The Sun King Conspiracy (6 page)

‘C
OULD you tell me where Monsieur de Pontbriand lives, please?’

The little boy in the torn trousers, sitting on the doorstep of the house in Rue des Lions Saint-Paul, looked up in astonishment. The sight of such a pretty young woman here, just before noon, was most unusual. He brazenly ogled the dress worn by the young lady who had ventured alone and on foot into this modest district, whose boundaries were delineated by Rue Saint-Antoine in the north and the Seine in the south. He blushed as his gaze reached the young woman’s face, and she smiled magnificently as she looked into the depths of his eyes.

‘Dunno! Best go and look for him around Hôtel Saint-Paul, where the nobility live. All you’ll find in this street, princess, are stonemasons, carpenters and joiners – no “Pont-whatsisname”!’

The young lady answered in a sweet voice:

‘But I am quite sure of the address. It is very important to me. Are you sure you don’t know Gabriel de Pontbriand?’

‘Oh, Gabriel yes, I know him!’ replied the young boy, happy to have recognised the name. ‘Of course, everybody round here knows Gabriel. He’s an actor with the great Molière’s company. At this time of day you’ll find him at home. His room is up in the attic.
Go up the staircase, right to the top, there’s only one door. You can’t mistake it.’

‘Thank you, charming boy,’ said the young girl as she swept into the building, leaving the boy speechless at having discovered his friend Gabriel’s noble surname.

Seated at a dark wooden table, Gabriel had just finished examining the papers contained in the red document case he had found the previous day. His reading left him perplexed. The papers were incomprehensible, evidently coded. As he turned over the case to study Cardinal Mazarin’s crest, the young man blanched, realising the enormity of the situation. Gabriel went through the parchments one by one, attempting to identify a clue. The only thing he could decipher was the signature at the end of each sheaf of documents. The names of their authors appeared clearly, and in full.

Just then, the young man froze and turned white. Trembling, he murmured the words ‘My father’. He had spoken out loud to make the discovery more real. The paper fell from his right hand. He had just read the signature at its foot:
Brother André de Pontbriand.

At that precise moment someone knocked at the door, forcing Gabriel to pull himself together.

Swiftly concealing the documents under his bed, the young man snatched up the script of the play to give himself an air of composure.

‘Come in,’ he said at last.

A face appeared in the doorway, and when two white hands pushed back the hood obscuring it, Gabriel exclaimed in amazement:

‘Louise!’

‘Don’t look so shocked, my friend, you’re as white as a ghost,’ replied Louise de La Vallière teasingly, delighted by the effect of her visit upon the young man she had not seen for seven months.

‘Louise de La Vallière! What a surprise,’ Gabriel’s colour was gradually returning, along with the determination to give a warm welcome to his extremely pretty friend. ‘Do please sit down. Try this armchair,’ he said, indicating the most comfortable chair he possessed.

The room was modest and unadorned, but reasonably large. The plaster and wooden walls were clean. In one corner, an iron bed stood opposite a small table and two chairs. The only hint of grandeur was provided by an old velvet armchair with a broken leg, propped up on some old books. A wardrobe completed the furniture. Since there was no bookcase, an impressive number of books were scattered all over the place. Gabriel had been living here since his arrival in the autumn of 1660, after he had run away. Optimistic by nature but with a determined, adventurous streak, he had moved directly into this room devoid of luxury or comforts, and he had paid for it with the meagre earnings from his employment with Molière from then on. Fortunately, his natural joviality and infectious enthusiasm had helped him to strike up many friendships, particularly in this humble neighbourhood where he so enjoyed living. His natural charm had also opened the doors to a world that was entirely new to him: the world of pleasure and feminine conquests. An actor at heart, Gabriel enjoyed being charming, delightedly displaying his talent to the only audience he had at present: the young women whose eyes shone when they saw him …

‘I was the first to be surprised, when I spotted you last night outside the Palais-Royal theatre with the actors from Monsieur Molière’s company,’ explained Louise. ‘I didn’t know you were in the capital, and I had no idea that you were living in such destitution,’ she remarked, gazing sadly at the sparse room. ‘Nor did I realise that you were so chivalrous and such a good fighter,’ she added, laughing.

Gabriel smiled in response to her teasing, and at the unexpected pleasure of their reunion: Louise de La Vallière, Louise whom he’d known for ever … They had so often roamed the country paths of Touraine with other well-born young folk from Amboise … Now, with Louise, he felt as if he had rediscovered his beloved homeland and the sweetness of his childhood at a single stroke.

Although still stunned, he could not help noticing her luxurious outfit, the shimmering fabrics of her gown and the watered silk jacket which she wore carelessly draped over her shoulders. Once again he took in the dazzling clarity of her complexion, the vibrant colour of her eyes, the reflections that played in her hair with each graceful movement of her neck.

‘So this morning I went to the theatre,’ Louise went on, untroubled by his insistent gaze. ‘And I conducted my own investigation. Two smiles and a few coins persuaded the good concierge to give me the information I needed. That is how I found you. But now you owe me some explanations. Why did you leave so suddenly last year? Nobody here seems to know you by anything other than the name Gabriel. Why hide yourself in this room, which even a monk would spurn?’

Gabriel then sat down opposite his friend and gave her a detailed account of the past months. He answered all her questions and hid nothing about his situation. Confiding in her made him calmer.
He learned that Louise had arrived at Court in January, to become companion to the future wife of Monsieur, the King’s brother. The performance of
Dom Garcie
had been her first outing and she was looking forward to her imminent official presentation to Louis XIV and the Queen. The two friends were delighted as they rediscovered each other, such a long way from their roots. Their conversation went on for a long time, and dwelt on memories of happy childhood moments. Both were orphans who had barely known their fathers: Gabriel had been brought up by his uncle, and Louise by her stepfather, under the warm and watchful eye of King Louis XIII’s brother, Gaston d’Orléans, whose patronage had continued to benefit the young girl after his death. After all, it had just opened the gates of Court to her.

‘But tell me,’ urged Gabriel with growing excitement, ‘what have you seen? And what is Court life like?’

Patiently, Louise recounted the splendours and the boredom of her new existence, the moments of idleness and the burden of etiquette. She described a life of hope and uncertainty, grandeur and pettiness.

‘Yesterday, we spent four hours sewing and then unpicking some facings planned for the trousseau of Mademoiselle Henrietta of England, because the colours initially chosen were too close to those of the English republican supporters and might have displeased the English Court …’

‘Are you happy?’ Gabriel cut in suddenly, taking her hand.

Louise lowered her eyes as if looking for her slender fingers lost in Gabriel’s broad, fidgety hands. Then she looked up and met his gaze.

‘I don’t know if I’m happy,’ she replied. ‘But my heart is beating
again, I encounter surprise after surprise, and I feel as if anything is possible! You know, it’s strange, at night here I sometimes dream of the meadows where we used to walk. And in those dreams I miss them; yet in recent months, before I arrived at Court, they bored me to death.’

Gabriel’s eyes followed her as she suddenly got to her feet, a dreamy look on her face.

‘I loved those meadows with you, when the field behind your uncle’s house seemed like the Americas to us and we told each other stories about the unicorns hiding in the woods around the chateau where I lived. Do you remember? By the time you left, the unicorns were long gone. Well, arriving here, I feel as if I’m again discovering an unknown world. A beautiful world: it’s impressive, terrifying sometimes, but wondrous, don’t you think?’

‘My situation is different, Marquise,’ Gabriel answered, teasing her. ‘You live in a palace, I live in a hovel …’

It was almost two o’clock in the afternoon when Louise left. Gabriel accompanied her down to the street, and they promised they would see each other again as soon as possible. As the young man watched her go, filled with emotion, his thoughts returned to the incredible discovery of his own father’s signature on the Cardinal’s coded papers. Everything was mixed up in his head, making him feel dizzy.

Lost in thought, Gabriel did not notice the man watching him attentively, hidden in the carriage entrance on the other side of Rue des Lions Saint-Paul.

A
RRIVING by way of Via Giulia, a little early for his appointment, François d’Orbay took some time examining the outside of the palace where he was to meet the Archbishop of Paris. On a fine sunny morning like this, the Parisian architect could marvel endlessly at the second floor and the cornice designed by Michelangelo himself. He stood outside the building for a while, contemplating the very special harmony of its façade built, it was said, with materials taken from the city’s ancient ruins. The largest private palace in Rome exuded an atmosphere that was at once austere and imposing: doubtless a reflection of its first owner, Pope Julian III, thought d’Orbay.

‘Kindly inform His Excellency that Monsieur François d’Orbay has arrived,’ the visitor told the man in red livery who had just opened the door of the Farnese Palace with a flourish.

‘Monsieur is expected,’ replied the servant in French, but with a strong Italian accent. ‘If Monsieur would be kind enough to follow me …’

As he entered the building, d’Orbay once again admired the interior garden, which constituted one of its masterpieces. In the great gallery, he could not resist pausing for a moment, dazzled by the radiant sumptuousness of the vaulted roof, painted a century earlier by Carrache. This baroque design, directly inspired by mythology, shone with a joyous plethora of colours that was in itself
fascinating. As he reached the door to Paul de Gondi’s office, the architect pulled himself together. He had not come that morning to enjoy the riches of the palace occupied by the Archbishop of Paris.

‘Monsieur François d’Orbay,’ announced the servant, stepping aside to allow the visitor to pass.

D’Orbay bowed deeply. When he looked up he was impressed, as he always was at their meetings, by his host’s alert, almost youthful air. Simply dressed in a cassock, Paul de Gondi stood up to greet his visitor and walked towards him with a broad, welcoming smile on a face lit by dark, penetrating eyes.
It’s hard to believe that this is the man who made the King of France tremble, forced Mazarin into exile and almost seized power; the man who inspired the greatest conspiracies of the century; the former prisoner who escaped from the Château de Nantes!
thought d’Orbay.
Nobody would think he’s forty-eight years old!

Exiled to Rome since the failure of the Fronde rebellion, Gondi had retained the noble bearing of those who love to dazzle, despite his many exhausting wanderings during the ensuing years. As a result of assiduously spending time with men of great faith, the former brilliant theology student had also cultivated a suave manner that made him even more charming. The two men had got acquainted through spending time together during the architect’s stay in Rome the previous year.

‘How happy I am to see you in Rome once again, my dear d’Orbay! When did you arrive? Was your journey a pleasant one? What news is there of our capital?’

The Archbishop vigorously clasped François d’Orbay’s hands in his. A little taken aback by this torrent of words and surprised by the unexpected show of affection, the architect hardly knew which question to answer first.

‘A thousand thanks for receiving me this morning, Monseigneur.
I too am delighted to see you again in this city, and especially to find you in good health.’

‘Please, do take a seat,’ said Paul de Gondi, indicating an armchair.

‘Monseigneur, as we agreed I have come to show you some sketches for the painted screens which you would like made,’ said the architect, reaching into his bag and handing the Archbishop a rolled-up document.

‘Excellent, excellent,’ said Gondi, carefully examining the charcoal drawings depicting his favourite heroes from ancient Greece. ‘You praised your craftsmen’s skills very highly to me; when will you be able to set them to work? Now that I have seen these sketches, I am impatient to admire the final result and have them here before me.’

‘Monseigneur, your impatience flatters me. I imagine that I shall be able to fulfil your expectations by the summer.’

‘Excellent, excellent. I am told that Mazarin is at death’s door,’ commented the Archbishop, suddenly changing the subject. ‘Is there really hope that the Kingdom of France will soon be rid of that villain?’

‘Monseigneur, for several days the Chief Minister has not left his bedchamber, and he has ordered his secretariat to put his papers in order …’

‘The better to conceal the shameful origins of his fortune!’ Gondi interrupted with sudden excitement. ‘By the grace of God, I am at last to be avenged for all these years of injustice. Your words confirm my own intelligence. I have maintained strong friendships right up to the doors of the King’s apartments, you know.’

The architect told himself that he had been right to request this audience. Despite his exile, the man who had been one of the leaders of the Fronde rebels in 1648 clearly still had eyes and ears all over Paris.

It remains to be seen whether the Archbishop of Paris is capable of hatching a new conspiracy by uniting those still nostalgic for the Fronde, and then coming to upset our plans
, thought d’Orbay.

‘Nonetheless, I fear that Mazarin may succeed in manipulating destiny one more time,’ went on the Archbishop, his expression suddenly anxious. ‘That scoundrel will use his last ounce of strength to pillage the State exchequer. You will see: he will make all or part of his immense fortune disappear into his family’s pockets. Doubtless he is already destroying the papers which would compromise him.’

He broke off for a moment, as if to reflect upon some intricate point, then changed the subject again:

‘My Parisian friends are convinced that the most committed religious networks have already been reactivated. Do you have any information on that subject?’

Prudently, d’Orbay did not answer immediately.

‘All Paris is in turmoil, Monseigneur. After all these years, Mazarin’s victims are so numerous. It is difficult to determine whether one camp will be able to triumph over the other. As for the Court, it speculates whether the young King has the capability to operate alone once his godfather is dead. In the salons, there is incessant chattering about the profusion of influences which will come to supplant the Italian in the sovereign’s mind.’

‘And the common people?’ Gondi asked again. ‘What is their talk of? What are they saying? What are the rumblings?’

‘Their mood is difficult to grasp. I believe Mazarin himself no longer perceives the changes of mood in the King of France’s subjects with the same precision as before. It is like the end of an era; other aspirations are emerging. Europe has seen more sizeable rebellions in the last twenty years than during the previous hundred. Rebellions that were, moreover, unforeseen – without famine, without excessive taxes. I myself believe that the Kingdom’s destiny
will depend to an extent upon the ability of future Mazarins to comprehend these developments.’

‘And how is the good Monsieur Colbert?’

‘As usual, he is putting all his knowledge and skills to the service of his master,’ replied François d’Orbay.

The Archbishop nodded and seemed once again lost in thought.

‘You are right. Mazarin’s death will unleash profound upheavals. Everything depends on who comes to power. The post of Chief Minister will be vacant tomorrow, but there may prove to be many candidates.’

The Archbishop spoke more softly.

‘Nicolas Fouquet, for example … I am told that he is currently arming troops at his estates on Belle-Île. But doubtless you know more than I do on that subject, my dear d’Orbay, since you are the architect of the chateau being built at Vaux-le-Vicomte by the Superintendent of Finance?’

From this reply, the architect deduced that their conversation about the future of the Kingdom would go no further.

‘I fear, Monseigneur, that I have no further information on that subject.’

Clearly, Paul de Gondi had no desire to reveal his opinion on Fouquet, nor for that matter to reveal his intentions for the future. As the conversation moved on to less weighty subjects, the architect told himself that his host had remained faithful to his legendary self: cautious, very well informed, but above all puffed up with pride.

As he left the Farnese Palace just as the bells of Sainte-Béatrice were striking noon, François d’Orbay was convinced that the former Fronde members had no clear strategy as the death of their old Italian enemy approached.

That should simplify our task
, he told himself as he turned round to take a last admiring glance at the design of the palace’s façade.