doer. If there is anything to regret, it is only that we did not arrange the demise of the accursed Cardinal ourselves!’

‘Anger is not what Our Lord commands,’ went on the first voice. ‘I wanted us to meet after the announcement of the Cardinal’s death in order to bring our activity to an immediate halt in the face of this new upheaval.’

The voice hardened.

‘Morin’s example should incline us to greater wisdom, my Brothers. Our poor Brother allowed himself to be overtaken by anger. He almost brought about our downfall by drawing attention to us and attracting the King’s anger. What we detested in Mazarin was that he diverted divine royalty from its sole task: that of ensuring the glory of Our Lord on earth. By attacking royal power and invoking the right to rebel, Morin – may God have pity on him – forgot this and perverted our message. It is of little importance that he failed to bring us back the papers proving the monstrous union of Mazarin and the Queen Mother. All of that died with the Cardinal. What matters now is that we assure ourselves of the King’s intentions. For my part …’

‘As confessor to the King, that’s well said, Monsieur!’

Stunned, the assembled men turned to look at the figure who had just emerged from behind the pillar.

‘We have been betrayed!’

One of the zealots leapt forward, unsheathing his dagger, but his leader stopped him in his tracks.

‘Yes, very wise, King’s Confessor,’ commented the unexpected guest phlegmatically. ‘Indeed, I advise all of you to keep your weapons in their scabbards.’

The dumbstruck zealots watched silently as the man walked down the steps towards them.

‘Gentlemen, any resistance is futile unless you wish to die martyrs. Outside, two companies of guards are surrounding the area and they will not allow anyone to leave alive without my safe conduct.’

‘Who are you?’ demanded the King’s confessor.

‘A man who is sufficiently well informed to know that you went to see Morin in order to ensure his silence. And to know the names and identities of every one of you. And to have had each one of you constantly watched since your society of zealots was dissolved last September. Sufficiently well informed to have seen you leave the Louvre after the news of the Cardinal’s death had been announced to the King. So, my friends, I will reveal myself’ he said, pushing back the hood of his cape.

‘Colbert!’

‘The very same, Monsieur Confessor, the very same.’

Colbert took a chair and sat down.

‘So here we all are, present and ready to talk.’

‘What do you want?’ asked one of the men in a voice heavy with suspicion.

‘I want to avoid killing people I am not convinced are my
enemies. And the proof of that is that had I wished to kill you, you would all be dead by now, or at the very least on the way to a most disagreeable prison. That this did not happen is because I did not think it necessary and the words I heard before I revealed myself to you incline me to believe that I was right.’

When he saw the questioning looks on the conspirators’ faces, Colbert paused for a moment, and then said:

‘You detested the Cardinal, so be it. He is dead. You wanted to destroy him by revealing the intimate secret of his links with the Queen Mother, but he has carried that scandal to his tomb. So why go on fighting?’

The man who had produced his dagger leant forward and spat contemptuously:

‘Because we respect the sacred cause of Our Lord.’

Colbert fixed him with a weighty gaze.

‘And who here is the enemy of the Church? Believe me, no one believes that the King is anything of the sort. On the contrary, the King wishes to strengthen the spiritual order. As we are speaking in confidence, I can tell you what will not be generally known for a little while: in a few days’ time, the King will ask the clerical assembly to deal ruthlessly with deviants of all kinds by obliging clerics to sign a Formulary which would guarantee their absolute respect for the authority of our Holy Church and of the King, God’s knight upon earth.’

Pushing back his chair, Colbert began to pace up and down the room, staring at the men gathered there.

‘Don’t deceive yourselves, things are different now. You must serve your cause, but don’t mistake your enemies. They are the people who oppose royalty because of the spiritual order on which it is based. I also fear these people greatly, encouraged by the King
who personally told me of his suspicions,’ he lied, omitting to mention that it had in fact been the Queen Mother. ‘Together we can fight these enemies. Do not allow your blindness to deprive Our Lord of the fighters he needs,’ he concluded, lowering his eyes with solemn intensity.

As he gradually perceived that he was winning over the men around him, Colbert was filled with an excitement, which shone in his dark eyes.

‘You have a choice, my friends: either walk away unfettered, to continue your activities all the more freely since they will be done in accordance with the King’s wishes as expressed through me. Or leave here with chains about your ankles, en route for the Bastille tonight and the scaffold tomorrow. It is your turn to speak. Have you nothing to say? Come,’ he added as he headed for the door, ‘I will go back outside, into the open air. You have ten minutes in which to make up your minds. After that, I will answer for nothing.’

As he arrived at the threshold he paused, as if to correct an oversight.

‘Ah! Of course, Father, you will be coming with me. His Majesty has today once again summoned me to Vincennes for the council, and I am certain that you will be exceedingly useful to its members.’

Without waiting for a response, Colbert opened the door and went out.

Silently, the leader of the zealots crossed himself and murmured an unintelligible prayer. Then, putting on his cloak, he too left. When he heard the door creak behind him, Colbert smiled, realising that he had won this round and secured allies who would be all the more loyal because they owed him their survival.

L
AYING his hands on the table’s green marble top, Colbert savoured the delicious sensation of coolness that emanated from the stone. Out of the corner of his eye, he covertly observed the other eight men assembled in the room for this first council of ministers without the Cardinal: Séguier, the old Chancellor of France, who kept his right hand hidden to mask its uncontrolled tremor; Le Tellier, with his careworn brow; Hugues de Lionne, looking as haughty as ever; La Vrillière, so anxious about any kind of change that his eyes kept darting into every corner of the room; the two Briennes, so insignificant that they were more and more difficult to tell apart; Guénégaud, the epitome of a great lord; and finally Nicolas Fouquet, lost in contemplation of the allegorical painting adorning the mantelpiece.

The door opened suddenly, startling La Vrillière. The two Briennes looked round and Séguier reacted belatedly, when he saw everyone else move.

The King strode briskly in as they got to their feet. Dressed in a bright-blue coat belted with a white silk sash, and a broadbrimmed hat decorated with two white feathers, he halted with his hand thrust forward, resting on the pommel of his ivory cane, and gave the assembled men a searching look from beneath his heavy eyelids.

‘Monsieur,’ he said, addressing the Chancellor without removing his hat or sitting down, ‘I have summoned you here along with my
ministers and secretaries of State in order to tell you that until now I have been perfectly content to allow my affairs to be managed by Monsieur Cardinal.’

The cane tapped lightly on the stone floor.

‘Now it is time for me to take charge of them myself. There will no longer be a Chief Minister. You will assist me with your counsel, when I request it.’

The nine men bowed solemnly.

‘Monsieur de Brienne, you will collaborate with Monsieur de Lionne on all military matters. Monsieur Superintendent, you will benefit from the cooperation of Monsieur Colbert, whom I have made Steward of Finance, a new office especially created for this occasion. Messieurs, you will give reports of your activities directly to me. We shall meet for that purpose in the coming days.’

Colbert attempted a gracious smile, with the addition of a small bow in the direction of the Superintendent, but unable to conceal his excitement, he succeeded only in producing a frightful grimace.

‘The face of politics is changing, Chancellor. My principles will be different from the Cardinal’s in the government of my State, in the control of my finances and in external negotiations. You know my wishes. It is now up to you, Messieurs, to carry them out.’

The King left the room, deigning to exchange a few words with the courtiers chosen to come and pay homage to the Cardinal. In the front row stood the Archbishop of Rouen, Harlay de Champvallon, president of the clerical assembly.

‘Your Majesty ordered me to refer to the Cardinal on all matters,’ he began deferentially. ‘Now he is dead, to whom does Your Majesty wish me to refer?’

Listening only distractedly but catching the last sentence, the King suddenly turned towards him and looked at him with new interest.

‘To me, Monsieur Archbishop. You are to refer to me.’

‘D
O not be afraid, Monsieur de Pontbriand. I wish you no harm.’

The man who had just entered the carriage in which Gabriel was sitting was masked. The vehicle, which Fouquet had placed at the young actor’s disposal, had come to a halt, and the man had taken advantage of this to briskly open the door and sit down opposite Molière’s secretary. Gabriel was disconcerted to hear his family name being spoken.

‘What do you want with me? Who are you?’ Gabriel cried as the carriage set off again through the narrow, paved streets of the tranquil village of Maincy, a few leagues from the Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte.

‘You are Gabriel de Pontbriand, son of André de Pontbriand. When you were five years old, your father left Amboise for England and since then you have had no news of him. Your mother and your uncle told you that he had died in London. You live in Paris on Rue des Lions Saint-Paul,’ said the man in a strangely calm voice. ‘Your uncle is searching for you and the police are watching you.’ Gabriel was thunderstruck.

‘But who are you?’ demanded the actor angrily.

‘My name matters little. I am a friend of your father, whom you strongly resemble. You are in great danger and I have come to warn you.’

‘You knew my father? Why do you speak of him as if he were still alive, and what danger do you wish to warn me about?’ Gabriel asked feverishly.

‘That is not important now. Today your life is threatened. Monsieur de Pontbriand,’ continued the man coolly, ‘do not seek to understand, do not try to find out the origin or content of the documents in your possession.’

‘What documents?’ the young actor demanded in fury.

‘Monsieur, time is moving on and we shall soon be arriving at Vaux. Must I really describe to you in detail the coded documents in your possession? Perhaps you’ll claim you don’t know Monsieur Barrême either. You should stop meddling in all this. The Kingdom is about to experience a period which could prove both crucial and tragic. Extricate yourself from the net in which you have unwittingly been caught. For pity’s sake, forget those documents, or give them to Barrême. That would be wise behaviour. They contain secrets that are greater than our own sorry lives!’

The carriage stopped again, this time in the middle of the countryside at the end of the immense driveway bordered with oak trees that ran along the edge of the Superintendent’s estate. At that moment the intruder left the vehicle as abruptly as he had entered it.

‘We shall meet again, “Cherubino”,’ he shouted, jumping to the ground and then mounting a horse which was waiting calmly beside a tree. ‘Until then, think carefully and be cautious.’

Gabriel sat open-mouthed while he watched the horse gallop away.

‘“Cherubino”, that’s the nickname my dear father used for me! Who is that man? How does he know all this? What was the meaning of that warning?’

The young man asked himself a thousand such questions as the
carriage set off along the majestic avenue that led to the steps of the Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte.

Galloping off along the road to Melun, the mysterious coach passenger flung his mask to the ground. He was relieved and happy to have been able to talk to Gabriel.

The resemblance to André is incredible
, François d’Orbay said to himself.
Let’s hope that my warning at least encourages him to be more cautious!