Two famous newspaper columnists wandered around together in the Bosquet de l’Obélisque, bemoaning the fact that the pace of the news meant that one could no longer dine and write leaders in peace and at one’s own pace. A man ran up behind them. It was the Prime Minister’s press attaché; the Prime Minister wanted to see them straight away. One of the wives stood shivering over by the Bosquet du Rond-Vert, begging her financial-wonder-boy husband to get their little private jet to land on the Versailles lawn. By the fountain of Apollo a socialist deputy yelled at his chauffeur – if he wanted to keep his job he would do well to master the satnav and find a way out pronto. He lowered his voice when he saw other lost guests heading towards the fountain. He recognized one of them, the consultant Metton, an old friend from university and student activist days. He went over to him.
“How can we get out without being seen?”
“There’s only one way – the Trianon, Petit or Grand, they’re in the same direction. It’s where the kings and queens used to fuck their lovers, there must be a way out towards Paris…”
The deputy didn’t ask himself whether the layout might have changed somewhat after three centuries, he just followed his friend out of habit. They took a right-hand fork, and ran into the firework engineers who stopped them and told them to turn back; there were rockets and explosives all over the place, they were in a danger zone.
“I think you’ll find the firework display will be cancelled,” the deputy said.
No. Louchsky was on the terrace. He now had only about thirty people around him. The Kremlin had called, ordering him to come home. He had replied that he would be back early the next morning. His plane was waiting at the Saint-Cyr aerodrome, just behind the park of the palace. If this was the moment of his downfall, it was the moment to leave his mark on the sky of Versailles. He ordered the firework display to be launched. The director wondered out loud whether this would be appropriate given the situation, but he backed away fast under Louchsky’s scorching glare.
Soon sparkling bouquets rose and exploded above the park and the palace, yellow, purple, red, blue and green, first separate and then mingled. The sky above Versailles lit up, visible for miles around, with loud explosions that seemed designed to drown out the sound of demonstrations and gathering rumours.
At the same time newspapers were junking their first editions and preparing new headlines. The printers were churning out banners about a government scandal; meanwhile the Élysée crisis unit was poring over the revelations and issuing frantic denials. The same thing was happening at the Quai d’Orsay, where Steffy watched as the Minister arrived back screaming with rage at these “little Internet fuckers”. He thought of Félix. He knew perfectly well that he and his friends were behind all this. In London Helen was woken up by the non-stop ringing of her telephone. In Nice, the prosecutor left a dinner party in a hurry, asking for the judge’s private number – he wanted to assure him of his great esteem.
As the final display exploded in a blaze of pyrotechnic skill, the Prime Minister, who was still ensconced in the king’s apartment, was whispering to a small group of senior journalists that he had always warned the President about this over-successful Russian. Madame Douchet wandered through the Hall of Mirrors, stroking the bronze chandeliers. Outside, the diehard demonstrators yelled in unison with the rockets; the soaking journalists asked where the President could have got to – his car was still in the courtyard – and the socialist deputy and his old university pal had taken refuge in the Temple de l’Amour, between the Petit Trianon and the Hameau de la Reine.
Louchsky’s plane took off for Moscow.
Kay was now fast asleep in his container.