The Sun King Conspiracy (19 page)

C
HARLES Le Brun, the illustrious painter whose task it was to decorate the Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte, stood outside the door of the former Carmelite convent at Melun. He had been waiting stoically in the cold for almost half an hour.

At last the carriage appeared, drawn by four horses from Vaux-le-Vicomte’s neighbouring chateau, and stopped in front of the building which Fouquet had reacquired from the nuns of the Carmelite order in 1658. The Superintendent of Finance emerged from the carriage, followed by Jean de La Fontaine and Gabriel.

‘So, my dear Le Brun, how is our work progressing?’ Fouquet asked, taking the painter by the arm and easing him out of his respectful bow.

‘Extremely well, Monseigneur, our heddle setters work miracles every day. Vaux will be decorated just as you wanted it to be. What’s more, I have some happy news. Our production rate is at its maximum, which means that I can guarantee here and now that we will meet our deadlines. I can’t wait to show it all to you,’ added Le Brun.

‘Monsieur de La Fontaine, whom you know, and this young man who is with me, are also most eager to visit your hive. Come, Le Brun, open up your workshops and reveal its wonders to us.’

The four men entered the convent’s inner courtyard. Gabriel was stunned by the bustle of activity inside and the methodical
organisation which was evident everywhere. The production area was divided into workshops and stores.
It really is a hive; the image is highly appropriate!
thought the young man. In a corner of the courtyard, beneath an awning, lay heaps of bales of uncarded wool from different sheep farms in the Kingdom, which had been commissioned to provide raw material of the highest quality. Le Brun guided them round with a commentary:

‘It takes us three days and seven processes in order to treat the wool and transform it. Allow me to tell you, Monseigneur, that from one pound of oiled wool we obtain three thousand feet of double thread which, at the touch of our master heddle setters, turns into the framework and body of the tapestry.’

‘Do you have any supply problems?’ asked Fouquet.

‘When we began, Monseigneur, the mediocre quality of the wool we received obliged us to send back many bales. I must say that now, thanks to your lands on Belle-Île, our raw materials arrive more regularly. Your farmers are dedicated to selecting the finest fleeces,’ replied Le Brun.

After they had visited the dyeing workshop, their tour took them to the tapestry designers’ studio. Here, the designs were painted onto full-size canvases in reverse. Le Brun was very proud of his Dutch designers; he had brought them over expressly, and they copied his paintings with incredible talent.

‘Look, Monseigneur,’ the painter declared proudly standing before an immense design which had been laid flat on the table. ‘This will be the portière – I showed you the sketches for it.’

Fouquet bent over the work.

‘I admire your talent, Monsieur. That squirrel in the centre has a graceful delicacy that is quite delightful. I cannot wait to see it in silk and cotton, and to admire the effect at Vaux.’

Gabriel was fascinated. Each of the three hundred workers seemed to have a precise understanding of what he had to do. Everything seemed as carefully choreographed as a ballet, in particular the work of the heddle setters whose incredibly agile fingers brought to life the works of art designed by the painter. In the storeroom, Gabriel had the leisure to admire and feel the tapestries accumulating there before their delivery to Vaux.

This was the moment Le Brun chose to ask his patron about an embarrassing matter.

‘Monseigneur, yesterday I delivered the inventories Monsieur Colbert asked for, but …’

‘What’s that?’ Fouquet interrupted him. ‘What inventories are you talking about?’

‘It seemed strange to me too,’ said the painter, relieved to be able to unburden himself. ‘Monsieur Colbert asked me for a complete inventory of the production area. I spent two days writing a memorandum, which detailed the exact state of our stocks, a complete list of our workers and master journeymen, their salaries and the number of our machines. I thought you had been informed of this request.’

‘Absolutely not!’ Fouquet raged. ‘What is Colbert up to? This is my home and I fully intend to remain master of it. You should not have acceded to that request without informing me.’

Gabriel, who was only a few feet away, did not miss a single word of the discussion.
So, Colbert continues his machinations: first he tried to sabotage Molière’s plays, and now he has a minister under surveillance. He’s completely brazen, and he appears to have no scruples
, he thought with a frown of disgust.

‘This confirms my suspicions,’ said La Fontaine. ‘He was supposed to act in the Cardinal’s name, but now that His Eminence
is dead, you must not tolerate these intrigues any longer. Monsieur Superintendent,’ went on the storyteller, leading Fouquet into a more discreet corner of the storeroom, ‘when will you finally realise that Colbert, that venomous master of deceit, is engineering your downfall? I am convinced that he has spent the past few weeks trying to pressurise the dying Mazarin into suggesting to the King that the position of Chief Minister should be abolished, with the sole aim of barring your route to power. You are too good-hearted or, if you will allow me, too naïve. You must do something!’

Fouquet was disturbed by Colbert’s audacity in daring to give orders in the Superintendent of Finance’s own house.
La Fontaine is right
, Gabriel told himself as he stood silently some distance away. His gaze fell on the motif drawn from Fouquet’s coat of arms.
A squirrel confronting a snake
, he thought with a sigh.

‘My dear Jean, I am sure you are right,’ said the Superintendent after a long silence, taking his friend’s arm and returning to Le Brun, who was still standing in the centre of the room. ‘I shall request an audience with His Majesty without delay, to clear this up. I shall also see the Queen Mother. You know the affection she has for me. In fact I have a sum of money to pay her, and that will give me a pretext to speak of all this and ask her advice.’

Le Brun, still ashamed of his blunder, was waiting somewhat anxiously for the Superintendent.

‘In future, try to be less artistic in your management of the production area,’ said Fouquet with a smile. ‘I shall forgive you on account of the marvels produced here under your direction. You have enchanted us, Monsieur Painter. Still, since the art of the inventory seems to be another of your strengths, you will kindly provide me as swiftly as possible with a memorandum containing all the information you gave to Colbert.’

Le Brun bowed, clearly happy to have emerged so well from the affair.

‘Your workers seem underfed,’ added the Superintendent of Finance. ‘You must be wearing them out with work. To show them my gratitude, you may pay them an additional tenth of their salary from this week on. What is it, Gabriel?’ he turned to the young man.

‘I … I was wondering where all these people live, all these workers and artists: is there a building allocated to them?’

Le Brun’s expression soured. Then, when Fouquet gestured that he would welcome an answer to this question himself, he replied, scowling at Gabriel.

‘Well …’ he began, ‘we have of course been concentrating our efforts on production … Not all the additional building works have yet been finished and …’

Fouquet cut him off in a voice that was suddenly icy.

‘I had forgotten this matter. Thank you, Gabriel, for your pertinent intervention. It enables me to make good my oversight, which pleases me. But it also obliges me to repeat my instructions to you, which displeases me,’ he growled. ‘I would appreciate it if you would swiftly finish the work necessary to convert the old Carmelite convent and lodge these people there in a decent manner,’ said the Superintendent firmly. ‘I will no longer tolerate the sight of these workers being housed worse than animals, and within a few leagues of my chateau! Damn it, Monsieur Le Brun, how many times do I have to reiterate the value I attach to the living conditions of everyone who is in my service!’

Gabriel gazed at the Superintendent with silent admiration.

‘I shall see that it is done, Monseigneur,’ was all that Le Brun said in reply, his head bowed. ‘I shall see that it is done.’

S
TANDING by the window of his large office, with his long, sinewy hands clasped behind his back, François d’Orbay watched the rain fall in large droplets onto the paving stones. The downfall prevented him from having a clear view of the courtyard, which was deserted and lit only by two storm lanterns mounted on either side of the door. His visitor was late, but curiously the wait did not displease the architect. He sighed and took a few steps towards the centre of the room where he caught sight of his image in the mirror hanging on the wall. His features seemed harder, his face leaner. He stepped a little closer.
So, the years are beginning to show,
he thought with bittersweet irony. The silence, which filled the house, disturbed only by the pitterpatter of rain on the roof and windows, seemed restful to him. He left the room, crossing the salon and the entrance hall, and headed in the direction of his children’s apartments, groping his way through the half-light from memory with one hand brushing the wall. The sound of his feet on the tiled floor woke the governess, who half sat up in her bed in the anteroom. He gestured to her to lie down again and continued towards the door of the room where his little boy and girl were sleeping. A weak ray of light filtered through the shutters of the window, which opened onto the garden, enabling him to find his way. He topped
for a moment at the head of the two beds, then knelt and pulled the covers up to the children’s chins.

How often have I been able to see them sleeping like this?
he thought. One year in Rome, another in London, all that incessant travelling: the years had passed so quickly, and the burden resting on his shoulders was so weighty. He was always in a hurry, suspicious of everything and everyone, always fearing betrayal and imagining the worst. God, how all consuming this passion was! How many times in the past ten years had he escaped prison or death? How many times had he taken insane risks without informing his family, without his wife knowing what he was thinking when he remained silent for minutes on end?
But then again, I have been lucky,
he thought with a shiver. He closed his eyes to drive away the familiar faces of those not so lucky, and then opened them again. The two children were sleeping soundly. He gently lifted the little boy’s inert arm, taking away the wooden horse he had kept close to him, and placing it beside the bed; he pushed aside the locks of hair, which trailed across the little girl’s forehead. Then he stood up regretfully. The voice of his personal valet jolted him out of his reverie. He stood in the doorway, calling to him in a whisper:

‘Monsieur! Monsieur! Your visitor has arrived.’

The architect sighed and turned to follow his servant. On the threshold of the room, he took one last long look before closing the door, ensuring that the latch made no sound.

Giacomo Del Sarto sat by the fire, stretching his hands out towards the flames whose light played on his face, emphasising his pale complexion. His black cloak was spread out over a nearby chair, and
water trickled from it onto the ochre-coloured hexagonal floor tiles. He pointed to it in disgust as d’Orbay entered:

‘All I did was step out of the carriage and take a few steps, and here I am, soaked to the skin. It seems that we are destined to meet each other only on stormy days!’

He stood up and they embraced warmly. Then they both sat down in silence as the valet left the room.

‘Well,’ began Giacomo Del Sarto when the door had closed, ‘what is going on? I left Rome as soon as I received your message. I didn’t think we would be seeing each other again so soon after our last meeting. You had me worried, you know. I don’t like these emergency procedures.’

D’Orbay sighed and poked the fire.

‘I had no choice. I needed your advice and there was no time to convene our Brothers. What’s more, I don’t think that would be wise in the current climate.’

Giacomo leant forward, his brows knitted.

‘Things are that bad?’

‘Alas, they are. There have been strange goings-on these last few days. There seem to be various influences acting upon one another … First, you should know that the lost documents have reappeared.’

The visitor almost shouted out in surprise:

‘What? Where?’

‘It is a curious story. It seems that our worst fears were well founded: the documents which as you know André had to abandon when he escaped, were indeed in the hands of Mazarin. Fortunately for us, they remained unintelligible to him. The code was never broken. And I am convinced we were well served by the Italian’s pathological suspicion. He dared not mention the secret to anyone
in case they already understood it … In short, the dog died without knowing …’

‘But the documents,’ cut in Del Sarto, ‘how were they released from Mazarin’s clutches? Who has them now?’

‘I am coming to that; this is where the story becomes intriguing. A group of zealots partially burned down Mazarin’s palace to cover up a burglary. I do not know exactly what they were looking for, but I am now convinced that without realising, those criminals stole our documents and then lost them in their flight. They were found by a young man who by chance then crossed paths with Nicolas Fouquet and has since become his protégé … A young man whose identity I knew the moment I saw him, before I even knew his name, so striking is his resemblance to his father.’

Giacomo absorbed this and sank deeper into his armchair, clasping his hands.

‘You have guessed too,’ went on d’Orbay, getting to his feet. ‘Yes, the young man who got his hands on the documents is André’s son, Gabriel de Pontbriand. A curious irony of history, don’t you think?’ he asked with a slight tremor in his voice. ‘Fifteen years ago the father escapes death by a miracle and loses the documents. For fifteen years we tremble, not knowing where they are, protected as they are only by the code which governs them. And then Providence, or whatever you like to call it, takes delight in plunging a second Pontbriand into this vipers’ nest, just when we are almost at our goal …’

‘Can we get them back from him, without telling him?’

‘I fear, alas, that it will not be as simple as that. According to Barrême – who as usual said too much but at least thought to alert me when the young innocent came to him asking him to decode the papers – he saw the signature, which is not in code. He knows that this is the only thread linking him to his father. I could of course
silence him,’ he said in a sinister voice. ‘The thought did cross my mind, I must confess. But I do not have the right. That is why I wanted to see you.’

‘And what about Nicolas? We must not lose sight of the essential point. What does he say about this?’

D’Orbay shook his head.

‘We have spoken of it. That is another reason for my bringing you here. The most recent information since the death of Mazarin seems to indicate that the young King is determined to abandon his games and his idleness in order to govern. He no longer wants a Chief Minister. This does upset our plans somewhat. We would have preferred to retain an easily manipulable monarch. That was our hope when we met in Rome, and it would have been simpler. Still, instead of prevaricating, I think we should hasten our plans in the light of these events. I have already given orders for the works at Vaux to be speeded up, and I have no difficulty in justifying that. The longer we wait, the less we will be able to impose our view on the King. Conversely, by acting swiftly we can take advantage of the fact that his resolve has not yet translated into actions. And we are more certain to succeed because, through young Pontbriand, we now have hope of recovering the key to the Secret, and of being able to read the document, which will soon to be on its way from Rome. On the strength of this additional trump card, Nicolas will be able to convince the King, of that there is no longer any doubt.’

He sat down opposite his visitor and gazed at him seriously.

‘I believe we will have to act this summer at the latest, as soon as we have recovered the manuscript and the key which allows us to decipher it. But we will have to take risks. What do you think?’

‘That is for you to judge, François,’ replied Giacomo softly. ‘First, try to recover the formula. For that, I think you will have to
go to London as soon as possible,’ he added. ‘As to the rest, consult Nicolas. I will agree to whatever you decide.’

D’Orbay appeared relieved.

‘That is what I was hoping to hear. I have to confess, the post horses have already been reserved as far as Calais. I will leave immediately. It is one more breach of our safety rules, but too much is at stake.’

The Grand Master nodded with a half-smile. Taking d’Orbay’s hands, he clasped them tightly before getting to his feet to retrieve his cloak.

‘I on the other hand shall stay here for two days. Long enough for a debate at the Sorbonne and a private consultation. Then nobody will be surprised by my visit to Paris.’

Six hours later, before the dawn lit the paving stones, which glistened with the previous night’s rain, François D’Orbay was walking down the staircase, dressed for his journey. As he crossed the entrance hall, he thought of the little bodies slumbering behind the bedroom door and quickened his step.