The Sun King Conspiracy (20 page)

T
HE last rays of sunlight were disappearing above the forest, leaving a few rosy streaks amongst the fat clouds massed on the horizon. Lost in contemplation, Louise de La Vallière gazed through the window of the anonymous carriage which had come to fetch her from the toll-gate in Faubourg Saint-Germain. In an effort to control the emotion which made her hands tremble, she had spent the whole journey looking out at the countryside, as the carriage brought her via the Meudon road to the marshy valley where the Versailles hunting lodge stood. The young girl frowned with disappointment as they rounded the final bend and she spotted the building’s rectangular mass.

‘I’d imagined it would be bigger,’ she murmured to herself.

Then she felt herself blush at her own audacity, and her heart began to race again. She could see the fascinating image of the King’s face in her mind’s eye; it had filled her dreams for the past fortnight, ever since her presentation to him and the receipt of that note. She had not dared reply but there had been a second note, and a third … and now she was on her way to this momentous meeting.
‘I am hunting at Versailles that day and dare to hope that you will consent to join me for supper there at the haven inherited from my father which I cherish most particularly. If you do me this honour, you will find a carriage awaiting you at the toll-gate of the Abbey de Saint-Germain at
five o’clock. There is no need to respond. Not daring to ask for a “yes”, even a “perhaps” is enough to fill my heart with hope.’
She recited the words of the message for the hundredth time. Everything, right down to the absence of a signature, touched her, moved her and thrilled her by adding to the romantic nature of the adventure. She felt fleeting remorse at not having spoken to Gabriel about these exchanges, though she had found him anxious and curiously distant during the past few days. He had refused to answer her when she questioned him about this silence.

The carriage’s final jolt as it stopped at the end of a little road lined with cypress trees brought her back to reality. As she stepped down from the carriage, she noticed that it was now completely dark.

‘Take care, Madame, the ground is uneven,’ said the manservant who lit her way.

The cold made her shiver and she pulled her stole up over her head, holding it tightly about her shoulders. At the end of the pathway, a lantern hinted at the lodge’s contours. As she began to walk along the earthen path, Louise imagined she was dreaming again as she had as a child. She had walked just like this, or even run, towards the prince who would tear her away from her life in Anjou, carry her far away from her family, far from the burdensome reality whose boredom she could not share with anyone except Gabriel, her confidant and playmate.

‘You’re a boy,’ she would say. ‘You can leave, run away, fight, become a buccaneer … But I have nothing to look forward to.’

How she had wept when he disappeared without trace!

The lodge was quite distinct now, its rows of red brick interspersed with white stone from the quarries nearby.

‘My God, it’s a far cry from Amboise,’ she murmured as she stepped onto the paved terrace that led to the entrance.

The hunt had been disappointing. They had tracked a young stag all day, only for it to escape in the end, toying with the hunting party and leaving them exhausted and robbed of their victory. Furious, the King had abandoned the hunt there and then, working off his anger by riding his mount at breakneck speed through the woodland which sloped down towards the valley. The musketeers had difficulty in following him and were dismissed at the gate, the King demanding that his carriage be readied without delay, and that he be left alone. The coach left shortly afterwards with the entire retinue, but without the King, who had discreetly remained in the apartment which had been appointed for him on the upper floor of the hunting lodge. An hour later, the sovereign’s anger had abated only slightly. Still in his hunting clothes, having merely scrubbed his upper body with cold water and exchanged his leather baldrick for an indoor jacket of purple silk, Louis XIV was still wandering about his office, his heavy boots echoing on the wooden floor. The creaking of carriage wheels and the neighing of horses drew him to the window, which overlooked the surrounding woodland and the track that led to the back of the lodge to facilitate secret arrivals. Narrowing his eyes to see more clearly, the sovereign suddenly made out the bright patch of Louise’s gown. She was walking quickly, scarcely lifting her skirts whose hems concealed her feet giving the impression that she was moving without touching the ground. The King observed the graceful silhouette with a satisfied sigh as its features gradually became clearer. She looked up as she approached the building, and he smiled, knowing that she could not see him. He realised that it was the innocence and dignity that emanated from her slender neck, her narrow, almost triangular face, and her large bright eyes that
was so moving. Tearing himself away from his contemplation of her as she reached the front steps, the King of France automatically glanced in the mirror as he left the room. He saw the reflection of a young man of twenty-three, whose eyes still burned with the embers of rage, now softened by a roguish glint.

The King wiped his mouth, drank a mouthful of wine and looked up at Louise.

‘Do you like the quails? And the wine? It comes from the vineyard at Vougeot. Monsieur de Condé did me the honour of giving me several cases because I was weak enough to tell him that it was to my taste. But you are not eating anything,’ he added, serving himself again from one of the numerous dishes lined up between them on the pristine tablecloth.

‘The Prince de Condé?’ murmured Louise.

The King merely smiled.

‘Such is my cross, Mademoiselle. Everyone thinks they can interpret my words and imagine that they please me by repeating things which once solicited a word of appreciation from me, when that word may have been spoken simply by chance …’

Noticing that the young girl was blushing, the King pulled himself up:

‘Look here,’ he said, reaching into his shirt for a small key that was attached to his neck by a golden chain, ‘do you know what this key is, Mademoiselle?’

At the young girl’s stunned expression, the King continued:

‘It was given to me by a loyal friend, who was delighted to be able to bring me a gift of cocoa transported back from the Indies alongside a cargo of spices. He had a hermetically sealed box made,
and locked the cocoa inside it. Then he gave it to me, making me promise always to carry the key about my person for fear that someone might rob me. So I am in charge of the cocoa, and nobody can get to it without my permission …’

He was trying not to laugh.

‘You will note that I accepted it because he is a very dear friend. And I like the idea because it makes me think of him.’

He fell silent for a moment and considered the young girl’s astonished expression.

‘What do you think, do tell me! Do you think I should give it up, take the key from my neck, and hand over the burden to someone else? Don’t be afraid, speak: the King demands your advice,’ he said with mock-severity.

Louise now gently raised her eyes.

‘Not at all, Sire, I think you should keep it. Just make one or two copies of it to enable others to share the cocoa.’

‘How right you are,’ commented the King with a smile. ‘But you have listened enough. Tell me about yourself.’

‘About myself!’ cried the young woman. ‘But Sire, there is nothing to say. I was born seventeen years ago in Amboise, I had a happy childhood thanks to the generosity of your uncle, God rest his soul, and I owe it to his protection that I was chosen as a companion for your future sister-in-law. There is nothing else to say. I have neither a cargo of cocoa to deliver to Your Majesty, nor witty conversation with which to entertain you …’

Louise broke off anxiously. The King had suddenly got up from the table, throwing his napkin onto his plate. Seeing that he was still smiling, she regained her composure and stood too, amazed to see him walk round the table and personally draw back the chair behind her. As she was curtseying, he took her hand without a word and led
her towards the garden. The clouds had drifted away, and stars were now twinkling in the darkness.

‘I love this soft, damp air’, said the King of France. ‘It brings back the taste of my childhood. For me this is a place of repose, and also a dream, the dream of something different,’ he said thoughtfully as he gazed up at the sky.

All of a sudden she shivered, and he asked anxiously if she was cold. She shook her head, but without listening to her he rushed inside, leaving her dazed and alone, only to return a moment later carrying a silk shawl.

‘It was given to me by the Venetian ambassador to support the countless unlikely tales he told me about his compatriots’ exploits in China,’ commented the King in a low voice as he placed it around Louise’s shoulders. ‘Just think, the threads which cover your back have travelled thousands of leagues from China to Versailles,’ he added, standing back to judge the effect of the silken fabric.

‘Look, I am cold too,’ he went on, holding out his hands to the young girl.

Crouching a few yards away in the shadow cast by the trees, a dark figure who had observed the entire scene watched the King and the young girl go back into the lodge, side by side. The silhouette remained there for a few more seconds before disappearing, swallowed up by the darkness.

W
ITH his arms folded, Colbert hesitated for a moment before repeating his order:

‘More to the left … further still!’

The docile workers carrying the heavy antique bowls moved them inch by inch along the wall of the entrance hall, opposite the stone staircase which led up to the first floor.

‘There,’ exclaimed the new Steward of Finance, ‘that’s better.’

He stepped forward and measured with his feet the space between each of the bowls and the black marble cabochons that separated the white marble tiles on the floor. Satisfied that the gaps were equal, he moved away again to enjoy the effect.

‘Good,’ he said, rubbing his hands and setting off upstairs two steps at a time. ‘Now for the chest of drawers on the landing!’

Resigned, the workers followed in his wake.

‘This has been going on for four days,’ whispered one.

‘He obviously never sleeps,’ moaned another.

‘Come, come, hurry up,’ Colbert urged them, at the same time quickly scanning a document handed to him on the stairs by a secretary.

‘Ah!’ he broke off, examining a sheet from another bundle his colleague had given him before leaving as swiftly as he had arrived. ‘Time is pressing and my visitors will have arrived for the meeting.
More’s the pity,’ he sighed regretfully as he glanced at the chest of drawers he had wanted to move. ‘We shall continue later.’

As he walked back to his office on the ground floor, overlooking the garden, Colbert spent a moment enjoying the sight of the new interior: ‘my’ new interior, he thought. For several years, Colbert had been accommodated free of charge in this small private residence adjoining the Cardinal’s. In the four days since he had become its effective owner – subject only to Parlement’s ratification of the will – he had come to regard each room and each piece of furniture with passion. As though endowed with new energy, he had sacrificed some of his rare hours of sleep to undertake the total redecoration of the house to which, until then, he had paid scant attention.

Toussaint Roze – whom Colbert had appropriated without delay – stuck his head through the door of the anteroom.

‘Monsieur Lulli is here, Monsieur,’ he announced.

Without answering, Colbert indicated that his reflections were not to be disturbed. The visitor could wait. This was another rule the new owner had established.

‘Where was I?’ he went on softly, rubbing his eyes which lack of sleep made appear even heavier than usual.

Now that the first stage had been achieved, with Fouquet miraculously distanced from his dream of becoming Chief Minister, he would have to build upon that success. First he would feed the King’s mistrust towards the Superintendent of Finance, started by the intervention of the Cardinal before his death:
Things are moving in the right direction,
thought Colbert. Next he would cut off Fouquet from his networks as much as possible:
That is today’s
task
, he murmured, glancing again at the list of names lying before him.
Once that is done, I must also think about keeping an eye on the King’s volatile temperament,
he told himself thoughtfully.
And shed some light on that curious story of stolen documents the Queen Mother told me about. There is something about it that’s being hidden from me, something that is not entirely above board … I don’t know what part the Superintendent, the travelling entertainer and that scheming woman play in it, but I shall find out every detail in the end.

A carnivorous smile twisted his mouth:

And then I shall think about my position,
he concluded, ringing the bell which the Cardinal had used for so long. Toussaint Roze reappeared at the familiar sound:

‘Why have I not seen the royal warrant for the Vice-Protector of the Academy of Painting and Sculpture? I spoke to Monsieur Le Tellier about it and he was supposed to be bringing it here.’

‘I am expecting it this morning, Monsieur.’

‘Good. I shall look at it over lunch. Now, send in whoever is waiting to see me.’

As Toussaint Roze closed the door behind him, Colbert glanced at the garden, musing that he would also have to redesign the copses.

‘But plants grow so slowly; it takes too much time,’ he grumbled in annoyance.

The sight of the walls enclosing the little park had made him think about the gardens at Vaux. His informers brought him regular descriptions, which made him so angry that he refused to read them.

The door opened again as he looked away from the scarcely flourishing vegetation.

‘Monsieur Lulli, Monsieur,’ announced Toussaint Roze, leaving them alone.

In came the Italian musician, bent double in a respectful bow. He clasped his hands and stretched them towards Colbert in an air of supplication.

‘Ah, Monsieur Colbert, I am in despair!’

‘Come, come, Monsieur,’ urged the Steward, a little surprised by this attack of theatricality. ‘What is the purpose of your visit?’

‘With the passing of Monsieur Cardinal, Monsieur Colbert, I have lost more than a protector, a patron, and the source of my inspiration … The Cardinal, Monsieur Colbert …’ lamented the Italian, whose interminable sentences and gabbled diction were further complicated by his pronounced accent.

Colbert raised a hand to halt the torrent of words.

‘That is sufficient, Monsieur. I understand your distress and it is justified. I share it, as does the entire Kingdom. But for pity’s sake, what is it you need? What is it you lack? What do you want?’

Thrown by Colbert’s cold tone and directness, the musician was struck dumb for a moment.

‘Well …’ he began. Colbert gestured that he should continue.
How I detest him, him and his kind,
he thought as Lulli began a rambling discourse trying to explain that he wanted nothing for himself,
how gladly I would crush them; what the devil was the Cardinal thinking of, putting up with them? And what weakness on Fouquet’s part to support them … At least the trade in paintings, of which the protectorship of the Academy of Painting and Sculpture will give me a monopoly, will enable me to earn some money! But this, this cheap theatrical whining. Anyway, since he’s asking
…

‘Very well, Monsieur,’ he cut in. ‘You wish to be Steward of Music? I have heard your request and I shall look upon it favourably when I speak to His Majesty about you.’

Colbert withdrew his hand in irritation as Lulli attempted to seize it.

‘That will take a little time. I have to take the oath for my new offices. Besides, I have been charged with putting the Cardinal’s affairs in order,’ he said, puffing out his chest, ‘and this will occupy my days to a large extent. But don’t worry, I shall see to it.’

Lulli opened his mouth to thank him, but Colbert glared at him.

‘Do not thank me, Monsieur, before anything has been arranged. Moreover I ask nothing of you except an assurance of your fidelity …’

Lulli nodded vigorously.

‘Your
exclusive
fidelity,’ Colbert concluded, looking him straight in the eye. ‘We understand each other completely, do we not?’

Lowering his eyes, the musician nodded again.

Once Lulli had gone, Colbert allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction.

‘One. A small one, but one all the same. The next one is more important,’ he added greedily. ‘You are to summon Molière as soon as possible,’ Colbert said to Toussaint Roze, who had returned having shown the musician out, ‘preferably before my imminent departure for Fontainebleau, where I am to join the King,’ he added, unable to prevent himself assuming an air of superiority. Then the joyous but cruel gleam that had appeared in his eyes grew brighter.

‘Is he here yet?’ he asked, looking once again at his list of appointments, and at a nod from Roze, Colbert commanded:

‘Show in Monsieur Everhard Jabach!’