The Sun King Conspiracy (29 page)

L
OUISE was not asleep. With open eyes she had watched the candle on the round table beside her flicker and die. Stretching out her arm, she could touch the hot wax that had trickled onto the base of the candlestick before the flame went out.

Now, motionless in the darkness, she allowed her eyes to grow used to the gloom, and saw the shapes of objects reappear: things that had disappeared in an instant when the room had been plunged into darkness. Through the half-open shutters, she heard the sounds of the night and the muffled clamour of the forest that reminded her of Amboise. A ray of moonlight slid fleetingly across the large mirror hanging above the fireplace. She followed it until it disappeared, obscured by the fabric of the canopy suspended above her head. She let her gaze roam over the fine linen sheets, over the bedspread that had half fallen to the floor. She felt a desire to seize hold of the hand that lay upon that sheet, to slip her slender fingers between those strong, powerful fingers which, even in sleep, were still clenched almost into a fist. She sat up to look at the face of the sleeping man whose back was towards her. Once again, she felt her heart pound and could not suppress a smile.

‘My lover,’ she whispered, tracing the line of the man’s ribs with her finger. ‘My lover, the King of France.’

Suppressing the desire to laugh, she slid out of bed and ran on tiptoe to the window. Pushing aside the curtain, she looked at the
leaves swaying in the wind, and the clouds lit up by the moon as it ran above the forest.

Now she could see things more clearly: the carafe of wine and the glasses, the chairs on which they had sat, her clothes too, she thought, treading on her abandoned gown where it lay on the carpet. As she walked past the mirror, she started at the sight of her silhouette before laughing at the prudish reflex that had made her instinctively cover up her breasts. Coming closer, she let her arms fall to her sides and smiled at her reflection.

‘Here is the mistress of the King of France,’ she murmured in a low voice.

The touch of her palms on her thighs made her shiver.

She turned back towards the sleeping King, towards his hands whose caress she could still feel on her back, on her legs. She reddened as she thought of the crude words he had uttered, the voracious kisses that were almost bites, the whirlwind which had swept her up when he laid his hand on her, the unknown fever by which she had felt herself carried, and swept away. She paused as she saw the sleeping man stir in his dream, waiting until he sank into calm again.

She would have liked to know what he was dreaming, but she no longer had need of his words, not for the moment, nor of any of those almost violent acts that had frightened and delighted her at the same time. ‘Louise’: he had spoken her name with a gravity she had never seen in him, and he had told her how much he had been afraid of losing her, but that she need not worry now, he would protect her, and no enemy could harm her; ‘nor any so-called friend’, he had added, returning momentarily to his customary haughtiness. She had tried to stop him saying that he found her beautiful, and had blushed and protested when he said it anyway.

Oh! If only this moment could last for ever! A week ago I was in terrible trouble, and now I am the King’s mistress,
she thought with fervour as she toyed with the ornaments on the marble top of the chest of drawers.
When I tell Gabriel
… Immediately she regretted her thought. The blood rose to her face. No, Gabriel must never know! Was she mad? Of course he had saved her, but …
in another life
were the words that came to mind. Gabriel de Pontbriand had saved little Louise de La Vallière.
But little Louise,
she thought, once again sliding pleasurably beneath the warm sheets,
little Louise is no more!

T
HE woman scowled at the moonlight which projected her shadow onto the garden wall. With her hand, she swiftly traced an inscription in the earth she had just turned over, then immediately wiped it away, muttering a few guttural words. Straightening up, she spat onto her hands and began filling in the hole she had dug at the foot of a shrub and into which she had slipped three shapeless packages wrapped in brownish cloth. Throwing in the last spadeful of earth, she gave it a few more blows with the back of her spade to pack it down.

Only then did she take time to breathe, hands on hips, before wiping her forehead with a cloth attached to her belt. Unconcerned that her hair was dishevelled and sticking to her temples, she picked up her spade and was heading for the half-open door at the back of her little house when the sound of a carriage on the uneven paving stones of the street made her freeze. She held her breath for a moment, just long enough to be sure that the sound of hooves did not herald a patrol of the militia on night watch.
No, it is only her. Right on time,
she grinned to herself, hurrying towards the house.

‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ she replied furiously in response to the sound of banging on the door. ‘Not so loud!’

The door creaked open. The silhouette of a woman could be made out in the gloom of the space that served as a living area. The
wooden table and the two benches flanking it were only partially lit by the fire in the hearth. Above the fireplace and along the walls, strangely shaped bottles were arranged on shelves, separated by books of spells and wooden or metal boxes piled on top of each other. On the ground, patches of damp oozed through the ochre-coloured earthen floor.

Olympe Mancini pushed back the hood of her cloak and forced herself not to retch as the suffocating, sweetish odour hit her nostrils.

Her hostess watched her slyly in silence, still rubbing her earth-covered hands on the rag knotted to her belt.

‘How may I be of service to you, Madame?’ she began in as friendly a tone as she was capable of. ‘Perhaps I can use my arts to unburden you of some inconvenience …’ she continued, deliberately staring at the young woman’s hands, which she kept crossed over her belly.

Olympe looked her up and down haughtily.

‘That’s not what I’m here for. I had thought your sorcery would be more perceptive,’ she said maliciously.

The woman instantly shrank at the accusation. ‘Madame,’ she stammered, ‘there are words …’

‘You do not know me,’ Olympe cut in, walking around the room and looking up at the collection of dusty flasks. ‘I, on the other hand, know who you are, and the nature of your art. You are Catherine Voisin, witch, poisoner and abortionist! I am here in the name of interests which are beyond you, and which you could not even imagine. If you even try to find out more, I promise you that the Chief of Police will soon be taking an interest in the curious plants you tend by night in your garden.’

Catherine Voisin trembled.

‘And the other packages you deliver for those extremely unorthodox nocturnal ceremonies.’

Olympe allowed her threats to have their effect before continuing, turning towards the woman.

‘But if all goes well and if you manage to hold your tongue, you have nothing to fear. Abortions and Black Masses are of no interest to my associates. What does interest them, on the other hand, is to ensure an effective and undetectable means of cutting short the passage of someone they know through this vale of tears.’

Reassured that the conversation had returned to her trade, Catherine Voisin managed her honeyed smile again.

‘Yes, yes, I see. Is it a man, strong, thin, a small woman?’ When she saw Olympe’s look of suspicion, she said, ‘I have to know for the dosage; one does not kill a rat in the same way as a dog.’

Alone in the carriage with the curtains drawn, Olympe took the small glass phial from beneath her cloak. Holding it carefully in her gloved hands, she raised it to the level of her eyes and gazed for a moment at the turbid, milky-blue liquid.

This time, Colbert will be pleased,
she thought.
What a simple mechanism life is! And so fragile!
The clatter of wheels resounded in her ears as the carriage travelled through the darkness, while the face of Louise de La Vallière danced before her eyes.

S
TANDING on the topmost white stone step overlooking the park, Nicolas Fouquet watched his children playing with hoops. His eyes followed their game as they ran about and tumbled, letting out shouts of joy and peals of laughter, and the Superintendent could not bring himself to return to his office. Distractedly, he picked a red flower from one of the majestic vases decorating the flagged area, and toyed with it, pulling off its petals one by one.

‘Armand, let go of it!’ shouted one of the childish voices, suddenly petulant.

Lowering his eyes, Nicolas Fouquet looked at the flower stem, which was now bare. With a sigh, he cast it to the wind and turned on his heel.

As the double doors opened to admit the Superintendent, his visitor turned away from his contemplation of one of the canvases hanging on the wall.

‘Monsieur Jabach,’ Fouquet greeted him, ‘I very much regret having made you wait, all the more so since I abandoned you to a work unworthy of you. Your eyes will resent me for wounding them with so little refinement compared to what they are accustomed to gazing upon.’

The financier bent forward in an exaggerated bow, the fabric
of his customary black garments pulled tight by the extent of the movement.

‘Not at all, Monsieur Superintendent. This canvas is in fact very fine, and the scene …’

‘The battle between the Horatii and the Curiatii.’

‘… is handled with great skill. Incidentally, the hospitality of your house could change lead into gold,’ smiled Jabach.

‘Thank you for coming,’ continued Fouquet, his serious tone indicating that he wanted to get to the point of their meeting.

‘The honour is all mine,’ replied the financier, pretending not to have understood that the time for civilities was over.

‘Monsieur Jabach,’ said Fouquet, showing his guest to a chair, ‘I shall not beat about the bush. My clerks tell me that two bills drawn on your establishment for a sum of …’

He stretched out a hand to a file laid out on a small sideboard beside his own chair and briefly flicked through it.

‘… two hundred thousand écus have just been rejected by your accountants. I am also informed that the file was immediately passed to one of the King’s stewards, that is to say, one of my subordinates?’

Jabach merely blinked and pursed his lips.

‘Monsieur Colbert, to be more precise.’

The Superintendent’s voice became more terse.

‘Doubtless this is a careless mistake compounded by a coincidence, but I am hoping for an explanation without delay, Monsieur Jabach, in the name of the frankness which you so praised in my presence not so long ago.’

Jabach opened his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

‘Monsieur Superintendent, I am your banker and through you the King’s banker. Your account with me is important, you know that.
But do not ask me to play according to any rules other than those of my profession. Politicians take risks, Monsieur Superintendent, and bankers manage them. The subtle distinction is important.’

Fouquet’s tone turned icy.

‘Meaning?’

‘That I cannot pursue a loan without a minimum guarantee. Without it I would be the one taking all the risk … and I would have no chance of recovering the sum.’

Fouquet leapt to his feet, striking the back of his armchair with the flat of his hand.

‘But the guarantees exist!’

‘For you, Monsieur,’ Jabach defended himself, ‘but not for the Treasury. And whereas Nicolas Fouquet is a good customer and a good payer, the State – do not make me suffer for my frankness, Monsieur Superintendent – is an unreliable payer.’

‘There’s nothing new about that!’

‘In principle no, Monsieur Superintendent, but over and above the principle, in finance, there are rules for large transactions. And in the absence of credit these make clear stipulations. Monsieur Superintendent, listen to me carefully,’ went on Jabach, standing up too as if to parry the anger which had brought colour to Fouquet’s cheeks, ‘and remember our meeting! You talk of frankness: did I not warn you against the dangers of taking on risks which exceed your limits, in your own name? And all this for the benefit of a third party whose solidarity and gratitude towards you were not assured? You were the one who told me that you would make sure you were protected.’

‘I can accept the vagaries of politics,’ hissed Fouquet, ‘but I will not put up with treachery! And since you speak of our past
conversation, shall we make a new pact? Let’s continue to play your game of truth. The decor of my office is less fitting than your gallery, but never mind, we must make do with what we have.’

Jabach looked pained.

‘Do you dare to claim that Monsieur Colbert’s involvement in this matter is pure chance, and that it has nothing to do with your sudden revelation of the perilous nature of my pledges?’

Jabach shook his head.

‘I did not say that your pledges were perilous, Monsieur Superintendent. I would not presume to judge your practice of using your own credit for the benefit of the royal Treasury. I will even say that, to my mind, it bears witness to a great deal of devotion and gallant spirit. I only said that even
your
credit, which I alone may judge, can have limits, and that those limits have now been reached. In this I have not betrayed you, not ever. As for the involvement of a third party in this affair …’

The financier hesitated.

‘Well, all right, since we are playing let us play to the end: it is true that the information I received relating to the shipping companies your family has acquired, and to your investments in Brittany and the construction of your chateau at Vaux, did influence my opinion. That is true. But what was I supposed to do? Forgive me, Monsieur, but I return to my argument: politics is for politicians; I am merely a banker.’

The little man approached Fouquet, fixing his dark eyes upon him.

‘I am beholden to no one, Monsieur Superintendent. What is more, I have no worth in that respect, since no one would wish to be attached to me or to one of my people, even as an owner. You think of power and, nobly, of serving the King. I do not have those
preoccupations. I seek to survive. I have seen too many of my kind end up on the scaffold, Monsieur Superintendent, to be anything other than wary of flattery and promises.’

It was Fouquet’s turn to look at him in silence.

‘Not taking sides is in itself taking sides, Monsieur Jabach. Your reasoning is hollow. I pray only that Monsieur Colbert’s promotion to Vice-Protector of the Academy of Fine Arts, in other words to all-powerful master of the Kingdom’s art market, in no way influenced your decision.’

Jabach’s eyes flashed.

‘I should have added that I am not sensitive to insults either, Monsieur Superintendent,’ he snapped, heading for the door.

‘The traitor,’ muttered Fouquet as he watched the little man walk pompously away. ‘La Fontaine told me so often enough.’

He clenched his fists.

‘I must act quickly; there isn’t a moment to lose. I must have that credit. I shall deal with Jabach later.’

Anger suddenly gripped him again.

‘Colbert’s traitor!’ he shouted out.

His voice echoed in the empty room.

The sound of someone crying made him turn round.

‘Papa,’ sobbed his youngest son, frightened by the noise, ‘Marie-Madeleine has stolen my hoop!’