The Sun King Conspiracy (21 page)

F
OUQUET detested his office. It was located in the financial administration building constructed under Louis XIII, which adjoined the Oval Court, a few yards from the main body of the Château de Fontainebleau. It was late morning, and he was coming to the end of some tedious signatures. The last document he had to examine concerned a decision the King had taken the previous day, to transform the Église de Saint-Louis in Fontainebleau into an autonomous parish and to allocate it to missionaries specialising in the care of lepers.

Well,
thought the Superintendent,
the King really does seem to be dealing with everything now. And here am I transformed into a parish clerk!
Hearing the clock on the front of the nearby Albret residence strike eleven, Nicolas Fouquet broke off from what he was doing. The hour of his audience with Louis XIV was approaching, and he would have to set off without delay.

Louis XIV had come to Fontainebleau for the first time at the age of six, and he liked to return regularly to escape the burdens of etiquette at the Paris Court. This time the King had brought forward his visit, hoping no doubt to dispel the emotion and sadness of his godfather’s death. He had even decided to take up residence there, despite the fact that a large proportion of the furniture which travelled with
the King was still in Paris. He had arrived the previous evening and was already in his hunting clothes again. His gloves were folded and threaded through an impressive leather belt which displayed his favourite cutlass to good effect; it was with this blade, given to him by Mazarin on his thirteenth birthday, that he killed the finest stags in the nearby forest. As Fouquet walked into the room, preceded by the sovereign’s principal valet, he stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded. There in front of him the King of France was dancing, dressed in all his hunting finery!

‘Come in, come in, Monsieur Superintendent,’ said the King, barely turning his head so as not to lose the thread of the figure he was executing. ‘You see, I rehearse everything just like a strolling player. I am practising the “Ballet of the Seasons”, so as to be ready for the celebrations I shall be holding here next spring.’

Not entirely sure how to respond, Fouquet gazed admiringly at the young sovereign’s agility as he danced, the rhythm indicated only by the tapping of the dancing master’s cane on the wooden floor.

‘That will suffice,’ said the King, extracting a fine lace handkerchief from his sleeve and mopping his brow. ‘I must speak to Monsieur Superintendent – it is time to turn our attentions to matters of State.’

Louis XIV signalled to his dancing master and valets to leave, and sat down in his armchair.

As he stood before his King, Nicolas Fouquet did as etiquette dictated and executed three magnificent bows, so deep that he swept the floor with the plume of his hat. From the King’s response – a nod of the head – he knew that he was permitted to speak.

‘Sire, I listened to Your Majesty at the Grand Council which followed the passing of His Eminence and I have asked to speak to you this morning about a matter concerning the management of the
Kingdom’s finances, which is worrying me. It is my duty to tell Your Majesty the truth about the past. Necessity forced me to deviate from the proper respect for prescribed forms and procedures in my management of the Treasury. Your Majesty will no doubt hear rumours of all this.’

Astonished by these unexpected confidences, Louis XIV looked searchingly at his Superintendent of Finance.

‘Your Majesty should know,’ continued Fouquet, ‘that everything I did was in perfect agreement with and under the sole authority of Cardinal Mazarin. We took enormous risks in order to re-establish confidence in the State’s solvency, in particular following the terrible liquidity crisis of 1654. Often, Sire, without Your Majesty’s knowledge, I staked my own possessions in order to guarantee the King of France’s signature. Today you are taking on the burden of the country’s government. It was my duty to tell you the truth. I have come humbly to beg your pardon for the improprieties committed solely in the interest of the Kingdom’s finances. My crime is that I have always sought to do my best to protect my King, and to respect the orders of the Cardinal your godfather to the letter,’ ended the Superintendent, bowing his head.

Louis XIV seemed impressed by this admission.

‘Indeed,’ he replied, ‘I have heard certain rumours of racketeering that implicate you. The service of the State as I see it demands extreme rigour. I expect exemplary self-denial on the part of my ministers. From now on, the Kingdom’s interest must prevail over personal and family interests, Monsieur Superintendent.’

‘Those are words which I gladly make my own, Sire. How many times have I uttered them! You know how much your dear godfather loved his family. In recent days, you will have been able to measure the consequences resulting from the greed of those close to him, at a
time when it has become necessary to sell off inheritances.’

Fouquet knew he had struck home with this allusion to Mazarin’s will. There was nothing the King did not know about his Chief Minister’s financial abuses, and doubtless even less about Colbert’s role in concealing the sources of the fortune belonging to the Italian’s clan. He should have no difficulty imagining that Fouquet also knew Mazarin’s affairs. Was this not the right moment for him to bury it all along with the dear Cardinal? Also, the King knew that Fouquet had never failed him. On the contrary, the King had benefited on numerous occasions from sums acquired thanks to his minister’s financial agility.

‘Monsieur Superintendent,’ said the King, ‘your course of action honours you. Let us forget the past; I grant you my pardon. In future, I ask that you adhere to the usual rules. Also, I order you from now on to put an end to loans at usurious rates, to cease the practice of excessive discounting of bills and to settle immediately all transfers and extraordinary arrangements.’

‘Sire,’ replied the Superintendent, relieved at these words, ‘I promise that I will continue to serve Your Majesty with all the zeal and affection imaginable.’

‘To provide you with a further indication of my trust,’ said the young King in a softer voice, ‘I command you to create a council for overseas trade, in order to provide the Kingdom with the means to fight off competition from certain of our neighbours. Along with Messieurs Aligre, Colbert and Lefèvre d’Ormesson, you shall be taking decisions which are of the utmost importance to the Kingdom’s prosperity. Let us forget the past so that we may work for the greatness of France,’ concluded the King, standing up as Fouquet bowed low. ‘Monsieur d’Artagnan awaits me and I am in a hurry to hunt out that full-grown stag whose boldness my master of
hounds so praises,’ added Louis XIV as he strode out of the room to join his hunting party.

In the corridor Fouquet met Lionne, who immediately petitioned him regarding his gambling debts and asked him to grant a new deadline for payment. As magnanimous as the sovereign, Fouquet once again yielded to his request. It was the best way to align himself with this powerful member of the King’s Council. Fouquet made his way back to his office with a light heart, and found himself face to face with Colbert.

‘Monsieur Colbert, how pleased I am to see you,’ he said cheerfully. ‘His Majesty has entrusted me with creating and directing a council for overseas trade. I suggested that you should be a member, knowing of your taste for maritime matters. Despite the King’s initial reticence due to the considerable burdens currently resting on your shoulders, you should know that he nevertheless granted me this request. So we shall meet again shortly to talk about that,’ concluded Fouquet, and he went on his way without giving Colbert another glance.

‘How delightful,’ answered Colbert darkly.

W
ALKING along the banks of the Thames, François d’Orbay turned off the path as soon as a bend in the river provided a glimpse of the Tower of London’s distant outline. He plunged deep into the alleyways which led up from the muddy quays to the centre of the city, several times thanking heaven for his good knowledge of the city’s landmarks. In fact the fog which had veiled the horizon when he awoke seemed to be growing thicker with every minute. Given the narrow winding streets, lined with tall wooden houses, he would have had little chance of finding his way without the help of a native. And in these troubled times, that was an extremely perilous proposition. Turning round, he tried again without success to make out the contours of the Tower which could guide him on his way. The few lamps illuminating the inn signs looked like yellowish haloes. Lowering his head, he quickened his pace.

Ten years had passed since their last meeting. He had been so young back then, almost an apprentice. So much had happened since. He felt suddenly apprehensive, as if the experiences he had accumulated during that period – the journeys, the encounters, the family he had created – might serve to emphasise how much their paths had diverged.

He was about to stop again, when the dark mass of the abbey suddenly loomed up before him. The fog obscured its height,
concealing the greater part of the building, but he was overjoyed as he recognised the iron gate.

The fog may thicken all it likes,
he thought as he climbed over it.
Now it is my ally.
He set off along the path leading to the church door, then turned onto the earthen track which forked off after a few yards and led towards the willows in the graveyard. When he reached the curtain of trees he too vanished, swallowed up by the mist.

André de Pontbriand shivered, feeling the cold chill his feet. Hidden behind a tree, he was pleased to see François d’Orbay appear through the foliage.
Almost on time,
he thought. As he followed him across the little wooden bridge spanning the stream which ran alongside the tombs, he carefully observed his former pupil’s movements, gait and moments of uncertainty. He smiled when he saw him frown as he searched for the designated tree, then crept after him.

François d’Orbay stood stock-still, gazing at the weeping willow. He was just bending forward to decipher the inscription on the tomb when a voice made him turn round.

‘It is the tomb of John Donne. I am fond of his poems and I like to stroll here from time to time. Even if it is early in the morning and the weather is hardly welcoming …’

The emphases were the same and so was the slightly drawling intonation. D’Orbay stepped forward and embraced the man tightly.

‘Let me look at you,’ the man said as he stepped back, his outstretched arms still resting on François’ shoulders. ‘You still have the eyes of a child, but with a few small lines now, and an unfamiliar hard glint in them.’

François d’Orbay was so full of emotion that for a moment he
could not speak.
How he has aged,
he thought as he took in the white hair, the almost translucent skin and the hollow cheeks. Even his blue eyes, which seemed larger now that his face was ravaged by fatigue, no longer shone with the same brilliance, as if all the life within the tall, emaciated body had taken refuge there in order to fight one final battle.

It was Pontbriand who broke the silence.

‘Come, François, let us take a stroll. Walking is not easy for me, but I do not much care for standing still.’

Then, as d’Orbay noticed Pontbriand grimacing as he put his weight on his stiff right leg, he said grimly:

‘That hasn’t got any better either, has it?’

They slowly walked a little way together, along the banks of the stream. The visibility was better now, and d’Orbay had the feeling that he was walking beside a shadow. Only the old man’s exhausted breathing gave him any substance.

‘You know that poem by John Donne, François. How does it go? “Blood, suffering, sweat and tears / are all that the earth possesses …” Sometimes, I confess, I have the impression that it was written for me.’

André de Pontbriand now stood facing the almost invisible bulk of the abbey, his blue eyes seeming to see through the wall of mist.

‘Fifteen years, François, for fifteen years I have been living like a rat. It is fifteen years since I saw my family, kissed my wife, took my children in my arms. Fifteen years during which I have vegetated like a hermit, for fear of compromising my Brothers. For fifteen years I have reproached myself for having placed our cause in danger and saving my own life without making good the damage I had done.’

When he turned back towards François, the younger man saw that his eyes were feverish.

‘Is it not curious? I saved my own life, but only to live like a dead man, concealed and useless. All I have done is teach children from time to time, as I once taught you, never to see them again … And all this, only for our plans to fail one after the other,’ he said, indignant, ‘as they did again, here in England!’

‘The conditions turned out not to be favourable,’ François cut in briskly. ‘The men were unsuitable: too divided, too ambitious.’

André de Pontbriand gestured listlessly.

‘You don’t have to humour me, for pity’s sake. I know the truth: why hide it from each other? Our men thought that to kill a King would be enough to bring down the edifice of tyranny and change the course of everything, alter a country’s destiny. But killing the King of England served no purpose, because he had a son and supporters who survived; worse, who found in his death a new energy to fight the revolution that had begun. And do you know why they won in the end, why this attempt to abolish a despotic order failed, why there is once again a King upon the English throne? Because that revolution was incapable of producing for all to see the proof of the purity of its intentions. All it had to show was the blood that dripped from a man’s severed head. What a mistake: to believe that the murder of a King could replace the need to demonstrate why the monarchy should be overthrown … Oh, I quite understand the impatience of those who acted: it is not easy to possess the truth without being able to demonstrate it. But however tragic the prospect of having to wait, perhaps for centuries more, we must no longer allow ourselves to be blinded; we must no longer believe that we can triumph before we have rediscovered the key that gives access to the Secret.’

The old man’s face tensed.

‘I am more aware of this than anyone else. I have paid so dearly
for it that my belief in its ultimate success is perhaps the only thing that still keeps me alive …’

D’Orbay frowned uncomfortably and laid a hand on the arm of the man whose voice had suddenly become faint.

‘Enough of that. Tell me why you have come. You have taken a huge risk, leaving France and travelling to London. You have also risked giving someone else a clue that might lead to me, or identify us both and destroy my cover. It is not that I enjoy it, but my trading business has helped the passage of so many of our brethren that it cannot be considered unimportant. Your trip was planned in such a hurry, and doesn’t even satisfy the minimum security requirements: that is not like you,’ he concluded in a calm but questioning tone.

They were now facing each other, the old man taller than d’Orbay by almost half a head.

‘Why are you here, ten years on, François d’Orbay? Why have you come to see old Charles Saint John, an honest merchant who’s prospered through trade in the Indies?’

D’Orbay swallowed hard.

‘To talk to you about old, bitter memories, master,’ he began gently.

The man sighed heavily.

‘I haven’t come here to see Saint John, master. I have come to seek advice from André de Pontbriand.’

The old man leapt forward as though the embers of an inner fire had suddenly burst back into flame:

‘Don’t touch him!’

André de Pontbriand had listened calmly to d’Orbay’s detailed account of their position. With narrowed eyes he had analysed the
strengths and weaknesses of the situation, scrutinising d’Orbay’s sentiments without revealing his own opinion at all. But the moment he heard about his son’s involvement, that calm was suddenly shattered. He seized d’Orbay by the collar.

‘Don’t touch him, do you hear me? I want to see him. Bring him to me and I’ll persuade him. I’ll get that code back. After all, I am the only man who would be able to identify it and decipher it straight away. I want to see him!’ he repeated, raising his voice.

D’Orbay gestured that people might hear them. Pontbriand conceded with a nod, but he wouldn’t let go of d’Orbay’s coat.

‘It’s not so straightforward,’ the architect argued. ‘As you said yourself, the risks are enormous and we have enemies everywhere. Our only chance is for him to know nothing about us.’

‘Bring him to me,’ repeated Pontbriand. ‘I want to see for myself. And I’ve already waited too long. Cardinal Mazarin’s gaols may not have finished me off, but my damaged leg isn’t their only legacy. I didn’t escape from that dog only to die here without having achieved a thing,’ he hissed, his eyes glinting with anger once again. ‘I have been living alone like an animal for fifteen years, François: don’t you think I have the right make myself useful? And if that enables me to see my son, who was a child and still is in my memory, is that such a crime?’

He let go of the coat.

‘I want to repair the harm I did when I lost the documents, preventing our Brotherhood from revealing the Secret it guards to the world. If it hadn’t been for my mistakes, our Brothers might already have succeeded … And I need to explain to my son why he hasn’t had a father for the past fifteen years.’

Seeing him sway, d’Orbay tried to support Pontbriand but was brushed aside.

‘You were the pupil and I was the master. You still address me as such. But now I am no more than a dead weight, and you are one of the masters …’

Once again, François d’Orbay held out a hand to André de Pontbriand, who accepted it.

As they resumed their walk amongst the tombs, the sun appeared for the first time that morning, a pale aureole surrounded by white, only just visible through the wisps of fog.