The Sun King Conspiracy (32 page)

‘F
IFTY-THREE cannons of green cast iron, including four Swedish carbines and a culverin; one hundred and fifty seven of iron, thirty-three of them mounted on bastions; two mortars in green cast iron and sixty naval gun carriages in service. This is very good work!’ Colbert said greedily, looking up at Charles Perrault who stood in front of his desk. ‘But how the devil did you manage to draw up this inventory?’

‘To get onto the island, I took it upon myself to send a vessel to the Breton coast with ten barrels and a wine trader from La Rochelle on board. They passed through the security surrounding the Superintendent’s estates with no problems, and the wine probably also helped to loosen several people’s tongues later,’ replied the Chief of Police with false modesty.

Colbert eagerly read more of the memorandum drawn up by Perrault.

‘Seven hundred and sixty muskets from Sedan, eight hundred and ten from Liège, some carbines, eleven hundred and seventy grenades, ten thousand six hundred and seventy three cannon-balls of all calibres … My dear Perrault, your precision is impressive and … worrying,’ exclaimed the former accountant. ‘How can you be so sure of your figures?’

‘My envoy in Belle-Île performed a fine trick. Under the pretext of a trade in cast iron, he was able to bribe the accountant at the fort.
The inventory included in this document is an exact transcription of the one sent last month to Monsieur Superintendent!’

‘Excellent!’ Colbert said simply, returning to his reading. ‘And all of this is supposed to be just for equipping ships or for the defence of the colonial trading posts? I knew it! Under the pretext of maritime trading, Fouquet has in fact built up a substantial army, even though the Kingdom is at peace,’ he said, laying the papers back down on his desk. ‘The lands in Belle-Île which he so loves are not destined to compete with Amsterdam, as he maintains, but to serve as an actual armed base, even as a fortress for him if necessary!’

‘I estimate the number of labourers currently working on the island’s fortifications to be fifteen hundred,’ went on Perrault, seeing that the Cardinal’s former secretary had finished reading his memorandum. ‘According to my spy, there never seems to be any shortage of money. As for the name Fouquet, it is seldom uttered. The inhabitants of the island talk of the Lord of Belle-Île, if anything! As for the men at arms who make up the visible troops, there seem to be around two hundred, according to a count carried out by our spy.’

When he heard this number, Colbert chuckled.

‘I knew it, and now your report is here to prove it, Perrault. This man who wishes to pass himself off as a simple shipping owner, concerned with increasing his wealth and France’s expansion as a trading power, is in fact preparing for something quite different.’

‘You mean …’

‘I mean that I now need further evidence of these felonies in order to construct a solid basis for a court case whose repercussions will surprise you,’ Colbert went on confidentially. ‘I trust you, my dear Perrault. I know of your devotion to the King and your unfailing
fidelity. Because of this, I know I can rely on you for a mission which is, to say the least, delicate!’

Acknowledging the compliment, Charles Perrault bowed respectfully.

‘This is a grim time. To my mind, the Kingdom is at great risk if we do not act. The moment is propitious, and I am told that the Superintendent of Finance is once again suffering from an attack of malaria. He has recently retired with his entire household to his chateau at Vaux-le-Vicomte. Find a way of discreetly entering Saint-Mandé and unearth everything you can to support your memorandum! Act alone and with discernment,’ added Colbert with an enigmatic smile.

Taken aback by this request, but at the same time flattered by the trust it implied, Charles Perrault said nothing and withdrew, bowing to the ground.

Colbert was still smiling as he watched the Chief of Police leave his office. He looked out of the open window through which the warm sun shone into the room.

The squirrel is in the trap! All I need is for Perrault to bring me back a little more evidence, and the King will no longer have cause for delay. No, there is surely no escape for the accursed Fouquet. I have all I need to uphold a court case from which the Superintendent cannot escape!
thought Colbert, tapping his fingers on the memorandum describing the weaponry stored on Belle-Île.
Particularly since I shall use an intermediary to buy back his office of Procureur. That manoeuvre will deprive him of his remaining influence over the judges! After that, and before I arrange for his arrest, I will have to brush aside any objections
from the Queen Mother. That won’t be the easiest task, but I have done harder things,
he said to himself.
Moreover, the anxiety which our recent conversations have caused her will play in my favour. Anne of Austria will sacrifice the squirrel with difficulty, but she would rather cut off one of her arms than allow the smallest risk of harm to her son. It really is a beautiful day,
concluded Colbert, standing up to take a closer look at the gardens of the Louvre and enjoy the sun’s warmth.

‘C
OME on, come on, give it to me,’ ordered the King in a voice that was both impatient and happy, and he stretched out his leather-clad arm.

‘Is Your Majesty sure that his glove is properly in place?’ asked d’Artagnan anxiously.

‘My dear Captain, I am not made of china and I do not need to be so carefully protected!’ replied the King disdainfully, stepping aside. ‘So give it to me, Monsieur.’

At that moment Colbert was shown into the King’s office. He recoiled instinctively when he saw the man who was approaching the sovereign.

The King’s falconer also wore a protective leather glove, and he carried a gerfalcon on his arm. The nervous movements of its wings revealed a span of over a yard. The man stood beside the sovereign and then, pressing his arm against the King’s, began to slide the clawed talons from his own leather gauntlet to Louis XIV’s. Fascinated, the young King watched him in delight as he made whispering, whistling sounds to the bird of prey, whose head, covered in a black-leather hood, bobbed jerkily up and down. To Colbert, it seemed to go on for ever. Taking refuge close to the table where he had just placed a voluminous fawn-coloured satchel, the little man watched the ceremony warily. He could not help thinking that introducing this symbol of war and brutishness to this place
devoted to intelligence, calculation and strategy was a violation.

The King was now walking around the room with his eyes fixed on the gerfalcon attached to his raised fist. An almost childish pride shone on his face.

‘You shall tell the ambassador how much this gift delights me,’ he declared to the assembled company without taking his eyes off the gerfalcon.

One by one, each of the men he passed let out murmurs of admiration, which seemed to delight him even more.

‘We must have this scene captured by an artist,’ said the sovereign.

When he noticed Colbert, he smiled at the uncomfortable look on the Steward’s face.

‘Well, Monsieur Colbert, see what the Turk has sent me! Is it not magnificent?’

Colbert tried not to close his eyes when the gerfalcon spread its wings and let out shrill little cries very close to his face.

‘Indeed, Sire’, he agreed respectfully.

‘Is my gift by chance the cause of the anxiety which clouds your face?’ asked the King.

Colbert was indignant.

‘Not in the least, Sire, but I bear the weight of cares which I take seriously, particularly as they concern the Kingdom and Your Majesty.’

Louis XIV grew sombre as he was brought back to reality.

‘You are right, Monsieur – work calls. I cannot reproach you for it, even if moments of joy are very rare … Well, serious matters, you say?’ he went on, holding out his fist to the falconer.

‘Extremely serious, Sire,’ confirmed Colbert. ‘Your Majesty knows that I would not dare to disturb the course of his diplomatic activity were it not for a matter of the greatest importance.’

The King smiled.

‘It’s all right, Colbert. The Cardinal did warn me: “a tireless worker, but as sad as a day without bread”.’

Colbert suffered the gibe without flinching.

‘Anyway, to work. Messieurs,’ added the King, signalling to the throng to leave as a manservant hurried forward to free him from the laced-up leather gauntlet.

‘Well, Monsieur Colbert?’ said the King when they were alone in his office, now returned to its primary use. ‘So what am I to fear?’

‘A conspiracy, Sire, and a rebellion.’

With clenched teeth, Louis XIV stared at the map laid out on the table. It showed the painstakingly drawn contours of Belle-Île, surmounted by a network of defences and turrets. A port appeared clearly on the map, along with some roughly drawn boats. Written on each element of the fortifications were columns of figures listing munitions, weapons, and names. Furiously, the King lifted the map, pulling out from underneath it a map on a larger scale, showing Brittany as far as Nantes. Here too, the defences and available resources were indicated with the same precision. Colbert’s voice cut through the silence, making him look up.

‘Sire, I too would not have had any faith in these documents were I not certain of their provenance, and if they did not merely add a final touch to a host of weighty presumptions. But I had to face up to the evidence. Yes, Monsieur Fouquet cheats in his accounts, mixing his privy purse with that of Your Majesty, returning to his former methods when he sought to make us believe that the Cardinal, God rest his soul …’

At these words, he raised his eyes to Heaven and clasped his
hands, a scandalised expression on his lips.

‘… was solely responsible for them. Yes, Monsieur Fouquet uses his Breton possessions to transfer his resources to America and the Indies via trading companies. And as if all of this: theft, fraud, misappropriation of public funds, calumnies of all sorts, aggravated by the attempt, in his madness, to corrupt innocent or gentle souls like that young fellow Pontbriand or Mademoiselle de La Vallière, alongside whom his assiduous presence has been verified …’

The King blanched as he heard these words.

‘… as if all of this, as I say, were not enough,’ continued Colbert without betraying anything of his satisfaction, ‘Monsieur Superintendent has added to these infamies the threat of rebellion against his King by establishing – doubtless in case his misappropriations were discovered – an armed refuge in Brittany, from which an insurrection could be launched.’

Out of breath now, Colbert fell silent. The King stood motionless and pale-faced. Stunned by the profusion of documents and facts skilfully engineered to mask approximations, half-truths and lies, the King felt a profound lassitude wash over him.
So I shall never be done with it,
he thought with sudden anguish.
I shall always have to be fearful of plots and conspiracies.

Looking up, he saw Colbert’s greedy expression and shining eyes.

‘The proof is here,’ insisted the little man with a theatrical sweep of his hand, indicating the mass of documents which had spilled out of his leather case.

‘Very well,’ said the King tonelessly.

He gave a long sigh.

‘What is really needed is for the century to be purged,’ he murmured.

The Steward looked up inquisitively.

‘Lock your files securely in a chest,’ added the King, heading for the door.

On the threshold, he seemed to change his mind.

‘The Cardinal did not deceive me, Monsieur Colbert. I shall not forget that.’

Colbert gave a deep bow. By the time he straightened up, the King had disappeared. He then went to the table and began to fold the documents one by one before putting them away in his case. When he had finished, he looked around the empty room in satisfaction.

‘Sad as a day without bread,’ he murmured with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘It matters not, if I achieve my ends.’

Buckling his case, he put it under his arm before heading for the door himself. As he emerged into the corridor, he glanced through the window and saw the King in the palace courtyard, surrounded by a crowd of courtiers who had come to see a hunting demonstration by the precious gerfalcon. The bird of prey was at that moment flying from the hand of the falconer, who had removed the hood which blinded it. In a flash, it swooped upon a dove which had been freed from a little willow cage and seized it in its talons with a shrill cry. The falcon was now wheeling in concentric circles, with the dove clutched in its powerful grasp.

Colbert frowned in disgust and continued along the gilt-panelled corridor.

‘Purge the century?’ he repeated in a low voice.

‘B
LAST that kitchen boy!’

For the tenth time that day, Vatel, the cook at Vaux-le-Vicomte, lifted the two-pronged fork he used to turn the roasts and poultry with disconcerting ease as they hung above the fire. In the darkness of the immense basement kitchen, his size was emphasised by his shadow, which danced on the walls in the light of the flames.

‘How many times do I have to tell him? Don’t stoke up the fire too high if you don’t want the meat to crack and all its juices to dry up!’

Crouching behind their ovens, his kitchen hands watched anxiously as this new bout of anger developed.

‘And these cakes,’ he yelled even louder, moving his fat body swiftly towards the babas and choux pastries carefully set out in rows on long copper trays. ‘This cannot be true …’

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ whispered the kitchen boy furthest away from Vatel.

‘… Jesus, Mary and Joseph! You must want me dead,’ said the cook unconsciously echoing the boy, although he had heard nothing.

Sighing, his face crimson with anger and from exposure to the fire, Vatel yielded to a moment of discouragement. He mopped the sweat which was dripping down his forehead and into his eyes.

‘Come on, you heap of incompetents!’ he roared, rallying. ‘We only have one more hour until the meal is served! The King, Messieurs, you are cooking for the King! Have a little pride in your work, for the love of God!’

This last despairing cry made Gabriel de Pontbriand smile.

Poor Vatel,
he thought as he reached the main entrance,
can cakes really be the cause of so much torment
…
?

Once again, he felt the apprehension that had scarcely left him recently. They were close to their goal, and if everything went as they hoped, the evening would mark the dawning of a new era. Feelings ran through his heart as fast as the white clouds rushed towards the horizon. Tonight would be the realisation of his father’s dream.

The young man strode up the chateau’s steps looking for Fouquet. From the top of the steps the sight was amazing. Everywhere he looked, Gabriel could see little figures running about, busying themselves with the final preparations for the celebration. Gabriel grimaced as he recognised his former companions from the troupe amongst those on the actors’ platform standing around Molière, who was waving his arms about in anger like a miniature puppet. Gabriel had met him that morning during an inspection with Fouquet. The coldness with which the great author had greeted him had at first wounded him, then strengthened him in his conviction that Providence had sent him in the right direction. Closer to him, groups of workmen emerged from thickets behind which he could imagine the fountains and rockeries, waterfalls, statues and mechanisms. The musicians were setting up alongside the lawns, magnificently aligned with the view of the chateau in the August sunshine. Turning round, he saw the crowd of guests converging slowly upon the chateau, filing past the gilded gates embossed with the Superintendent’s arms. His heart thudded as he narrowed his
eyes to try and make out Louise’s face in the coloured mass of gowns and suits.

The familiar voice of La Fontaine drew him out of his contemplation.

‘Well, Gabriel? Is that an outfit in which to welcome the King? The whole Court is hurrying to our gates and you have not even put on your waistcoat.’

Gabriel looked down at his shirt and bounded towards the stairs.

‘Curious child,’ murmured the poet, watching him hurtle towards his room.

Gabriel rushed down the stairs four at a time, trying to attach the blue silk ribbon that held his collar together. Stumbling, he almost fell head first, bumped into the stone banister to the sound of rending fabric, and found himself sitting on the first-floor landing.

‘Confound it, my sleeve!’ he exclaimed as he realised that the seam of his coat had ripped. ‘Too bad,’ he added, getting to his feet.

A glance through the window stopped him in his tracks. There before him, less than a hundred yards away, the King had just emerged from his carriage. Standing there with a pommel-topped cane in his hand, dressed in a close-fitting suit of golden fabric and a black hat decorated with white feathers, the King of France was smiling at a compliment from Nicolas Fouquet, who was bowing respectfully before him. Seeing that the retinue was on the move, Gabriel ran down the rest of the stairs, emerged onto the rear steps of the chateau and circled back round to slip discreetly into the procession. Peering over the heads of the crowd of courtiers who followed the King, Gabriel saw Fouquet explaining the layout and construction of his estate, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. The
windows revealed so much of the gardens’ magnificence that the walls seemed almost transparent. Impassive, the King gazed at the chateau and its dome with such intensity that Gabriel’s heart missed a beat.

Come now, compose yourself,
he told himself.
It is not yet time. And what is d’Orbay doing? If everything is to go to plan, he will have to be there,
he thought, biting his lip.

‘Gabriel!’

‘Louise!’ exclaimed the young man as he saw a hand waving at him, struggling against the tide of guests.

Pushing his way through, Gabriel managed to catch up with the girl and draw her out of the crowd.

‘So here you are, master of a very fine chateau,’ she laughed.

Gabriel could not take his eyes off her dazzling gown embroidered with gold, her sparkling eyes, her white skin.

‘Go ahead and mock, you cold-hearted girl. It takes a celebration for me to be able to see you these days. The Court has made you entirely its own,’ he said mournfully.

‘Come now, you’re the one who’s invisible!’

‘No one is more invisible than a man one never thinks about,’ retorted Gabriel seriously. ‘And you know very well that I am here if needed.’

The allusion brought colour to Louise’s cheeks.

‘That is true,’ she conceded. ‘But you’re the one who fled Amboise and abandoned me. And I’m the one who came to find you again!’

This reversal forced a smile from Gabriel.

‘Go,’ she told him, as he turned his head automatically to see where the King and his host had got to. ‘Don’t make the Superintendent wait. And besides, I have to find my duchess!’

‘We shall see each other later at the spectacle!’ Gabriel called to her as she fled.

In the distance, the sun sparkled on the King of France’s dazzling finery.

The last of the guests who had dallied in the groves to watch the fountains were only just returning to the salons where Vatel had laid the dinner tables.

Already, courtiers in their hundreds were thronging around the platters of ducklings and fattened chickens and roasted meats of every kind, accompanied by countless garnishes, baskets of fruit and spectacular cakes.

Cries of delight sounded from the neighbouring room, where the guests were being treated to their first sight of the colossal full-length portrait of Louis XIV, which Fouquet had unveiled on the King’s arrival.

Seated on a dais and looking down upon the throng, the King responded with cordial nods to the guests who jostled for pride of place in his field of vision. The Queen Mother, seated by his side, seemed to be suffering from the heat; she refused the food and was frantically waving a Spanish fan in front of her pale, tired face.

Fouquet stood by the door, receiving the compliments of those who were returning from the gardens, their eyes filled with wonderment at the sights they had just witnessed.

‘What luxury,’ said a voice behind him.

Fouquet turned to see Colbert, a glass of red wine in his hand, leaning against a pilaster.

‘What can one devise that is too beautiful to please a King?’ Fouquet replied, his cool tone tinged with hostility.

Colbert raised his glass with a nod.

‘Pray excuse me,’ Fouquet cut him off icily, ‘it is time for me to go and enquire if His Majesty is ready to see Monsieur Molière’s play.’

Turning to leave, the Superintendent did not see the little man’s gaze stab him in the back.