Treachery and Treason: The Death of Roux de Marcilly

22 June 1669.

Roux de Marcilly was a Protestant from Nîmes in the Languedoc. Although his real name was Claude Roux, for reasons that will become clear, he usurped the identity of a certain M. de Marcilly, a soldier serving in the army of the maréchal de Schomberg, and who had once been sent to Switzerland on assignment.

   Roux had taken up residence in London, where he made contact with Molina and Lisola, respectively the ambassadors of Spain and the Holy Roman Empire. With France at war with Spain, and much of the fighting taking place in the Habsburg-controlled Spanish Netherlands, Roux activities came to the attention of the French ambassador, Henri de Massué, marquis de Ruvigny, who made it his business to find out what Roux was up to.

   Ruvigny learned that Roux claimed to be a member of the Committee of Ten, a secret political organisation based in Geneva, hence his adoption of de Marcilly’s name. The Committee of Ten was committed to the overthrow of Louis XIV and his government, with a view to establishing a republic in France. Already several French regions with large Huguenot populations had shown an interest, but it was recognised that the plan could not succeed without foreign military support.

   By this time, England, Holland and Sweden had formed a defensive league against France, known as the Triple Alliance, and the Committee of Ten was working to extend the league to include Spain, Austria and the Swiss Cantons. The intention was to use their combined power to initiate a revolution in France. The Swiss were keen to get involved, and it was Roux’s task to persuade England and, if possible, Spain to join in, while concealing from them the true extent of the conspiracy. He had already held tentative talks in England with various ambassadors, among them Lord Arlington, one of Charles II’s ministers, using his valet, a man named Martin, as a messenger.

   This, then, was Roux’s story, but he was quickly recognised as a fraud by the English, who threw him out of the country. Meanwhile, he and Martin had fallen out and while Roux made his way to Switzerland, Martin remained behind in London.

   A few months later, Hughes de Lionne, Louis XIV’s secretary of state for foreign affairs, learned that Roux had returned to London. He wrote to Colbert de Croissy, who had replaced Ruvigny as ambassador, instructing him to place Roux under surveillance and to find out when and by which route he planned to return to Switzerland so that the French authorities could track and seize him. Unfortunately, the cautious Roux managed to avoid capture and arrived safely in Geneva once again. Undaunted, Lionne simply arranged for Roux to be kidnapped, much to the consternation of the Swiss.

   The Swiss had every right to be angry with the French, for by seizing Roux on their territory, Lionne had violated international law. Moreover, the operation had not gone smoothly. Roux’s valet de chambre, thinking the kidnappers were robbers, shot at them and was seriously wounded when they returned fire. With his man left for dead on the wayside, Roux was placed on a horse, his wrists bound to the pommel of the saddle and his ankles tied beneath the girth as he and his kidnappers galloped away. His unfortunate valet was found barely alive but died of his wounds a few days later.

   Having caught their man, the French authorities smuggled him out of Switzerland, taking him by stages through France to Paris, where he was thrown into the Bastille. Meanwhile, back in Switzerland, his lodgings had been raided and certain papers were found bearing the names of high-ranking men in Charles II’s court, among them the Duke of Buckingham and Lord Arlington. A message was sent to Colbert de Croissy in London ordering him to break the news of Roux’s arrest to members of the English court, beginning with Lord Arlington, and to watch closely as he did so to see how they reacted. Whatever explanation the Englishmen offered to justify the presence of their names in Roux’s correspondence seems to have been accepted, albeit with certain reservations.

   Roux was condemned to death by being broken on the wheel. A particularly gruesome, painful and protracted way to die, it entailed tying the victim face-up on a large wheel and then beating him repeatedly with iron bars until the bones of his arms, legs and back were broken. He would then be left to die. Before the sentence was carried out, however, it was decided that he should be put to the question; that is, tortured, to see if he had anything more of interest to reveal. There were also efforts to persuade his former valet, Martin, to return to France to be interviewed. Martin, now settled in England with his wife and children, refused to leave his new home. He feared that should he set foot on French soil he would be seized and imprisoned and made to divulge information he did not have.

   Roux, meanwhile, terrified at the prospect of being tortured, made several unsuccessful attempts to take his own life in his prison cell by various methods, including self-mutilation, hanging and starvation. These repeated assaults had left him so weak that his execution had to be brought forward lest he escape the attentions of the executioners. Strapped to the wheel, he was asked for a final time if he had anything to confess, but he defiantly used his last moments to ‘spit out a thousand blasphemies against the King’s [Louis’s] sacred person with as much strength of mind and body as if he had remained unscathed by his fast of many days and all the injuries he had done himself.’

   Following Roux’s execution, there seemed little point in proceeding with Martin’s extradition order. The former valet was left to live out the rest of his life in peace; whatever secrets he knew concerning Roux’s conspiracy would go with him to the grave.

A portrait of John the Baptist

I am currently in the process of editing the post-graduate work I did on John the Baptist in preparation for publication. I thought you might be interested in this piece I wrote in the section about the Baptist's iconography: 

There is probably no better example of the iconography of John the Baptist as it is depicted in the western tradition than an anonymous portrait dating from c.1680. This painting depicts Philippe d’Orléans, the brother of Louis XIV, as John the Baptist. Although the portrait is that of a prince, it nevertheless contains more John the Baptist symbolism than any other image of the saint. As such, it is well worth a close study. While the portrait is of Monsieur, its subject shall continue to be referred to as John the Baptist.

   John sits in front of a tree in a lush landscape. The tree is that at whose roots the axe is poised (Q 3.9). A deciduous tree, as this one appears to be, symbolises the world in constant renewal and regeneration. That is to say, ‘dying in order to live’, as in resurrection. John, as a saint and martyr, would be resurrected in the last days. It is possible that the tree also signifies the Tree of Knowledge, which was the reason for the Fall and the need for redemption.

   The grass upon which John sits represents submission. The lamb, as has been noted, represents the Lamb of God, Christ, who died for the sins of the world (Jn 1.29). However, the lamb can also represent the redeemed Christian, probably from Lk. 15.3-7, in which the Good Shepherd seeks the lost sheep, representing the penitent returned to the fold. John could be seen as a redeemed Christian, in that this Jewish apocalyptic preacher has been transformed into the messenger of God and the herald of Christ. John’s mantle is a symbol of refuge and safety for humanity. His baptism sheltered the repentant from the wrath of God. It also identifies John with Elijah, who wore a mantle (2 Kings 2.8). The mantle can also signify ‘concealment, mystery, power, and a particular role’. This recalls an interesting ‘concealment tradition’ surrounding John, which is based upon his association with Elijah and is an expression of his status as forerunner to Christ.

   This symbolism applies to John in several ways. Following his arrest, he was concealed in prison. He is mysterious because nothing is known about him from his leaving his parental home (Lk. 1.80) to his re-emergence from the wilderness (Mk 1.1.4 and par.), in fact another concealment. In Mark especially, John mysteriously appears. John is powerful because his ministry attracted many (Mk 1.5), even Christ himself (Mk 1.9). His particular role was as forerunner to Christ. John’s mantle is red with brown fur edging. In Christian art, red represents Christ’s passion and the blood shed upon Calvary. Appropriate to John are its attributes of zeal, faith, power, especially priestly power, and intrepidity. It is the colour of martyrdom and cruelty. It is also the colour of blood, a reminder of John’s sanguinary end. Brown signifies spiritual death as encountered in the monastic world. John is an important model for monks. The colour also represents renunciation. John renounced his birthright to follow in his father’s footsteps in the Temple. He renounced the world in favour of a strict asceticism. His questions to Jesus from prison might be interpreted as a renunciation of faith. Brown also signifies penitence, which John demanded from others as well as himself. It represents degradation, and is appropriate due to John’s ignoble death, but also his will that Jesus should increase, while he should decrease (Jn 3.30). The fur alludes to John’s desert camel hair clothing. As a symbol of repentance, it represents also the garments God made for Adam and Eve upon their expulsion from Paradise (Gen. 3.21).

   In the background lies a city, probably representing Jerusalem. The staff carried by John represents the staff of pilgrimage and is an emblem of John. Here, the staff is topped by a cross, which represents the acceptance of death or suffering and sacrifice, and salvation. John’s death is, of course, accepted in Christian tradition as a sacrifice, and that led to his martyrdom. Rather than being made of reed, the staff held by John in this representation is golden. Gold signifies the sun, which is fitting for John, one of whose feast days coincides wit the pagan sun festival of Midsummer. It also stands for enlightenment and immortality. John enlightened the people to Jesus’ coming, and his immortality is assured due to his sainthood.

   Coiled round John’s staff is a snake or serpent. This creature ties in with John’s Q sermon, in which he addresses some of his hearers as ‘you brood of vipers’ (3.7). However, the serpent wound round a cross, as here, signifies Christ. Its origins lie in Num. 21.8, wherein God tells Moses to put a serpent (or snake) onto a pole to heal the suffering Children of Israel. Its connection with Christ is made in Jn 3.14: ‘just as Moses lifted up the snake in the desert, so the Son of man must be lifted up’. The serpent is blue in colour, signifying heaven and heavenly truth, as well as faith and eternity. Especially apt for the Baptist, blue represents baptism in water in the Gnostic tradition. The Mandaeans, a Gnostic sect for whom baptism is of paramount importance, claim to be the descendants of John’s original disciples. Conversely, for much of their existence, the Gnostic Cathars rejected John as an evil spirit or an emissary of the devil, and saw his water rite as corrupting.

   Water flows from John’s cross, a reminder of his baptism in living waters. Water also signifies regeneration, since water is the basis of life. It also represents purification, as in baptism, as inspired by Ps. 51.2, ‘wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin’. Lastly, John holds a book. This represents the teaching of the nations by the Apostles (Mt. 28.18), the Gospels. It can also signify the two testaments; the old law or Torah, having passed away, and the birth of the new law of Christ, signifying the new age.

   As can be seen, this portrait of Monsieur as John the Baptist contains a very high proportion of symbolism related to John. Ironically, this image, while displaying a remarkable knowledge of John’s iconography on the part of its anonymous artist, was nevertheless intended to flatter the prince rather than to venerate the saint.

The Man in the Iron Mask

My new book, The Man in the Iron Mask, is now available for pre-order:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1445693925/ref=cm_sw_em_r_mt_dp_U_dQDJEbG7HHQ6P

Looks delightfully sinister, I'd say😮😮😮

La Chambre Ardente

7 April 1679, as the Affair of the Poisons erupts in Paris, Louis XIV establishes a secret tribunal to try those involved. Held in a room behind drawn curtains and lit only by a few candles, it was given the sinister name of la Chambre Ardente, or Burning Chamber.

Louis appointed Gabriel-Nicolas de La Reynie, his first lieutenant-general of Police, to investigate the poisoners, many of whom turned out to have connections with the court. So alarmed was Louis that he ordered all records of the interrogations and trials to be burned as soon as the investigation was closed. La Reynie, however, had kept his own copy of the records, and it is thanks to him that we know what went on during that dark and terrifying time.

Most of those who were found guilty were harmless fortune-tellers or peddlers in folk medicine. Only a small minority were involved in satanic rituals and murder.

It is often held that Louis's mistress, Madame de Montespan was heavily involved in the affair. It was said that she had taken part in black mass rituals and ordered poisons to dispatch love-rivals and even to murder the king if he dared to replace her with a new mistress.

This, however, is untrue. It was a common ploy among the accused, and who were awaiting execution, to name imaginary clients from the higher echelons of society. This, they believed, would buy them extra time while the authorities embarked on a new lead. It never worked, and those found guilty went to the fires at their appointed time. Mme de Montespan, who remained a sincere and devout Catholic all her life, occasionally visited fortune-tellers to see what their future held for them, but that was the extent of her involvement. In this, she was no different from any other young lady of her class.

Crisis at Pignerol

On 26 March 1670, the marquis de Louvois wrote to Saint-Mars to give him some disturbing news. Some weeks earlier, two men had broken into the citadel of Pignerol. One was Nicolas Foucquet’s former valet, La Forêt, the other was the sieur de Valcroissant, who went under the name of Honneste. They were well organised and funded, and their aim was to break Foucquet out of prison. Louvois had frustrated their plan. The valet, La Forêt had been hanged, while Honneste, described as a 'gentleman', was sent to the galleys. Foucquet remained in his chamber. Now, Louvois, who had placed a spy inside Pignerol, who related to him all that went on, informed Saint-Mars that the two men had been able to make contact with Foucquet’s two valets, Champagne and La Rivière. This was serious enough, but it was now revealed to Saint-Mars that Honneste or one of Foucquet’s valets had managed to speak to 'the prisoner who was brought to you by the major of Dunkirk.' The prisoner, who had been ordered never to speak to anyone, had refused to say anything. Instead, he told the person on the other side of his door to leave him alone. Louvois suggested that the prisoner probably thought that Saint-Mars had sent someone to test him. ‘You have not taken sufficient precautions to prevent his having any communications with anyone,’ rebuked Louvois; 'and, as it is very important to His Majesty’s service that he has no communication, please inspect carefully inside and outside the place where he is held, and put it in such order that the prisoner cannot see or be seen by anyone, and cannot speak to anyone at all, nor hear those who might want to say anything to him.’ This prisoner would go on to become the Man in the Iron Mask.

The Death of the Man in the Iron Mask

19 November 1703: The prisoner who was soon to become known to the world as The Man in the Iron Mask died at the Bastille. His passing was recorded by Etienne Du Junca, lieutenant du roi at the Bastille, who met this man upon his arrival and escorted him to the chamber he was to occupy for a short while. Du Junca never learned the man's name, nor did he know why he had been imprisoned.

Du Junca kept two private registers: in the first he recorded those who entered the Bastille; in the second he recorded those who left, either by being freed or by dying. His entry for the mysterious prisoner, who had long ago lost his name and his identity, reads:

'Monday 19 November 1703, the prisoner, unknown, always masked with a mask of black velvet, whom Monsieur de St Mars governor had brought with him upon coming from the isles St Marguerite whom he had guarded for a long time, the which feeling a little unwell yesterday upon leaving mass, he died today at ten o’clock in the evening without having had a serious illness; it could not have been more slight. M. Giraut our almoner confessed him yesterday is surprised by his death. He did not receive the sacraments, and our almoner exhorted him a moment before he died, and this unknown prisoner kept here for so long, was buried on Tuesday at four o’clock in the afternoon, 20 November in the cemetery of St Paul our parish. On the register of burial he was given a name also unknown; that Monsieur de Rosarges major and Arriel [sic] surgeon who have signed the register.'

In the margin, Du Junca added: ‘I have since learned that they named him on the register M de Marchiel; that they paid 40 livres for the funeral.'

The prisoner was indeed buried on 20 November 1703 in the churchyard of Saint-Paul-des-Champs. This was, as Du Junca noted, the parish church which served the Bastille, Situated on what is today the corner of the rue Saint-Paul and rue Neuve Saint-Pierre, it was closed in 1790 and its register was destroyed in a fire set by the Communards in May 1871. Happily, the register's contents had already been copied by historians. The entry for the Iron Mask's burial read:


'On the 19th [November], Marchioly, aged 45 years or thereabouts, died at the Bastille, whose body was buried in the churchyard of St. Paul, his parish, the 20th of the present month, in the presence of M. Reglhe [sic], surgeon major of the Bastille, who signed.’


It was then signed by Rosarges and Reilhe.

The Trial of Nicolas Foucquet Opens

Still: Le Roi, l'Écureuil et la Couleuvre

On 13 November 1664, Charles de Batz Castelmore, comte d'Artagnan, captain-lieutenant of the musketeers, entered a finely appointed chamber in the Bastille. He found Nicolas Foucquet sitting by the fire reading a book. Foucquet looked up and saw the man who had arrested him three years previously, a man who had since become his gaoler, his confidant and his friend. As the musketeer approached, Foucquet gave him a wan smile and announced that he was ready to face his judges. 

On the following day Nicolas Foucquet walked into the Arsenal in Paris as the first day of his trial was about to begin. He wore a simple black suit with a white collar and he sat down, not without protest, on the small wooden sallette that had been set out for him. Again under protest, he eventually took the oath. He did not recognise the jurisdiction of the chambre de justice and had taken the oath so that he could clarify points he had made over the past three years in his written defences.

Stills: 'Secrets d'Histoire: le soleil offusqué'

Foucquet was a brilliant magistrate. He habitually wore the long black robes of his office, and he apologised to the chamber for not appearing before them appropriately dressed. He had asked for his robes, he told them, but his request had been refused.


Over the next few weeks, he would expose the holes in the prosecution's case as he ably defended himself against a panel of judges that was packed against him, mainly with relatives and supporters of Colbert. The stakes were incredibly high. The king had made it clear that he wished and expected Foucquet to lose so that his former minister could be sentenced to death.