The Sun King Conspiracy (28 page)

S
LEEP had eluded Louise for a long time. Interminable hours had elapsed since Bartet’s visit. Hours of anguish, in which the young girl expected to be arrested and exiled at any moment. Hours, moreover, without any word from the King of France nor a reply from Gabriel. Wide awake, Louise counted each second, each minute. She could not calm herself, incapable as she was of thinking of a way to save herself, and not knowing whom to turn to. And it seemed to her that the most terrible thing of all, after all these hours of waiting, was not to know her fate. Exhausted, she fell asleep at dawn and was still sleeping at this late hour of the morning.

She was awoken by the sound of gravel hitting her bedroom window and propped herself up on her elbows. Then she rose in haste, frightened, and ran to the window. Opening it a little way, she stuck her head out to look down into the courtyard, but could see nothing. She was about to close the window again when she heard her name being called, very softly.

‘Louise,’ whispered a familiar voice, ‘Louise.’

Leaning out a little further, the young woman looked towards the dark corner at the base of the wall, where the voice seemed to be coming from. Straining her eyes, she could just make out the movement of an arm.

‘Louise,’ repeated the voice. ‘Open up, it’s Gabriel.’

The young woman’s heart leapt and she rushed down to unlock the door, snatching up a dressing gown on the way and putting it over her nightdress as she hurtled down the service stairs. She paused for a moment at the bottom and then, reassured, opened the door that led to the courtyard.

‘Gabriel!’ she breathed, throwing herself into his arms. ‘I was so afraid. Did you get my letter?’

He nodded, intoxicated by the fragrance of her blonde curls and the softness of her cheek in the crook of his neck.

Then Louise stepped back and, glancing swiftly to the right and left, took him by the hand to lead him inside.

‘Wait, Louise,’ he said, his voice tinged with regret. ‘We don’t have much time. I still have to find a way of getting a letter to the King to warn him of this conspiracy. And all is not yet won. Our enemies are watching us, and over the past few days I have come to realise how determined they are.’

Rummaging beneath his cape, he withdrew an envelope and handed it to her.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ he went on more gently, seeing fear return to the young woman’s face. ‘It’s only a security measure. First thing tomorrow, find some pretext to go and stay somewhere safer, with the Queen Mother for example. And keep this letter with you. It is the copy of one addressed to the King from François d’Orbay. It bears Fouquet’s seal, and you will only need it if we fail in our attempt to reach the King. In that unfortunate event,’ he emphasised, ‘give this copy to the Queen Mother, and tell her all you know about these threats. And in the meantime, ask her if I may have an audience as soon as possible. It is very important,’ he stressed. ‘I shall explain later, but for now you should know that I have documents for
her which are of the utmost importance. Come,’ he said, stroking Louise’s cheek as a tear trickled down it, ‘try not to worry. We will succeed.’

‘I was so afraid,’ she replied, squeezing his hand. ‘I was so afraid you would not come … All those days with no news. Where have you been since you came back from London?’

The shadow that crossed Gabriel’s face made her shiver.

‘You’re not saying anything. What is the matter? You’re making me anxious … Something about you has changed.’

Gabriel took her face in his hands.

‘It would take too long to explain. I have found out more about my past in the last few days than in the course of my whole life. And the more I learn, the more obstacles are put in my way …’

‘What do you mean? I don’t understand any of what you’re saying.’

‘I found my father, Louise …’

A dazzling smile blossomed on the young girl’s face:

‘Your father! That is wonde …’

The pain which suddenly clouded Gabriel’s features stopped her in her tracks.

‘He is dead, Louise. He was murdered before my eyes. And I know who is responsible.’

Louise’s voice was now no more than a whisper.

‘My God, Gabriel, that’s terrible! Who …’

‘Our enemies are the same. But I shall avenge him.’

‘These obstacles – do you mean his murderers?’

‘There’s more to it than that. There’s more at stake in this sinister story than my own destiny or my father’s. But everything is linked, Louise: the threats against you, my father’s murder; we are all the
playthings of a machination which involves the future of the entire country. A plot in which I must choose my role,’ he added, as if talking to himself.

‘I’m frightened, Gabriel,’ answered Louise, pressing herself against him.

Gabriel closed his eyes and wrapped his arms tightly round the young girl’s shoulders. They remained like that for a moment, in silence.

‘It is nearly over,’ Gabriel went on. ‘Tomorrow everything will be over. Now go back upstairs. I have to go to Versailles.’

Louise trembled at the sound of this word.

‘Yes, to Versailles,’ Gabriel confirmed. ‘The King is hunting.’

‘S
UPERINTENDENT’S service or not, I say again: you cannot pass!’

Leaning out of the carriage window, François d’Orbay slapped the flat of his hand against the embossed escutcheon depicting a squirrel that adorned the door.

‘For the Lord’s sake, Monsieur Musketeer, I shall give you one more chance to take back what you just said …’

‘Whoever you may be,’ interrupted the soldier, raising his voice, ‘do not imagine that you impress me. The King is hunting, and he is not to be disturbed! Hey, young man,’ he said in alarm, turning round suddenly, ‘are you deaf? Where do you think you’re going?’

Having leapt out of the carriage via the far door, Gabriel was already running towards the brick building.

‘Guards, sound the alert,’ roared the musketeer, setting off in pursuit.

The metal gate that protected the hunting lodge was set into a small guard post. All of a sudden three musketeers emerged from it and blocked Gabriel’s path. The young man stopped in his tracks and hesitated for a second, just long enough for the soldiers to charge at him and seize him.

‘Cowards,’ yelled Gabriel, struggling as d’Orbay joined them
breathlessly, followed by the musketeer who had sounded the alert. ‘Three against one! I dare you to fight like men!’

‘You are about to discover the price of your behaviour,’ threatened the musketeer, seizing d’Orbay by the arm. ‘Go,’ he ordered the soldiers who were trying to bring Gabriel under control, ‘take that madman away. Two or three days in prison will cool his ardour …’

Gabriel felt a terrible anguish grip his heart. To fail, so close to their goal! Clenching his teeth, he struggled even harder.

‘We’re going to have to knock him unconscious!’ roared one of the musketeers.

‘You are making a terrible mistake,’ cried d’Orbay as the man dragged him backwards. ‘We have here a letter of the utmost importance!’

‘Help!’ Gabriel shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Help!’

‘What is the meaning of all this noise?’

The man who had just spoken was standing on the other side of the gate, silhouetted against the light, in the middle of a group of half a dozen men who had just come through the door of the hunting lodge. With short, sharp movements, one finger at a time, he was adjusting his leather gauntlets, which gleamed in the sunshine.

Suddenly silent, the musketeer who had given the orders shaded his eyes against the glare.

‘Well, are you deaf? Answer me! What is the meaning of all this shouting?’

‘These two men are troublemakers, Captain …’ replied the man, rather uncertainly.

‘No, we are not,’ chimed in d’Orbay, freeing himself from his guard.

Also blinking in the glare, he rushed towards the gate.

‘Monsieur d’Artagnan, the sun prevented me from recognising
you. I am François d’Orbay, Monsieur Superintendent’s architect at his chateau in Vaux, and this lad is Superintendent Fouquet’s secretary. He is carrying an urgent letter from the Superintendent to His Majesty. Look at our carriage,’ he said, pointing to the coat of arms painted upon the doors.

D’Artagnan signalled to the musketeers to release the prisoners.

‘They are zealous,’ he grunted. ‘Come, Monsieur, let me see this letter,’ he said to Gabriel, putting his hand through the gate.

Gabriel frowned and rubbed his wrists.

‘Indeed not, Monsieur. Monsieur Fouquet told me it had to be handed to His Majesty himself.’

Disarmed by such self-assurance, d’Artagnan smiled faintly.

‘Well, my noisy young fellow, you are certainly audacious! You wouldn’t be a Gascon, by any chance? Even a little?’ he added, still reaching out.

Then he said more sternly:

‘Hurry up, I can feel my patience running out, Monsieur.’

Gabriel did not move. He looked the musketeers’ captain up and down disdainfully.

‘I may only be from Touraine, Monsieur, but I know what “into the King’s own hands” means. And the subject matter is too serious …’

‘That is enough,’ interrupted the man with the leather gauntlets. ‘You have a letter for the King of France?’ he said, stepping forward. ‘Then give it to him and for pity’s sake let me get on with my hunting.’

‘Sire!’ exclaimed d’Orbay, suddenly recognising Louis XIV.

Stunned, Gabriel spent a fraction of a second examining the features Louise had described to him. Suddenly he recognised the strength of character in the eyes and the thin lips, the carriage of the
head that seemed to make him taller. Withdrawing the letter from his shirt, he knelt and held it out.

The King took it without a word. Anxiety clouded his eyes when he saw the seal embossed with its squirrel. He turned it over in his hands, as though hesitant to open it.

‘Monsieur d’Artagnan, hold the hunting teams back. I need to get to the bottom of this.’

He gave his hat and cloak to a manservant, took off the gloves he had so carefully donned, then turned to go back into the hunting lodge. As his foot touched the first step, he seemed to change his mind and turned to d’Artagnan.

‘This will take only a moment. And of course you will release Monsieur d’Orbay, who for love of me will forget to give an account of your musketeers’ zeal to his friend, Monsieur de La Fontaine …’

The architect bowed.

‘As will Monsieur …’

‘Gabriel de Pontbriand, Sire,’ replied the young man, bowing again.

‘R
EAD it, Monsieur, read it!’

With a contemptuous expression, nostrils quivering, the King tapped his foot irritably on the parquet floor. Without turning round, he waved the flat of his hand in the direction of the two letters that lay on the gaming table in his office.

Colbert had just entered. Caught off guard, he took a few short steps forward and gingerly picked up one of the letters.

‘And then explain to me what my police are doing, Monsieur!’ growled the King without giving him time to read. ‘What is the use of spies? What is the use of spies if the Superintendent of Finance has to warn me about the despicable manoeuvring taking place in my palace! Just imagine if the forgery had arrived and if, for one reason or another, Monsieur Fouquet had not been able to send me that young man, Gabriel de Pontbriand, in time; or if this letter had not reached me, as was very nearly the case! Just imagine: I might have believed that lie! I could have been deceived! I could have got it wrong! Listen to this, Colbert,’ he went on more coldly: ‘the King of France could have acted unjustly. And I had to interrupt my hunting and return here at the gallop, without even being able to change my clothes,’ he added, pointing to his boots. ‘No, this cannot be.’

When he heard Gabriel’s name, Colbert could not hide his surprise.
Of course it would be him, impossible to track down and
protected by Fouquet. And, as if by chance, busy trying to save that scheming girl.

Fouquet, La Vallière and that young Pontbriand – those three are always thwarting my plans,
he thought as his anger grew.
Pontbriand, at least I have his name. The game is by no means over … But I shall have to be canny. I must find those documents before they do, at all costs. Or if they have them already,
he shuddered,
I will have to take them from them. Gondi is not a man to talk for nothing. But first I must try to limit the repercussions of this letter fiasco.

‘Your Majesty’s anger is justified, and I thank Heaven that a tipoff – I do not know its source – meant that Monsieur Fouquet could intervene in this fortuitous way. I for one was not even aware that he knew Mademoiselle de La Vallière,’ he added in a tone of feigned ingenuousness.

The King raised an eyebrow but did not reply.

‘Anyway, the most important thing is that this villainous conspiracy has been uncovered before any damage – even reparable damage – was done,’ continued Colbert, rubbing his hands. ‘I shall of course have this scurrilous letter analysed,’ he said hurriedly, slipping the sheet into the sleeve of his jacket.

‘Do it, Monsieur,’ said the King without looking at him. ‘Do it and find a culprit quickly, for my patience has its limits. I am aware of your efficiency and my godfather praised your networks of informants as being more effective than those of the official police … The fire at the Palais-Royal was intolerable. And now we have absurd conspiracies against a young girl who has done no harm to anybody. And for what reason? Because she is presented at Court and my wife does her the kindness of addressing a few words to her at her presentation? But take note, Colbert: these wretches have pushed calumny to the point of depicting her in this letter as my
mistress, citing as proof certain personal details which only a few people close to me know. You see here,’ he said, ‘what is said about the S-shaped scar at the top of my thigh, given to me by one of the first wild boars I killed … That is proof of the falsity of this letter.’

Colbert nodded and lowered his gaze.

‘Anyway, that matters little. This has to stop,’ said the King. ‘Alas, it is too late to hunt today,’ he added with a sigh, turning to look out of the window.

When Colbert had gone, the King remained in his office for a while, savouring the silence and the calm, and allowing the tension which had gripped him to abate little by little. To his surprise he realised that what upset him most was not that there
was
a conspiracy, but that the victim of that conspiracy was Louise de La Vallière: greater than the fear of being manipulated was the fear that this manipulation might force him to cut his still-tenuous ties with the young girl who caused this curious tight feeling in his chest. He recalled how he had learnt his lesson when he had tried to impose his passion upon the Court, believing that his love for Marie Mancini could be combined with the interests of State. Poor fool that he was, he had been cruelly brought down to earth. But he had only been a child then.

It’s different now,
he thought.
Very different.

He rang the bell-pull until a head appeared at the door.

‘Paper, ink and a pen,’ he ordered.

And when the servant looked puzzled:

‘You heard me! I am not going to dictate, I intend to write. Go, and be quick about it.’

Quick. The word lodged in his mind. There was no more time to lose. Tomorrow she would have his letter. He would see her as soon
as possible. And she would be his.
To hell with procrastination, now is the time for action,
he told himself, picking up the pen which the manservant had so hastily brought him.

‘Bring a steed to my door,’ he added as the servant backed out of the room.

A smile lit up his arrogant features.

‘Because it is what we ardently desire.’