The Sun King Conspiracy (12 page)

‘A
ND who is he?’

Julie leant her head towards Gabriel and whispered.

‘That man there,’ she replied, pointing discreetly, ‘is the Prince de Condé, and the lady is the Palatine princess. She has been furious ever since Olympe Mancini started scheming to take over the stewardship of the Queen’s house at her expense. See how angry she looks! The lady she’s talking to, that’s Louise de Gonzague, the wife of the King of Poland and former lady-friend of Cinq-Mars. Oh look, behind her is the Duc de Vendôme. And there’s Madame de Chevreuse. How funny this is, all the old supporters of the Fronde reunited at the Cardinal’s palace after they’ve conspired against him for so long.’

Amused by the young girl’s excitement, Gabriel looked at her in wonder:

‘But how do you know all this?’

‘Goodness me, Monsieur Apprentice Actor, in the theatre we perform for the courtiers. And a craftsman who doesn’t know a thing about his customers cannot serve them properly. Would you go to a cobbler who didn’t know anything about your feet?’

Gabriel smiled and shook his head. Standing in the shadow of a pillar, with their elbows resting on the balustrade which ran all the way around the gallery overlooking the grand vestibule, the two young people watched the procession of guests who had attended
the wedding mass in the Cardinal’s private chapel, and were now heading for the reception halls.

‘What time are the entertainments?’ whispered Gabriel, suddenly serious again.

‘We have time,’ giggled Julie. ‘Unless Monsieur Molière comes looking for you,’ she added teasingly.

‘You’re right,’ said Gabriel. ‘I’ll go and see if he needs me.’

And before Julie had time to object, he headed for the staircase that led to the ground floor.

Downstairs, the sight of so many festive gowns and robes was even more impressive. Everything sparkled with opulence, right down to the livery of the lackeys who circulated amongst the guests to offer refreshments. Gabriel suddenly spotted the newlyweds and flattened himself against the wall in the shadows. Dressed in a sumptuous purple and gold gown which emphasised the fifteen-year-old’s radiance, Hortense Mancini was more ostentatiously languid than usual as she took the arm of the man who had been her husband for the past hour: Armand Charles de La Porte de La Meilleraye.

‘They signed the contracts this morning in front of the Cardinal himself,’ Julie had explained, ‘and they took the name of Mazarin. From now on they’ll bear it along with the titles of Duc and Duchesse, to secure the Cardinal’s lineage. He gave them a gift of more than a million livres, and guaranteed them his collection of antiques and half of his palace,’ she’d told him eagerly, as if this largesse might be contagious. ‘People are even saying that he might make them his sole legatees.’

Gabriel’s silence had not cooled Julie’s enthusiasm.

‘You know, the Cardinal chose Maréchal de La Meilleraye’s son
in preference to Charles Edouard de Savoie and even Charles II, the current King of England! Even though he’s almost twice her age! And do you know why? Because he’s the grand-nephew of Cardinal de Richelieu through his mother, Marie de Cossé. Through him, Mazarin has reunited his family with Richelieu’s and assured them a place in history.’

Behind the married couple came one of Hortense’s sisters, Marie, who was visibly moved by the marriage, perhaps because her own was fixed for only a few weeks’ time.

‘See how sad she looks,’ Julie had said, moved to pity. ‘People say she weeps for the King, because she was desperately in love with him. And loved by him in return,’ she had added, emphasising each syllable. ‘And now she’s leaving for Italy to marry a complete stranger: Onulphe Colonna, Prince of Naples …’

Glancing towards the main entrance, all Gabriel could see was an impressive rank of guards. The rumble of conversation drowned the music played by the chamber orchestra, led by a small, nervous man whom Julie had pointed out to him as a very promising Italian composer called Lulli, recently arrived in France.

‘Gabriel?’

The exclamation made the young man jump.

‘Louise!’ he replied happily at the sight of his friend.

‘Don’t tell me you were looking for me?’

‘To tell the truth, no, I’m looking for Molière, but he must be sorting out the playlets for the supper entertainment. I’ll probably find him in the main hall.’

The girl touched his arm.

‘You can’t imagine how pleased I am to see you. You’ll never guess what happened: the King spoke to me! It’s true, as true as you are standing there! The King of France spoke to me!’

‘Child …’

Gabriel smiled and replaced a blonde ringlet which had slipped down over the young woman’s face, before realising how inappropriate this gesture was. Seeing him start, Louise understood his concern and drew him behind one of the pillars that supported the colonnade.

‘Take care, Monsieur! You call yourself an actor, but you’re not playing your part very well!’

‘Don’t joke about it,’ Gabriel cut in, his tone serious. ‘You know what will happen to me if I am recognised. Fortunately, nobody looks at actors. It’s a rather curious paradox. Louise, what’s the matter?’ he added, noticing that she was no longer listening to him.

Putting his arm round her shoulder, he turned and saw what had attracted her attention.

‘The King,’ she whispered, blushing.

The royal couple were indeed entering the hall, prompting a wave of movement and a distinctive rustling sound. They walked serenely through the corridor of people which had formed to allow them passage.

‘They’re on their way to the Cardinal’s apartments. He came back from Vincennes this afternoon after the contracts were signed, first to be in his chapel and now here,’ murmured a voice very close to them.

Looking up, Gabriel could not identify who had spoken. As he observed the still-dreamy Louise out of the corner of his eye, a liveried lackey from the King’s household detached himself from the troupe following the royal pair and suddenly appeared right in front of them.

‘Mademoiselle de La Vallière?’ he asked in a tone which indicated that he already knew the answer.

When Louise nodded, the man removed an envelope from the left sleeve of his livery, bowed, and handed it to her. Then, without further explanation, he disappeared.

Rooted to the spot, Louise turned to Gabriel and showed him the paper.

‘A note from the Duchess no doubt,’ he said, laughing in his friend’s ear, ‘or perhaps a copy of that lampoon against the Cardinal …’

She shrugged her shoulders and sighed.

‘That’s not very amusing,’ she said, breaking the seal on the paper.

Thinking that he had spotted Molière at the back of the room, Gabriel stood on tiptoe and saw the familiar figure disappear in the direction of the dining room. Turning back to Louise to tell her that he was off to track down his master, he was struck by the young woman’s pallor and the distracted expression on her delicate features.

‘Louise,’ he said gently, with a frown. ‘Louise.’

She stood clasping the letter tightly, but did not respond. Gabriel took her by the arm.

‘What is it?’

She raised her blue eyes towards him, infinitely slowly. In them he saw a strange brightness, like excitement mingled with a little fear.

‘The King, Gabriel, the King …’

‘The King?’ Gabriel coaxed her, understanding nothing.

‘He’s the one who had this letter brought to me.’

The young man’s eyes widened.

Louise turned crimson and bit her lip.

‘I must go,’ she said, drawing back.

‘But where?’ Gabriel asked, following her.

She turned aside again.

‘I don’t know, to get some air.’

The voice which rang out behind them made them start. They turned to see the Superintendent of Finance’s ironic smile.

‘Well, well, it’s our friend the political actor! Monsieur Molière is sweating profusely at the thought of this evening’s spectacle, and here you are enjoying yourself! You see, Monsieur de La Fontaine, this is the young man I spoke to you about the other day. I told you he had spirit; and he must certainly be cherished by Providence, for he seems to have good luck, too,’ he said for his companion’s benefit, with a small bow to Louise de La Vallière.

Disconcerted, she gave a small curtsey. Gabriel stammered as he introduced her, not realising that Fouquet was poking fun at him, an actor with a taste for high society.

‘Go, Monsieur, go and join Monsieur Molière; I have seen how valuable you are to him when he is worried.’ The Superintendent smiled. ‘As for you, Mademoiselle, our meeting is both a pleasure and a source of concern to me. My friends had in fact told me how much your presence at Court has raised its prestige: but I am disappointed that their description was so much less than the truth, and delighted to be able to correct it with my own eyes.’

Then the Superintendent bowed and, without waiting for a response, continued on his way across the hall, with La Fontaine following in his wake.

Colbert, who had appeared in the doorway to the Cardinal’s apartments to estimate the number of revellers, feigned indifference as he watched them pass by. Sweeping the remainder of the room, his piercing gaze lighted on the figures conversing in the shadow cast by the pillar.

‘It’s them again,’ he muttered. ‘Fouquet has just left La Vallière and that Gabriel fellow. All three of them together this time. I swear
I shall get to the bottom of this.’ He raised his voice to address the butler who was with him:

‘Come, it is time for everyone to be seated. Go and inform the Cardinal and ensure that the roast meats are prepared. And tell the actors to be ready to start.’

‘I have to go,’ Gabriel told Louise. ‘Are you sure you’re better now?’

‘Yes go, my friend, go,’ Louise reassured him with a small smile that scarcely brightened her now-pallid face. ‘I shall go home to rest. I will be in touch.’

Regretfully, the young man went off to the dining room. The doors were now open, allowing glimpses of the immense tables separated by giant candelabra whose light complemented that of the twelve chandeliers suspended from the ceiling. Each table was covered in gold and silver-gilt plates and cutlery, and surrounded by a bustle of liveried lackeys who rushed about bearing silver platters laden with game, meat and fish shaped into pyramids and geometric forms. Motionless, Louise seemed to be watching the revellers who were leaving the room and heading for the wedding supper. The enigmatic note seemed to be burning the palm of her hand.
The King has invited me to Versailles
, she thought, once again feeling her head spin.
To Versailles, and it is a ‘secret’ which we share, he wrote that word.
She smiled without realising.
I share a secret with His Majesty!

And, as though terrified by her own thoughts, she hurried towards the exit.

‘H
OW sad, he’s just like Mascarille!’
3

‘The procession is pitiful and the spectacle ridiculous,’ replied the courtier, who nevertheless bowed deeply in deference as the sedan chair bearing His Eminence passed by.

At around eleven o’clock that morning, the Cardinal had demanded to be dressed, powdered and attended by his barber in order to ‘show himself to the good common folk’. With infinite difficulty and proceeding cautiously, Jules Mazarin’s devoted servants had succeeded first in getting the sick man out of bed, and then dressing him. In order to try and hide his greenish complexion, his cheeks had been rouged. The Cardinal had even insisted on having his hair curled.

Thus attired, the most powerful man in France had taken the air for almost an hour in the gardens of the Château de Vincennes, obliging the numerous visitors and beggars of all kinds to bow each time he passed by.

The sick old man suffered horribly in his chair and cursed ‘the damned useless bearers’. At each painful jolt he groaned and threatened them with the gallows. Jules Mazarin had no notion what a grotesque spectacle he presented. He sincerely thought that he could deceive people by waving a greeting at courtiers as he passed along the sunny pathways.

‘Ten years ago,’ said the Cardinal out loud, ‘ten years ago I was
driven from the Kingdom by the same people who bow before me this morning. Well, the Italian is going to show them that he is still very much alive!’

The Cardinal then reached into his pocket for a small gold box. From it he took a fragrant pastille and placed it in his mouth to combat his bad breath, which had become unbearable. Then, dozing off all of a sudden, he dreamt that he was reliving the terrible days of February 1651. That tragic month ten years earlier had begun with Nicolas Fouquet’s marriage, after many years as a widower, to the young and beautiful Marie-Madeleine of Castille, who was just fifteen. That same day, 4 February, Parlement had spent from six in the morning until six at night feverishly discussing a decree which would expel him. As he dozed, the Cardinal once again heard the footsteps of those who had been allowed to enter the Louvre during the night of 9 February: the common people of Paris, filing respectfully past the foot of Louis XIV’s bed to assure themselves that he was not about to leave them. He remembered the terrible humiliation for the extremely young King, who was traumatised by this nocturnal sight for a long time thereafter. And then he saw himself on the road to Le Havre, alone, leaving for exile in Germany.

‘The cards, the cards, the cards must be made to speak!’ he declared, suddenly emerging from his dream and demanding to be taken back to his apartments forthwith.

His doctors met him at the entrance to his bedchamber. After suffering for several months from acute nephritis, aggravated by pulmonary oedema, the Cardinal had been declining for several days, a decline doubtless exacerbated by the medications inflicted upon him by the Faculty.

‘First a clyster, then bleeding followed by purging,’ said the first doctor.

‘It is vital that he should also drink this emetic wine,’ said the second, pointing to the carafe containing a liquid concoction based on antimony and potassium tartrate.

The arrival of Anne of Austria put an end to the learned gentlemen’s debate around their prestigious patient. Out of respect, they left the room. Mazarin smiled, relieved to be rid of those leeches and pleased to see the woman who had brought him so much happiness throughout his life.

‘Jules, I have received reports of imprudent behaviour. Did you go out into the gardens this morning?’

Without replying, the old man smiled at the King’s mother. He loved to gaze upon the features he knew so well, and to lose himself in the gentle sweetness of those eyes. The silence lasted a long time.

‘I have dictated my will. You should know, Madame, that I have decided to bequeath my entire fortune to the King of France,’ he said in a weak voice. ‘As I prepare to meet God, it seems to me right that I should give back these possessions which, alas, were often improperly acquired!’

‘My dear Jules, this act honours you and I regard it as further proof of your constancy in being a true father to my son,’ said the Queen Mother, whose eyes had grown misty with tears. ‘But you know perfectly well that the King of France cannot accept it,’ she sobbed. Thinking that she had wounded the Cardinal, she then added: ‘Your legacy is magnificent. You crushed the Fronde, brought back order to our provinces and made peace with Spain. In bringing about this marriage between Louis and the Infanta Maria Theresa, you have also opened up a new era of serenity for the Kingdom of France. This sound foundation, along with everything he has learned from you, will enable our dear child to display his talent in the future by making your conquests bear fruit. If, as you often predict, “he goes
further than previous monarchs”, such will be your legacy.’

‘Well, if Louis refuses my will, so much the better,’ replied the Cardinal enigmatically.

Clearly the day’s efforts had exhausted the old man. The Queen Mother decided to withdraw, to allow him to rest. As she was leaving the bedchamber, she passed the fortune-teller who had come to read the cards at the Chief Minister’s request. This encounter, together with Jules Mazarin’s surprising words, aroused her suspicions:
What if illness was causing the Chief Minister to lose his mind?