The Sun King Conspiracy (24 page)

T
HE last guests had left the Superintendent’s house. The servants were all bustling about, moving back furniture and clearing away china to remove all trace of the buffets laid out in the house’s numerous reception rooms. Nicolas Fouquet had no desire to go to bed, particularly as his wife’s pregnancy meant that pleasures of the flesh were out of the question. He had brought François d’Orbay and Jean de La Fontaine to his office to sample some port wine he had ordered by the case. The conversation was relaxed and merry. After weeks of uncertainty about the Cardinal’s health, then the establishment of the new governmental structure imposed by Louis XIV, the Superintendent had the feeling that things were settling back to normal. His approach at Fontainebleau and the sovereign’s pardon seemed to have dispelled all the suspicions that Colbert had been working perfidiously to instil for months.

‘Did you see him when he was taking the oath?’ said La Fontaine, ‘He was all puffed up like a bullfrog trying to make himself as big as an ox.’

The comparison made Fouquet burst out laughing.

‘Well observed, my dear Jean! The frog who tries to puff himself up like an ox, that is certainly an idea which might lend itself to one of those fables you are so good at! It is true that the snake featuring on good Monsieur Colbert’s arms has seemed very flat for some weeks
now,’ added the Superintendent. ‘I must say, since my appointment as head of the council for overseas trade, the dear man hasn’t missed an opportunity to reaffirm his loyalty to me. I have to listen to his honeyed compliments every time we meet.’

‘Monseigneur, beware of snakes which appear to be asleep in the sun,’ d’Orbay went on, savouring his port. ‘Those creatures are more treacherous than frogs!’

‘You are right, my dear d’Orbay.’

The Superintendent sank back into his armchair, thinking of Mademoiselle de La Vallière’s gentle beauty. He regretted not having been able to continue his conversation with her.

‘I wonder what Olympe Mancini wanted with young La Vallière.’

One might have thought François d’Orbay could read Fouquet’s mind.

‘Nothing good, no doubt,’ replied La Fontaine. ‘The poor little thing looked extremely uncomfortable when Olympe was gripping her arm.’

The Superintendent’s eyes were closed and he seemed not to hear what was being said around him. At last he sat up and began speaking again.

‘I have to leave for London in a few days’ time to settle some highly important financial matters. In my absence I am counting on you, Messieurs, to see that our projects at Vaux continue apace. My dear Jean, you will need to reprimand Le Brun; he hasn’t delivered the tapestries he promised, and a large part of the chateau’s decoration is being delayed as a result. And you, d’Orbay, your task is to supervise work in the gardens: I have the impression that the supply of water to the lakes is falling behind schedule. Damn it, one can’t keep using wintry weather as an excuse in April! One other thing – please see to it that the plants and species I showed you are planted
so that they mature by the summer,’ finished Fouquet, exchanging a look of complicity with his architect.

As soon as he heard of the Superintendent’s imminent departure for the English capital, François d’Orbay had an idea.

‘Don’t worry, Monseigneur, I shall personally ensure that we double the size of the work teams and motivate everyone to make up for the delays that have built up over the winter,’ said the architect. ‘I was at the site again yesterday and I promise you that they are making good progress. What worries me at Vaux, if I may make so bold, is something else.’

‘What do you mean?’ the Superintendent asked with a frown.

‘It’s young Gabriel, whom you have taken under your wing. I have the feeling that he is quite miserable.’

‘Are you sure?’ Fouquet queried, realising that d’Orbay was trying to send him a message without alerting La Fontaine. ‘What has happened?’

‘It’s probably down to Molière’s betrayal, which has deprived him of his theatrical dreams. But I imagine that he is also unhappy to be so far from Paris. What can one say, Monseigneur? At his age, the joys of the countryside are soon exhausted! You should let him have a change of air,’ the architect added subtly, his eyes suddenly brighter.

‘Why don’t you take him with you to London?’ La Fontaine suggested to Fouquet.

This suggestion was exactly what the architect had been hoping for. He could already imagine his old master’s joy at rediscovering his son.

‘An excellent idea!’ said the Superintendent with a laugh, delighted at d’Orbay’s shrewdness. ‘I shall take the young turtledove to London then. But I cannot guarantee that the Thames fog will bring back his smile!’

W
ITH his hands clasped behind his back, Colbert had been pacing about gloomily for almost twenty minutes, mechanically following the border which ran around the edge of the large Gobelin tapestry laid on the floor in front of his desk. Seated on either side in two bright-blue wing-back chairs were the King’s brother, the Duc d’Orléans, and Olympe Mancini. Both of them were equally preoccupied, and the Duc d’Orléans was fiddling with the green ribbons adorning his white silk jacket with podgy, be-ringed fingers.

‘All the same,’ he went on plaintively in his falsetto voice, ‘all the same, when I abandoned my plan of going hunting with my brother today, I was expecting other news; news more in accordance with our hopes …’

‘I’m pleased that you speak of “our” hopes, Monseigneur,’ Colbert interrupted, still pacing and taking a deep breath to mask his irritation. ‘First because that word flatters me, unworthy as I am of the way you generously associate me with your worries. Second, because I see that we have arrived at the same opinion by differing paths. You believe that Mademoiselle de La Vallière is encouraging your future wife’s complaints about you, and might do you the disservice of conveying these calumnies to the King. I fear this too, and the fact that it wounds you upsets me. What is more, you think
that this young girl is uncontrollable. I am convinced of that too. These young women of the Court often have their heads turned. So much the worse for her. We gave her an excellent opportunity,’ he added, turning back to Olympe, who was silent, ‘yet she did not wish to take it. So much the worse for her. But I have to say,’ he added, finally ending his circular walk and turning his gaze upon Olympe, ‘that I fear something worse.’

‘I can confirm that I saw her speak at length to the Superintendent at Saint-Mandé,’ declared the young woman, as though prompted.

‘And she even uttered the name of that young man Gabriel,’ cut in Colbert, ‘whose propensity to find himself amongst known conspirators against the State is beginning to disturb me, all the more so since he disappeared without trace just after a private meeting with … Superintendent Fouquet! You are right, Monseigneur.’ He raised his voice. ‘This has gone on too long. We have discussed the facts, tiresome facts. We must now act. Immediately. We must put an end to this. My men have been instructed to find Gabriel and to get hold of …’

Colbert broke off, signalling that a full account would take too long.

‘Well, that’s another story. Anyway, they are trying to find him. Meanwhile, no one must be allowed to reach the King through Mademoiselle de La Vallière. She must be put out of action,’ he concluded grimly.

The King’s brother was still for a moment.

‘What exactly does that mean?’ he asked anxiously.

‘It means,’ said Colbert, approaching Olympe, ‘that the messenger who offered security will now deliver the opposite.’

The prince frowned, dumbfounded, making Colbert smiled.

‘You were not yet born, Monseigneur, but you will certainly have
heard about what happened to your mother the Queen, may God watch over her.’

When the prince did not react, Colbert continued in a professorial tone.

‘When your father Louis XIII, King of France, discovered that she was informing her Spanish relatives by letter about what he had said and done, he wanted to dissolve the marriage contract and send her away. She was fortunate in having the active support of the late Cardinal Mazarin, God rest his soul. Well, what has happened before may happen again. Except that Mademoiselle de La Vallière will not have an advocate of the Cardinal’s stature to defend her!’

‘Imagine if she was conspiring!’ the King’s brother exclaimed enthusiastically, suddenly catching on.

‘Indeed,’ Colbert encouraged him. ‘Anyway, I have found this conversation most constructive,’ he said for Olympe’s benefit.

Olympe got to her feet and bade the two men farewell with a curtsey before heading for the door.

‘So you think the problem will soon be resolved?’ the prince asked.

‘I do not think; I know,’ replied Colbert reassuringly.

‘Monseigneur, the greatest virtue of women like Olympe is that they understand without having to be told explicitly, or in any great detail … they just go where their hatred leads them. She’s so practical, as many women are.’

The King’s brother merely nodded.

G
ABRIEL was waiting by Fouquet’s side in the ambassadors’ stateroom. As he looked up at the lintel of the imposing mantelpiece, supported by two bearded giants, he stifled an exclamation of surprise.

‘Look at that!’ he said, pointing to the coat of arms carved into the stone.

Fouquet smiled and looked up.

‘Why are you surprised, young man?’

‘Er … well, it’s in French, Monsieur Superintendent,’ Gabriel said, showing him the motto. ‘It says,
honni soit qui mal y pense
!’

‘That hadn’t escaped me,’ Fouquet said phlegmatically. ‘Particularly since it’s the heraldic motto of the King and his family. In fact it’s one of the things his opponents and his father’s murderers held against him … Anyway, you are amazed by everything; I have a schoolboy for a secretary,’ he chided Gabriel affectionately.

The doors opened to admit the royal entourage, led by the King of England, Charles II. Gabriel was fascinated by the force of character emanating from the King as he slowly mounted the purple-draped dais making his way towards the throne, above which hung an escutcheon embossed with the lions of England.

How young he is,
thought Gabriel,
almost as young as the King of France. Almost as young as I am.

Protocol followed its course, with the King receiving the homage of his Spanish, Austrian and French visitors. They all glared at each other, each trying to determine the real reason for these ambassadorial visits, which were ostensibly out of courtesy towards the new young monarch so recently returned to the throne. Gabriel imagined this was the reason for the perceptible tension in the room, for its ambient chill and austerity. Unless it was the weight of suspicion, he mused, observing the large number of guards around the dais who watched the visitors attentively, scrutinising their garments for signs of possible weapons.

‘Gabriel, Gabriel.’

The whispered call made the young man turn just as Fouquet, having approached Charles II, was bowing and handing him a letter from the King of France.

At first all Gabriel could see was a large silhouette in the corner by a side door, a few yards to his right.

‘Gabriel,’ the figure persisted, still in a low voice.

I’ve heard that voice before,
thought Gabriel, moving slowly towards it while trying to keep one eye on Fouquet.

‘Who’s that?’ he asked, also softly.

A hand gripped his wrist and pulled him roughly into the shadow by the door. Gabriel could not suppress an exclamation of surprise.

‘Monsieur Barrême!’

The mathematician gestured to him to keep his voice down, and drew him out of the room.

‘Sh! No names. Be quiet and follow me.’

‘But what are you doing here?’ replied Gabriel without moving. ‘And where am I to follow you to?’

Barrême turned round, looking angry.

‘Don’t you ever stop asking trivial questions at inappropriate
moments? I noticed that tendency the last time we met.’

Gabriel still didn’t move.

‘In Heaven’s name, Gabriel,’ Barrême continued, his tone more urgent. ‘We only have a little time before they notice your absence. If you want to know what was in those papers you showed me …’ he added, lowering his voice even more.

Gabriel glanced into the stateroom and saw that Fouquet was still talking to the King. He hesitated for a second, then signalled to Barrême to lead the way.

What a strange character,
he thought as he followed in the fat man’s footsteps.

T
HE man who called himself Charles Saint John could bear it no longer. He could neither concentrate on the thick book of accounts for his modest trading company, nor watch the comings and goings in the street as he usually did when he could not focus his attention on the task in hand. Ever since Barrême had told him that they would be there that afternoon, the tired old man had been in a sort of frenzy.

‘I haven’t seen him for fifteen years. What is he like? How will he react? What does he think of me? How can I explain those fifteen years of abandonment?’ he kept asking himself. Over the years he had become resigned to never seeing any member of his family again.

Charles Saint John’s two-storey house stood in a labourers’ district. The ground floor was permanently filled with stacks of merchandise from the various maritime trading companies he did business with. Two clerks were in charge of the stores and checked everything that passed through. This line of business was an ideal cover for the old man, allowing him to make numerous journeys without arousing the least suspicion, and it was also his sole source of income. He lived on the upper storey, which was simple and comfortable. Next to his bedroom he had set up an office which also served as a library. Over the past fifteen years he had built up
a substantial collection, mainly of poetic works. He had also made his own attempts at writing and had kept several manuscripts, but he had never dared to have them published.

When he returned to the window again, he saw a carriage stop outside his house. The coachman jumped down to unfold the three steps which enabled travellers to descend more easily, then pointed in the direction of the trader’s house. The old man’s heart began to pound. Barrême was first to emerge from the vehicle, swiftly followed by Gabriel. The man waiting so impatiently at his window did not immediately react, as if he were dumbstruck by the sight of someone who was no longer the little ‘Cherubino’ he remembered. Ashamed at this hesitation, he felt beads of sweat appear on his brow as he said to himself:

‘Gabriel … My little one!’

‘Where on earth are you taking me?’ said Gabriel, grabbing the fat man and looking up at the modest trading house he was about to enter.

‘You are nearly there, so just be patient,’ answered the mathematician, pushing him inside the room where customers were received. ‘Go upstairs.
Someone
is waiting for you,’ he added, pointing to the stairs.

Gabriel went upstairs alone. When he reached the first-floor landing he tensed, fearing another attack. As he approached the half-open door, a voice called out:

‘Come in!’

The young actor was taken aback, but responded to this invitation and entered the office where a white-haired man stood with his back to him, his arms motionless. Slowly, almost theatrically, the figure
turned to face his visitor. Gabriel looked silently at the man and was first struck by the light of the pale blue eyes. The young man began to feel awkward, and decided to say something:

‘Monsieur …’

‘I am pleased to see you. I never believed that this moment would come,’ interrupted the old man, walking slowly towards Gabriel as if approaching a bird that he didn’t want to scare away.

As the man drew nearer, Gabriel was overcome by a huge wave of emotion. ‘That voice,’ he said to himself, looking closely at the old man, ‘and now those eyes, this face …’ He took a step back. ‘Who are you?’ he asked almost inaudibly.

Without answering, the man came nearer still, then raised an arm and took Gabriel clumsily by the shoulder.

The young man could feel his fingers trembling.

‘How tall you are now,’ said the man softly.

Gabriel noticed his eyes grow misty.

‘You can’t be …’ stammered the young man, realising in a flash just as the man who had pretended to be Charles Saint John took him in his arms.

‘My child, my dear child, I have found you at last,’ rejoiced André de Pontbriand as he embraced his son.

A host of images flashed through Gabriel’s mind. He was so emotional and stirred up that he could not immediately answer his father. His father remembered from his childhood, for whom he had wept so many times in those lonely nights in Amboise, about whom he knew nothing, and whose strength and counsel he had so missed. Here he was, behind this old man’s mask. He recognised him without really knowing him, this familiar man who was at the same time a complete stranger.

Some seconds passed in silence. André de Pontbriand remained
there, with his arms wrapped around his son, as if he were seeking to make up for all the years of painful separation. Then he loosened his embrace and stepped back to take another look at his child, this man with the strong face, whose cheeks were bathed in tears.

‘But what are you doing here, using a false name? And why did you abandon us, and allow us to think you were dead? I should at least have an explanation before I accept your embraces!’

With a bitter smile, André de Pontbriand looked at his son’s clenched fists and the fire in his red-rimmed eyes. Now that his initial astonishment had passed, Gabriel’s emotions were turning to anger.
He is so like me,
thought his father.

‘You are right, my boy,’ he answered sadly. ‘I sacrificed you to a cause that is greater than all of us. In my heart I carry the responsibility for my exile like a wound which will never heal. You are a man now, and you have a right to know the truth. Do not judge me yet! I shall answer all your questions. But before I do so, may we sit down?’ he went on, indicating the part of the room which had been furnished as a sitting room. ‘I shall have some tea brought up. You see, after all this time I have allowed myself to be seduced by English habits!’ he added with false levity.

André de Pontbriand took a sip of his tea, then began his account of the past fifteen years.

‘First of all, I have to tell you that, since the age of twenty, I have had the honour of serving a noble company of men as your grandfather did before me, and his father and grandfather before him. There are just fourteen of us spread out across the world in
order to protect a Secret of incalculable value. This sacred cause brought me here to London, and subsequently prevented me from rejoining you. The announcement of my death was designed to protect you from danger, after our cause was betrayed. Just so that you know, the man who betrayed us called himself Naum. Fifteen years ago he received a large sum of money from Cardinal Mazarin in exchange for a document on which my name appeared. The document, which he stole from me, is the key to the Secret, without which no one can access it. Fortunately I had taken care to encode it, having been initiated by your grandfather into the mysteries of the art of cryptography. The Cardinal’s police had identified me and were searching for me, and the stakes were so high that I had to go into exile and cut off all links with my past. You see, my dear Gabriel, to save the honour of the Pontbriands and to preserve your integrity, I took the terrible decision never to see you again; I melted into the skin of Charles Saint John.’

Gabriel shivered as the veil which had shrouded his childhood was partially lifted. His head swam.

‘But why?’ he demanded, bewildered. ‘Why?’

‘Let me explain, and please give me time,’ cut in his father. ‘We have both waited so long …’

The old man told him all about his life in London, his new profession, and his journeys to trade in far-off places. Then he asked his son about the rest of the family.

As he listened, Gabriel gazed intently at the room in which he was sitting, trying to record each sensation, smell, sound, each detail of the furnishings. How many times, in dreams, had he visualised his father walking through unknown and always fantastical settings. The ordinariness of this interior both fascinated and moved him.

Gabriel’s flight to Paris to escape his uncle’s authority and join
Molière’s troupe made André smile, happy to discover his son’s bold nature. The conversation lasted a long time, for the two men had fifteen years to catch up on.

In turn, the young man gave his father a detailed account of the incredible discovery and the peculiar chain of events which had taken surprising directions finally leading him to London. When he heard the names Nicolas Fouquet and François d’Orbay, André de Pontbriand smiled again. Gabriel questioned him several times about the Secret and about this mysterious company of fourteen members, which intrigued him. But he was frustrated by his father’s responses, which were mostly cryptic. He wanted to know more.

‘Don’t torture me like this, my son,’ André said with a laugh after a little while. ‘Only initiates may know the rules of our company and the nature of the text we protect. You are already in sufficient danger and you know too much. My faithful friend Barrême told me about the bundle of papers you showed him.’

He fixed the young man with his steely gaze.

‘What have you done with those papers?’

‘I have them here in London, in my baggage,’ replied Gabriel.

‘My carriage is at your disposal. Go and fetch them and come back to dine with me. We still have so much to talk about.’

Only too happy at this prospect, Gabriel stood up to leave, impatient to get to the bottom of the mysterious tale.

‘Hurry back,’ the old man could not help saying. ‘And take great care.’