by Rita Monaldi
"Nothing could have been more false: Fouquet had always pointed out to the Crown, but in vain, the danger of imposing excessively high taxes. When he was sent to the Dauphine as Intendant for Finances, for the purpose of squeezing more taxes out of those refractory people, he had even succeeded in getting himself dismissed by Mazarin. After thorough inquiries, Fouquet had in fact concluded that the taxes levied in that region were intolerably high and he had even made so bold as to present in Paris an official request for exemption. The members of the Parlement of Dauphine had all mobilised in his defence."
Those times seemed, however, to have been forgotten. At the beginning of the Superintendent's trial, no fewer than ninety-six charges were read out, which the rapporteur of the Bench sensibly reduced to about ten: above all, he was accused of having made the King bogus loans, on which he had unjustly charged interest; secondly, of illicitly confusing the King's money with his own, and using it for private purposes; thirdly, of receiving from subcontractors more than three hundred thousand livres in exchange for granting them favourable conditions; and of having personally encashed the revenue from this operation, using false names; fourthly, he was charged with having given the state expired bills of exchange in return for cash.
When the hearing opened, the people's hatred for Fouquet was most violent. In the days following the arrest, the guards took care to avoid certain villages in which the mob was ready to tear him to pieces.
Locked in his tiny cell, isolated from everything and from everyone, the Superintendent was unable fully to grasp into what an abyss he had been cast. His health declined and he asked to be sent a confessor; he sent memoranda to the King in his defence; four times, he begged him in vain for an audience; he had letters circulated in which he proudly pleaded his cause; he cherished the illusion that the incident could be concluded honourably. All his requests were rejected, and he began to realise that there was no breach in the wall of hostility raised against him by the King and Colbert.
In the meantime, Colbert was manoeuvring behind the scenes: he summoned the members of the Chamber of Justice in the King's presence and subjected them to innuendo, coercion and threats. He did worse with the witnesses, many of whom were investigated in their turn.
We were interrupted by Ugonio. He showed us a trapdoor through which he and Ciacconio had lowered themselves a few weeks earlier, thus discovering the gallery which we were now moving along.
"Where does the trapdoor lead?"
"To the hinder part of the Subpantheon."
"Bear this in mind, my boy," Atto said to me. "If I have understood correctly, this trapdoor leads to some underground chambers behind the Pantheon. Thence, one finds one's way into some private courtyard and, finally, we can use one of your keys to open the gate and go out into the street, is that not so?"
Ugonio nodded, with a coarse, self-satisfied smile, adding that there was no need for any key, as the gate was always left open. Having taken in that news, we all continued our march, and Abbot Melani, his narration.
At the trial, Fouquet defended himself alone, without any lawyers. His eloquence was prodigious, his reflexes ever prompt, his argumentation, subtle and insinuating, his memory, infallible. His papers had all been requisitioned and probably purged of anything that might be used in his defence; but the Superintendent defended himself as no one else could. For every challenge he had a ready answer. It was impossible to catch him out.
"As I have already mentioned, the counterfeiting of certain documentary proofs by one Berryer, Colbert's man, was discovered. And, in the end, all the documents in the case, a veritable mountain of paper, did not suffice to prove a single one of the charges against Fouquet! What did, however, tend to emerge was the responsibility and involvement of Mazarin, whose memory must, however, remain immaculate."
Colbert and the King, who had trusted in a swift, utterly servile and merciless judiciary, had not foreseen that many of the judges of the Chamber of Justice, who were old admirers of Fouquet, might refuse to treat the trial as a mere formality.
Time passed quickly: from one hearing to another, three long years had soon gone by. Fouquet's passionate harangues had become an attraction for all Paris. The people, who, at the time of his arrest, would have torn him apart, had come gradually to feel pity for him. Colbert had stopped at nothing to raise ever greater taxes, which were to serve for the pursuit of more wars and the completion of the Palace of Versailles. More than ever, the peasants had been tormented, abused, even summarily hanged. The Serpent had increased the pressure of taxation far beyond anything that Fouquet had ever dared impose. Moreover, the inventory of all the property owned by Fouquet at the time of his arrest proved that the Superintendent's accounts were in deficit. All the splendour with which he had surrounded himself had been no more than dust thrown in the eyes of creditors, with whom he had personally exposed himself, not knowing how otherwise to meet the costs of France's wars. He had thus contracted personal debts amounting to sixteen million livres, against a fortune in land, houses and offices valued at no more than fifteen million livres.
"Nothing when compared with the thirty-three million livres net which Mazarin left to his nephews in his will."
"Then Fouquet should have been able to obtain an acquittal," I observed.
"Yes and no," replied the abbot, while we stopped to replenish the oil in one of the lanterns. "In the first place, Colbert succeeded in preventing the judges from seeing the inventory of Fouquet's property. In vain, the Superintendent requested that it be placed among the documents before the court. And then, immediately after the arrest, came the discovery that was to bring about his downfall."
This was the last of the charges levelled against him, which had nothing to do with financial malpractice or any other question involving money. This was a document which was found hidden behind a mirror when Fouquet's house at Saint-Mande was searched. It was a letter to friends and relatives, dated 1657, four years before his arrest. In it, he expressed his anxiety at the growing mistrust which he sensed on the part of Mazarin and the intrigues whereby his enemies sought to ruin him. Fouquet then gave instructions concerning the action to be taken in the event of Mazarin's ordering his incarceration. This was no plan for an insurrection but for subtle political agitation, destined to alarm the Cardinal and lead him to negotiate, in full awareness of Mazarin's inclination to back off when faced with an awkward situation.
Notwithstanding the fact that there was no word in the document of any uprising against the Crown, the procurer presented this as a plan for a coup d'etat; in other words, something like the Fronde, which all the French remembered only too well. Again, according to the procurer, the rebels were to take refuge in the isolated fortress of Belle-Ile, which belonged to Fouquet. Emissaries of the investigators were sent to Belle-Ile, off the coast of Brittany, and these did their best to present as proofs of guilt the work on the fortifications, the cannons and the stocks of gunpowder and ammunition laid up there.
"But why had Fouquet fortified the island?"
"He was a genius of the sea and of marine strategy and he planned to use Belle-Ile as a support base against England. He had even thought of building a city in that place with its excellent natural harbour and particularly favourable position, so as to divert from Amsterdam all the commercial traffic of the North, thus rendering a great service to the King of France."
Thus, Fouquet, who had been arrested for embezzlement, found himself tried for fomenting sedition. Nor was that all. At Saint-Mande, a padlocked wooden box had been found containing the secret correspondence of the Superintendent. The King's representatives found therein the names of all the accused's most faithful friends, and many trembled at this. Most of the letters were sent to the King and in the end they were all entrusted to Colbert's care. He kept many of them, being well aware of their potential usefulness as a means of bringing pressure to bear upon those involved. Only a few letters, which Colbert was able to select in his own good time, were burned so as not t
o compromise some illustrious personage.
"Do you then think," I interrupted, "that the letters from Kircher which you discovered in Colbert's study were found in that box?"
"Perhaps."
"And how did the trial end?"
Fouquet had requested that several judges should be challenged on grounds of partiality: for instance, Pussort, Colbert's uncle, who persistently referred to the Serpent his nephew as "my party". Pussort attacked Fouquet so coarsely as even to prevent him from responding, thus upsetting all the other judges.
Chancellor Seguier also sat in the court, yet during the Fronde he had been among the insurgents against the Crown. Fouquet observed: how could Seguier judge a state crime? The next day, all Paris applauded the brilliant counter-attack of the accused, but the challenge was rejected.
The public began to murmur: not a day passed without some new accusation being levelled against Fouquet. His accusers had made the rope so thick that it was becoming too unwieldy to strangle him with.
So, the decisive moment drew nigh. Some judges were requested by the King in person no longer to take an interest in the trial. Talon himself, who in his speeches for the prosecution had showed great zeal without obtaining much success, had to make way for another Procurator-General, Chamillart. It was he who, on 14th November, 1664, set out his own conclusions before the Chamber of Justice. Chamillart called for Fouquet to be condemned to death, and for the restitution of all sums illicitly taken from the state. It then fell to the rapporteurs of the trial to make their concluding speeches. Judge Olivier d'Ormesson, vainly subjected to Colbert's attempts at intimidation, spoke passionately for five whole days, unleashing his fury against Berryer and his men. He concluded by calling for a sentence of exile: the best possible solution for Fouquet.
The second rapporteur, Sainte-Helene, spoke in more languid and tranquil tones, but called for the death sentence. Then each judge had to utter his own verdict.
The ceremony was long-drawn-out, agonising and ruinous for some. Judge Massenau had himself carried into court, despite a grave indisposition, murmuring: "Better to die here." He voted for exile. Pontchartrain had resisted Colbert's allurements and his threats: he too voted for exile, thus ruining his own career and that of his son. As for judge Roquesante, he ended his own career in exile, for not having voted in favour of a death sentence.
In the end, only nine out of the twenty-six commissaries opted for the death sentence. Fouquet's head was saved.
As soon as it became known, the verdict which saved Fouquet's life and gave him back his freedom-albeit outside France-met with great relief and was greeted by much rejoicing.
It was here that Louis XIV entered the scene. Overcome by wrath, he resolutely opposed exile. He annulled the sentence of the Chamber of Justice, thus rendering utterly pointless the three long years of the trial. In a decision unique in the annals of the Kingdom of France, the Most Christian King reversed the royal right to commute sentences, hitherto used only to pardon, and condemned Fouquet to life imprisonment, in solitary confinement, in the distant fortress of Pinerol.
"Paris was utterly shocked. None could comprehend the reasons behind that gesture. It was as though he nurtured a secret and implacable hatred for Fouquet," said Abbot Melani.
It was not enough that Louis XIV should dismiss him, humiliate him, despoil him of all his property and have him imprisoned on the faraway borders of France. The King himself sacked the Chateau de Vaux and his residence at Saint-Mande, decorating his own palace with Fouquet's furniture, his collections, carpets, gold services and tapestries and incorporating into the Royal Library the thirteen thousand precious volumes lovingly chosen by the Superintendent in the course of years of study and research. The whole was valued at no less than forty thousand livres.
To Fouquet's creditors, who suddenly emerged on all sides, there remained: the crumbs. One of them, an ironmonger named Jolly, forced his way into Vaux and the other residences, furiously tearing off with his bare hands all the padding and wall-coverings of precious leather; he then dug up and carried off the exceedingly modern lead pipes and hydraulic conduits, thus almost reducing to nothing the value of the parks and gardens of Vaux. Stucco decorations, ornaments and lamps were hurriedly stripped away by a hundred angry hands. When the pillage came to an end, the glorious residences of Nicolas Fouquet resembled nothing so much as two empty shells: the proof of the wonders which they contained rests only in the inventories of his persecutors. Fouquet's possessions in the Antilles were meanwhile plundered by the Superintendent's overseas dependents.
"Was the Chateau de Vaux as fine as the Palace of Versailles?" I stupidly asked Atto Melani.
"Vaux anticipated Versailles by a good five years," said Atto with calculated bombast, "and in many ways it was the inspiration behind it. If only you knew how heart-rending it is for those who frequented Fouquet, when moving through the Palace of Versailles, to recognise the paintings, the statues and the other marvels that belonged to the Superintendent and which still have the savour of his refined and sure taste…"
I said nothing and even wondered whether he was about to give way to tears.
"A few years ago, Madame de Sevigne made a pilgrimage to the Chateau de Vaux," Atto resumed. "And there she was seen to weep for a long time at the ruin of all those treasures and their great patron."
The torment was compounded by the system of incarceration. The King gave orders that at Pinerol Nicolas Fouquet was to be forbidden to write or to speak with anyone, apart from his gaolers.
Whatever the prisoner had in his head or on his tongue was to remain his and his alone. The only one entitled to hear his voice, through the ears of his keepers, was the King. And if Fouquet did not desire to speak with his tormentor, he had but to keep silence.
Many in Paris began to guess at an explanation. If Louis XIV wished to silence his prisoner for all eternity, he had only to arrange for him to be served a soup with suitable condiments…
But time passed, and Fouquet was still living. Perhaps the question was more complicated. Perhaps the King wanted to know something which the prisoner, in the cold silence of his cell, was keeping to himself. One day, they imagined, the rigours of prison would convince him to talk.
Ugonio called for our attention. Distracted by our conversation, we had forgotten that, while we were in the house of Tiracorda, Ciacconio had smelled a foreign presence. Now the corpisantaro' s nose had again scented something.
"Gfrrrlubh."
"Presence, perspiraceous, antiquated, scarified," explained Ugonio.
"Can you perhaps tell us what he ate for luncheon?" asked Atto Melani derisively.
I feared that the corpisantaro might take this amiss, for his exceedingly fine sense of smell had been useful to us and would probably continue to be so.
"Gfrrrlubh," came Ciacconio's calm response, after he had again sampled the air with his deformed and carbuncle-encrusted nose.
"Ciacconio has scented cow's udderlings," translated his companion, "with a probability of hen-fruit, hamon and white vino, mayhap with broth and saccar."
Atto and I exchanged astonished glances. This was exactly the dish which I had taken such great pains to prepare for the guests at the Donzello. Ciacconio could know nothing about that; yet he was able to discern from the odorous traces left by the stranger not only the smell of cows' teats but even the aroma of a number of the ingredients which I had added to the dish. If the corpisantaro'' s sense of smell was accurate, we concluded incredulously, we must be following a lodger at the Donzello.
The narration of Fouquet's trial had lasted quite a while and during that time we had explored a fairly lengthy portion of gallery C. It was hard to say how far we had come from beneath the Piazza Navona and where we now were; but, apart from some very slight bends, our trajectory had involved no deviation whatever: we had therefore followed the only direction possible. Hardly had we made that observation, when all changed.
The ground became damp and slippery, the air d
enser and heavier, and in the gloomy silence of the gallery a distant rustling sound could be heard. We advanced cautiously, while Ciacconio's head rocked from side to side, as though he were suffering. A nauseating odour could be detected, which was, I knew, familiar, but could not as yet identify.
"Sewers," said Atto Melani.
"Gfrrrlubh," confirmed Ciacconio.
Ugonio explained that the sewage was disturbing his colleague no little, and making it impossible for him to identify other odours clearly.
A little further on we found ourselves walking through real puddles. The stink, which had at first been indistinct, grew intense. At last we found the cause of all this. In the wall to the left, there was a wide and deep opening, through which poured a flood of black, fetid water. The rivulet followed the slope in the gallery, partly flowing along the sides, partly ending up in the seemingly endless darkness of the passageway. I touched the opposite wall: it was damp and left a fine coating of slime on my fingertips. Our attention was attracted by a detail. On its back in the water before us, and indifferent to our presence, lay a large rat.
"Mortified," proclaimed Ugonio, nudging it with one foot.
Ciacconio took the rat by the tail with his two clawed fingers and let it hang. From the rat's mouth into the greyish water there ran a fine stream of blood. Ciacconio lowered his head, observing the unexpected phenomenon with an air of surprise.
"Gfrrrlubh," he commented thoughtfully.
"Mortified, bloodified, maldistempered," explained Ugonio.
"How does he know that it was ill?" I asked.
"Ciacconio loves these little animals very much, is that not so?" intervened Abbot Melani.
Ciacconio nodded affirmatively, showing with an ingenuous and bestial smile his horrible yellow teeth.
We continued on our way, moving beyond the stretch of gallery soaked by the flood from the sewers. Everything suggested that the leakage was recent and that normally we should have found there no trace of water. As for the rat, this was no lone discovery. We soon came across three more dead rodents, more or less of the same dimensions as the first one. Ciacconio inspected them: all bled abundantly from the mouth because, said the corpisantari, of some undefined illness. Here was yet another encounter with blood: first, the bloodstained page from the Bible, then the phial, now these rats.
