The Sun King Conspiracy (34 page)

P
ALE, haggard and dishevelled, Fouquet removed the ribbon tied around his wrist and threw it to the ground. The shivers that ran through his body betrayed the fever which still racked him. Gabriel was about to open his mouth to say something but Fouquet gestured to him to be silent. From the great entrance hall, guests could still be seen in the grounds, strolling around the lakes in small groups, the women with their shawls pulled tight about their shoulders. Servants passed amongst them and began to dismantle the buffet tables set up in the groves. Two lines of guests formed multicoloured columns in the pale moonlight, hurrying to the chateau’s gates, and carriage wheels could be heard crunching over the gravel driveway.

The two men remained silent for a moment, watching. The clicking of footsteps on the flagged floor made them turn round. There stood d’Orbay, leaning against the doorpost, looking serious and tired.

Fouquet and Gabriel looked at each other but said nothing.

Finally d’Orbay approached them.

‘Well, here we are,’ he said, his voice faint and full of emotion. ‘Mass has been said, Messieurs, and I fear that our dream will disappear with the dawn’.

Fouquet looked at the architect in astonishment.

‘It was probably madness to believe in it, but anyway, we cannot go
back. What has happened has happened. We have tried to be faithful to our ideal to the end, rejecting the risk of division and civil war amongst our people. And we have dealt with ingrates throughout. Worse, nobody listened to us. But what does it matter now? We have gone too far to retrace our steps. This evening, Messieurs, our boats burned along with the fireworks. The King may pretend to misunderstand; but he understands very well. He knows the risk.’

The architect looked at the cupola above their heads and reached up towards it with an open palm.

‘It’s there, just up there between the two ceilings.’

He lowered his gaze and looked coldly at Fouquet, who was still impassive.

‘We must act immediately. A copy of the document must be taken to the Papal legate and to Parlement as soon as possible, and messengers will have to deliver it to all the provincial assemblies. Immediately afterwards, our troops from Belle-Île and Brittany will march into Rennes and Nantes, and then on to Angers, Orléans and Paris. Four weeks from now, Nicolas, when the explosion has resounded throughout the Kingdom of France, we can seize the reins of power.’

His eyes were fiery as he looked deep into those of the Superintendent.

‘We must act, Nicolas,’ he went on, more urgently this time. ‘If we do nothing, we are lost and the Secret is lost with us.’

Fouquet shook his head.

‘All is not lost François, I am sure of it. We must not yield to panic. The King did not reject my offer. He did not say no. He said nothing at all. I shall go and see him; I shall take the time to show him the document in detail. He will come to his senses. He will understand where the truth lies and will not resist it. He will meditate upon its
meaning and acquiesce, I am convinced of it. We cannot risk a civil war. The King will be won over,’ he insisted.

François d’Orbay sneered at him.

‘I cannot stop you believing in your dream, Nicolas, but you are on the wrong track. I shall leave for Rome tomorrow, to request our Brothers’ arbitration. At least place our troops on alert,’ he tried once more. ‘Send Gabriel with an order to mobilise.’

‘Two weeks, François, give me two weeks. Between now and then I will win the King’s consent. Go to Rome if you wish, but allow me that time.’

‘Very well. Two weeks, but not a day longer.’

D’Orbay was about to continue the argument, but then let his hand drop in annoyance and turned on his heel.

Gabriel began to follow him, but Fouquet held him back. The young man watched the architect leave, closing the door behind him. When he turned back, Nicolas Fouquet was staring at the cupola and its foiled plans.

‘T
O Fontainebleau!’

From her seat inside the carriage, Anne of Austria heard the order ring out in the darkness and realised that the King was in no ordinary mood. It was still stifling despite the late hour, so when Louis sat down beside her with sweat on his brow, she thought he was suffering from the heat.

A few minutes later, as the carriage travelled between the tall trees lining the road to Maincy, Anne broke the silence.

‘How I wish that your wife could have accompanied us!’

The Queen Mother pursued what already seemed to be a strange monologue as there was still no reaction from the King:

‘I am sure she would have adored Molière’s play and admired the setting, despite her condition. What magnificent gardens!’

The King, who was not normally short of things to say in these rare private moments with the Queen Mother, said nothing. It was as if he were immersed in contemplation of the streets of Maincy, which echoed with the sound of horses’ hooves and the jangling of the musketeers who made up his guard. His retinue seemed in high spirits, and it was clear that the evening had been well and truly celebrated even in the stables.

No one has escaped the Superintendent’s generosity,
thought the King.

Deep within him, a muffled anger was coming to the boil as images
of the folly returned to him.
Why such excessive luxury?
wondered the sovereign,
and what does he hope to achieve by displaying such magnificence in front of the whole Court? Colbert is right,
he told himself again. That evening the Superintendent’s words had seemed to him to be laden with threats. Behind this strange proposition that was supposed to make the French people happy, Louis XIV had a strong sense that his power was being called into question.

‘Are you upset, my son? Did Vatel’s cooking not agree with you?’

The King’s mother wanted to be reassured by the faint smile which appeared on his lips, but decided not to continue the conversation any further.

Louis looked at Anne of Austria as she sat there beside him. Her face was marked by fatigue, and by the effects of the oppressive weather. They were no longer the unlined features he remembered from his childhood, but those of a woman sorely tried by years of power and intrigue. Without being aware of it, he had become an adult. And, in turn, he was soon to be a father. Did he not owe it to himself to prove his new status to the country?

‘Ah, Madame, should we not make all these people return their ill-gotten gains?’

The Queen smiled as she finally understood the reason for her son’s silence.

‘A few days ago, I received Colbert at Dampierre. He had no doubt come to test my feelings with regard to Fouquet,’ she said gently. ‘The Superintendent of Finance is certainly not without his faults, but he has succeeded in reforming the Kingdom’s Treasury. As for his immoderate taste for luxury, he is certainly ostentatious, but in order for the people to love their King, should he not retain as security a few ministers for them to hate?’

‘Madame, I am no longer a child and I no longer need to be advised
on matters of State,’ retorted the King in a tone that brooked no reply.

Silence fell again between the two travellers as the royal cortege reached the leafy outskirts of Fontainebleau. Gazing vacantly out of the carriage, Louis XIV glimpsed the roofs of the royal chateau. This sight reminded him of the ostentation of Vaux.

Had the Queen Mother not been dozing, she would have been able to hear the King of France mutter:

‘He has stolen my dream. He will pay for this.’

F
RANÇOIS d’Orbay entered Rome in a torrential rain storm. The architect was forced to stop to prevent his mount slipping on the uneven paving stones or, blinded by the lightning, rearing up and unseating him, and he found refuge beneath the arches of the Coliseum. He waited there, huddled against his horse’s flank, as the raindrops hammered down on the stone and the earth, turning to rivulets on the unmade road surface which ran past the ruins of the ancient forum. A powerful flash of lightning zigzagged across the sky, fleetingly illuminating the silhouettes of the ancient buildings veiled by torrents of water. D’Orbay shivered: whether from cold or tiredness, he could not tell. Since he had left Paris six days earlier, he had taken only a little rest, changing horses frequently so as to arrive at his destination as quickly as possible.

He stroked the neck of his horse, which seemed agitated again. The animal tossed its head then seemed to grow calmer.

D’Orbay again pictured Fouquet’s fixed mask. He could still hear the firm tone of his voice as he was preparing to leave:

‘My destiny will be what it must be. We have to continue right to the end; we cannot deviate from our path. We trust in the King’s loyalty to his people and in the power of the Secret. For my part, I will not be the initiator of a civil war.’

Everything had been said. He had hesitated for a fraction of a second, no longer, and in the look he had exchanged with the
Superintendent, d’Orbay had seen the irremediable split which had thrown them onto either side of a crevasse destined to grow ever wider. Their two lives had for a long time existed together in the dream he had forged, but now they were moving apart, never to be reunited.

‘Come, my friend,’ said d’Orbay softly to his horse, ‘the rain seems to be slackening off. We have to leave; we no longer have much time.’

François d’Orbay stood silently before his peers. He had finished his speech, and felt curiously lighter, as if once again he was sharing the weight that had accumulated on his shoulders and no longer bore it alone. And yet he had realised how desperate his course of action was with each successive sentence; he knew it could not lead to anything.

Giacomo Del Sarto gazed impassively at the architect.

‘The risk is great and you were right to come and inform us. Nicolas must be allowed to pursue his logic to its conclusion; such is his judgement. Let us only pray that he has seen clearly. Out of prudence we should prepare for the possibility of failure … In other words, the possibility that we might have to use force, or even save what can be saved if we lose that battle too …’

D’Orbay searched the doctor’s bright eyes for a trace of accusation, reproach or regret. And yet he saw none of these things. All he saw was the eternal flame borne across centuries by generations of men just like themselves, and the calm certainty that beyond the potential defeat of the present, others would emerge to take up their torches and wait in the shadows until the hour of victory tolled.

The hour which I shall not see,
he thought suddenly.

Del Sarto was now listing the precautions they would have to take, the places, practices and identities they would abandon, the new, far-off horizons towards which the documents now concealed between the two cupolas of the dome at Vaux-le-Vicomte would travel, the means whereby they could hide their tracks from those trying to follow them, and the methods they were to apply that would dissuade those who had the upper hand from believing that they could push their advantage further.

The Brotherhood was in the process of returning to the silence of anonymity once again, d’Orbay was certain of it.

For ten, fifty, a hundred years?
he wondered.

His chest tightened. He swayed, passing a hand across his forehead. Then he signalled to the speaker to continue and straightened up.

A hundred years. Perhaps a thousand.

Now that they were alone again, Del Sarto’s anxiety showed. He had been observing d’Orbay too, and had detected the fissure which had opened up in the architect’s heart.

‘When are you leaving, François?’

D’Orbay shrugged his shoulders.

‘As soon as possible. I have to see Gabriel as soon as possible.’

And pass the torch to him,
he thought.

‘That is good,’ replied Del Sarto. ‘Pray Heaven that young Pontbriand proves to be carved in the image of his father and carries out our plan as best he can. And what about your own family?’ he went on, more gently.

The architect did not answer. Images of his wife and children passed through his mind. Where were they now? Asleep no doubt, in a house where the furniture was already packed up, the luggage
ready. Ready to run away, without ever understanding, never asking questions. Without ever being given a reason.

‘What did you say?’ Del Sarto, thinking that D’Orbay had spoken, asked in surprise.

D’Orbay shook his head.

‘Nothing.’

Then it was his turn to look at the doctor.

‘Farewell my friend,’ he said softly.

When they embraced, an icy shiver ran through Del Sarto.
I hope to Heaven that I misunderstood,
he thought in a silent prayer.

H
UGUES de Lionne was already seated in the imposing carriage which had been standing for several minutes at the foot of the steps of the Château de Vaux. Departure was imminent, and everyone was waiting for the Superintendent of Finance. The two men were leaving for Nantes to rejoin the King, who had recently decided to pay a long visit to Brittany. At last Nicolas Fouquet appeared, extremely elegant in a black silk outfit over which he had donned a comfortable cloak to ward off the autumn chill. With it he wore a soft, tawny coloured felt hat. Before getting into the carriage, he took his wife in his arms.

‘Supervise the wine harvest at Thomery, my dear. I’m sorry to leave so suddenly, but the King insists. I love you with all my heart.’ The Superintendent tenderly kissed the woman who had just given him another child.

‘Take care of yourself, my dear! Don’t do anything rash – spare a thought for your children,’ she answered simply.

La Fontaine had also come out to say farewell, and Fouquet took him to one side.

‘My dear Jean, in my absence I’d be grateful if you could attend to a delicate matter. As you know, the sale of my office brought me one million livres, which I immediately handed to the King. Harlay, who organised the transaction, still owes me four hundred thousand livres and is slow in paying. I still have a few fairly substantial sums
in the hands of reliable friends, but that will not amount to much if …’

‘If?’ La Fontaine asked anxiously, frowning. ‘Is there something you are hiding from me?’

‘Not at all! Some say that I will be declared Chief Minister, others that I will be brought down by a terrible cabal. But over the last few days I have felt that the King has been better disposed towards me. It appears that I have regained his trust!’

‘Are you so sure of that?’

‘You’re too pessimistic, my dear Jean. Didn’t you predict a short while ago that I was destined for the Bastille? You see, it did not happen. On the contrary,
He
has summoned me to his side in Nantes. Come, stop tormenting yourself and just help me get back what I’m owed!’ urged Nicolas Fouquet, turning towards those still waiting beside his carriage.

‘D’Orbay!’ exclaimed the Superintendent, seeing his architect leap down from his horse. ‘You are arriving just as I’m leaving!’

‘I came as swiftly as I was able, Monseigneur,’ replied François d’Orbay with a bow.

‘Gabriel will be pleased to see you. If you can manage to track him down,’ said Fouquet with a laugh. ‘I tried to find him to say goodbye, but he had left already at dawn! Let us talk on my return,’ he added quietly, taking d’Orbay’s arm. ‘We shall make whatever decisions the circumstances dictate! But I still have hopes of persuading the King during this trip.’

The architect smiled back at him with a mixture of affection and profound sadness.

The Superintendent climbed nimbly into the carriage and sat down opposite Lionne, whom he greeted warmly.

‘I’m pleased to be making this journey with you, my dear Lionne.
If it’s not too much of an inconvenience, I would like to make a halt in Angers. My family originates from there, you know.’

‘I’ll be delighted to do so,’ replied Hugues de Lionne amiably.

‘Let’s go!’ shouted the Superintendent to the coachman.

With a crack of the whip, the carriage bearing gilded squirrels and the Fouquet coat of arms on each of its doors was finally set in motion.

As they trundled down the avenue, Fouquet caught sight of Gabriel in the distance. Realising that he had arrived too late, he was running towards the carriage. The Superintendent leant out of the carriage door and waved farewell to the young man. He remained in that position to watch the familiar sight of his chateau disappear into the distance.
It certainly has been my life’s work!
he said to himself as he admired the building’s imposing yet delicate proportions.

As he took his seat again, Fouquet shivered.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said to reassure Lionne. ‘It’s the same every time I leave Vaux. I always have the feeling that I’ll never see it again!’