The Sun King Conspiracy (9 page)

‘T
HE King!’

With a great rustling of fabric, the mass of courtiers crushed into the audience chamber at the Château de Fontainebleau respectfully greeted the King with the ritual dance of bows and curtseys. The men swept off their hats, and the women knelt within the circles of their ample gowns. The King walked slowly across the silent hall, smiling at no one in particular, not even at his wife the Queen, whose full attention was taken up with keeping precisely in step with him. The little Spanish princess had become Queen of France six months earlier, by arrangement between the two powers. Pale, and with that aura of fragility which always surrounded her, she was still nervous about the strange etiquette of the Court, executed as it was in a foreign language; an etiquette whose false simplicity and curious whims she could not understand. The royal couple reached the throne, and the King gestured to the assembly to rise. Then he looked questioningly at his secretary, who held the running order of the session. An ambassador stepped forward, bearing credentials, which Lionne came over to receive in the King’s name. The monarch listened with a fixed smile to the formal message, delivered in a strong accent by the Nordic diplomat. The King’s thoughts carried him far from this chamber and from these faces that he knew rather
too well but did not trust. He was riding in the forests of Versailles, and carousing, perpetuating the ideal of knightly combat that he so relished, in contrast to the horrors of civilian life. Absorbed in his thoughts, he did not smile, and the Queen feared her husband was annoyed because she did not understand what was expected of her. The father who had just stepped forward to present his daughter officially to the Court thought that he had committed some fatal error. A hush descended. Everyone held their breath. Pulling himself together, the King managed a faint smile and a nod of the head, enabling the ceremony to proceed.

‘Mademoiselle d’Épernoy! Mademoiselle de Luynes!’

The names were barked out at the foot of the throne, punctuating the procession of stiff, vaguely frightened-looking girls.
Always the same docile looks, and more often than not, ugly with it
, said the King to himself, once again drifting off into his own thoughts.

How he hated these people and their expectations, and how well he felt he knew their games! As a young boy, he had seen them for what they really were behind their masks, and what he had not been able to see, the Cardinal had patiently taught him how to read, over the years. The young King was overcome by anger and dismay at the thought that not only would his godfather’s illness soon deprive him of his protector, but also that certain people dared to conspire against his own authority. To be King, on his own: the thought both terrified and attracted him like some heady fever. He could almost feel the hot blood flowing through his arms and chest. As Mazarin seemed to grow more bloodless with each passing day, his own blood boiled; the protective shelter provided by the Cardinal was wearing away and his lessons were now no more than the murmurings of a powerless old man.
Power, perhaps that is the elixir of life?
thought
the King, suddenly intoxicated. He closed his eyes to regain his composure.

‘Mademoiselle de La Vallière!’

Opening his eyes again just as she rose from her curtsey, the King met Louise’s gaze.

‘I am aware of all your accomplishments, Mademoiselle. Madame de Choisy constantly sings your praises and my uncle, God rest his soul, attributed the highest virtues to your family.’

Surprised to hear the King speak to her, Louise remained silent, her blue eyes locked with his. He smiled when Louise, realising how inappropriate her conduct was, blushed and lowered her eyes.

The Queen’s sweet voice came to her aid:

‘You come from Touraine, Mademoiselle?’ The Queen’s words were slow, marked by the intonation of her native language.

‘Yes, Your Majesty, through the benevolence of Monsieur d’Orléans I spent my childhood at the Château d’Amboise.’

‘It seems that everyone at this French Court is rootless, torn away from childhood dreams,’ joked the Queen for the benefit of her husband, who heard the quip but did not smile.

Then to Louise:

‘Mademoiselle Henrietta of England, the future wife of the brother of my husband the King, has the good fortune to count you amongst the friends who are to help her as she learns about this new world.’

Louise nodded, curtseyed again and made way for the next girl. As she moved away, she sensed the courtiers looking at her. And in particular, she could still feel the burning traces of the King’s gaze.

At the door, a small man dressed in black, with protruding eyes, stood aside to let her pass. She almost ran to her mother, who had
been unable to hold back her tears as she heard the royal couple’s friendly words, and had taken refuge outside the hall to conceal her emotion.

Still standing beside the door, Colbert watched her suspiciously as she moved away.

‘C
HARLES, Armand, Louis! Come and kiss your father! It is time for you to return to your apartments.’

Aged five, four and eight, the sons of the Superintendent of Finance approached in turn to receive a paternal kiss on their foreheads, the prelude to leaving for their bedrooms.

Nicolas Fouquet always enjoyed this ritual, which on that particular evening took place in the great gallery of his library where he had settled himself an hour earlier. His children had joined him with their governess to play for a little while beside him. He liked to withdraw to this imposing room, to enjoy the sight of the twenty-seven thousand works he had accumulated here, the majority of them bound in fawn calf’s leather and embossed with the interlaced initials ‘NF’. This library, whose collections overflowed into other rooms in the residence, was his pride and joy. He had planned it as a collection of the sum total of universal knowledge and was thinking of opening it to the public, just as Mazarin himself had done. Earlier that evening, he had enjoyed perusing a series of Arabic manuscripts, which he had just acquired at a very high price on the valuable advice of his friend La Fontaine.

‘Dinner is served,’ announced the white-gloved footman who had come to fetch him.

The Superintendent got to his feet regretfully and, straightening up, fell into step behind his servant, who was armed with a
magnificent branched candlestick to light their journey through the long corridors. The immense house in the heart of the village of Saint-Mandé, which gave him so much pleasure, opened onto six courtyards and was in fact made up of several different buildings. Although it looked extremely modest from the outside, inside it was like an elegant palace. They passed through an anteroom decorated with statues of Mercury and Apollo to reach the dining room, whose centrepiece was a white marble fountain surmounted by the figure of a child.

‘Where is Madame?’ he asked, disappointed to discover the table richly laid but for only one diner.

‘Madame has been in bed for two hours. She asks Monsieur to forgive her absence, in consideration of … of her condition,’ replied the servant, slightly embarrassed even though he had expected this interrogation.

Nicolas Fouquet sighed. Marie-Madeleine’s latest pregnancy obliged him to dine alone, something he hated. Just as the servant was about to leave the room, he had an idea.

‘Is Monsieur Molière still waiting for me in the gallery?’

‘Indeed he is, sir. I informed him that he would be granted an audience after supper. He is accompanied by his secretary.’

‘Go and fetch them and bring us some glasses. At least they will divert me with their gossip. And I am sure they will be flattered to share the wine from my vineyard at Thomery.’

The gallery where the two guests were waiting opened onto the garden and was decorated with marble gods from Olympus. Two imposing Egyptian sarcophagi arranged on either side of the room completed the decor, one hewn from basalt, the other from limestone. Visitors were always most impressed by these magnificent coffins, which the Superintendent had purchased in Marseilles.

Accustomed to the long waits Fouquet inflicted on those who came begging, and immune to the charms of ancient Egypt, Molière had spent the last hour deep in conversation with Gabriel. The master had asked his secretary to accompany him, as if he needed reassurance after being victimised by the cabal at the premiere of his new play. The prospect of
Dom Garcie
failing was especially worrying in view of Cardinal Mazarin’s illness which threatened the stability of the Kingdom and therefore, by implication, the generosity of his patrons.

‘You see, my dear Gabriel, these periods of political intrigue are extremely inauspicious for artists like us. We are often hostages to battles for power, which abuse our talent to benefit venal ambitions. Fortunately, I believe that the Superintendent is honest in his dealings with me. What matters is that he guarantees his future at Court,’ he said, suddenly lowering his voice as the footman arrived.

‘His Excellency will see you now, gentlemen. If you would be so kind as to follow me …’

Surprised to find their audience brought forward, Molière stood up, followed by Gabriel who was most excited at being allowed into the private apartments of France’s foremost financier.

‘Be seated, Messieurs,’ said Fouquet, indicating two armchairs opposite him, while the footman poured the renowned Thomery wine into Bohemian-crystal glasses.

‘As you can see,’ he went on, his fingers dripping with butter, ‘this evening I am sampling the famous asparagus which Louis XIV so enjoys. My dear Vatel praises this fashionable vegetable highly, and it is indeed very pleasant, even if it would take a wheelbarrow-full to satisfy my appetite. But I imagine, my dear Molière, that your visit is not inspired by gastronomy?’

Clearly embarrassed to find himself a spectator at the Superintendent’s dinner table, Molière cleared his throat and drank a mouthful of wine before answering.

‘Monseigneur, I have come to report on how I have taken the Palais-Royal Theatre in hand since January. I am also anxious to tell Your Excellency once again how very grateful I am for the trust you showed me on that occasion.’

‘I am told,’ Fouquet intervened softly, ‘that your latest creation is not encountering the success you expected it would, as the opening show of your season. Is this a malicious rumour, or have you lost the touch which made
Les Précieuses
such a triumph?’

He’s dropping me
, Molière told himself, the shock rendering him unable to articulate the smallest intelligible phrase in response to this provocation from Fouquet. Reading despair in his master’s eyes, Gabriel dared the unimaginable.

‘Monseigneur, if I may permit myself, you have spoken truly, and like you, Monsieur Molière fears that he is the victim of an odious machination.’

Dumbstruck by this impertinence, even though it was delivered extremely courteously by the young man, the Superintendent stopped chewing the chicken leg he had been devouring. Molière, terrified by his young secretary’s audacity, wished that the ground would open and swallow him up.

‘That sorry individual Berryer,’ went on Gabriel, this time with real assurance, ‘came to the premiere with his henchmen, deliberately intending to provoke a disturbance in the audience. Is he not known to be a close associate of certain highly placed individuals who are currently wallowing in intrigue, taking advantage of His Eminence the Cardinal’s temporary weakness? My master was just telling me
again how honoured he was to count you amongst his most faithful supporters, and above all as a shield, drawing the attacks from Monseigneur’s enemies.’

Enchanted now by Gabriel’s skill, Molière watched the Superintendent’s reaction out of the corner of his eye. Fouquet was stroking his narrow moustache which he had doubtless cultivated in order to balance his rather prominent nose.
This boy has spirit
, he thought.

‘Monseigneur knows how much he can count on me in all circumstances,’ continued Molière, snapping out of his lethargy, and reassured by the lack of reaction from his host.

‘For my part,’ replied the Superintendent, emerging from his reverie, ‘I will once again demonstrate my trust in you. Monsieur Molière, you know how highly I value the educative virtues of your art. This is not a view shared by many of my contemporaries, and even less by my equals. What can I say? I dream of a world in which the theatre could, for the great majority of people, make up for the lack of education which is so harmful to the Kingdom’s future. I am therefore quite willing to renew my support for you in these difficult times. Your allowance will be increased to two thousand livres straight away. Go and find Monsieur de Gourville first thing tomorrow – he will make the necessary arrangements. I would also like you to compose a new play for me in your style, as a fitting celebration of the end of the works I began several years ago on my land at Vaux. I want a joyous entertainment to cheer the Court this summer. Have it ready in six months!’ finished the Superintendent, tucking into another chicken leg with gusto.

Relieved by this outcome, Molière signalled discreetly to Gabriel, and the two men bowed and left.

Nicolas Fouquet was perplexed as he finished his meal. The frankness of that honest-looking young man, whose name he did not even know, had awakened a deeply buried suspicion which now gnawed at him. He, Nicolas Fouquet, was the most powerful and undoubtedly the wealthiest man in the Kingdom after Mazarin; he was the King’s loyal servant and the favourite of Anne of Austria; every influential individual in the land owed him a favour. But could he himself be the target of a conspiracy orchestrated by that wretched little accountant Colbert?
No
, he told himself, finishing his glass of wine,
it’s impossible and it never will be possible!

As the carriage taking them back to Paris left the village of Saint-Mandé, Molière let out a sigh and gave Gabriel a sad but affectionate smile.

‘Thank you,’ he said simply.

The young man did not reply. He gazed out at the cold countryside which still stood between them and the capital and, as he relived that extraordinary evening, he told himself that he was beginning to acquire a taste for the subtle game of power.