Vaux Le Vicomte

Dear Everyone,

What a day! Decided with Adrian to go off to Vaux Le Vicomte, the beautiful chateau in Seine et Marne, not too far from Fontaineblau. Interest piqued by the story of Louis XIV's Finance Minister, Nicolas Foucquet, who held an incredible party to show off his newly built chateau - an incomparable masterpiece of XVII century architecture that would later inspire Versailles. 6,000 guests dined off gold plates, Moliere wrote a play for the occasion, and the young Sun King was so crazed with envy to see such splendours in one night, that rather than thank his host, he decided to destroy him. Nicolas Foucquet's story is spellbinding, and Vaux Le Vicomte certainly sharpens one's imagination...

Here in France, I discovered googling later this evening, there are no statues erected anywhere of Foucquet - reason apparent when you know what became of him. However, he is an important and well known figure of French history. In the English-speaking world, however, there are few who have ever heard of him, except, of course, historians. His story brings together characters who, although long gone, are really larger than life: Richelieu, d'Artagnan, the Man in the Iron Mask...they were all indeed living and breathing, real people not just personalities in fables. Poor Foucquet had a very successful career and had all he could dream of...until he fell off his piedastall and came crashing down 'faster than Icarus.' He suffered so terribly, spending his last fourteen years in appalling prisons in unconceivable conditions having been charged with embezzlement and treachery. It was indeed a Machiavellian world, to be sure. A man of charm and cunning that in the end led to his own destruction.

Following this fascinating afternoon wandering the corridors of the chateau and the paths of its beautiful garden, we returned to the car, parked in a lot just opposite in the shade of poplar trees, for it was a scorcher today. Adrian turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. Not a thing. Silence. His eyebrows shot up and he tried again. Once more, not a sausage. Polly (our blue twingo) was dead as a doornail. I won't tell you the invectives that were muttered. Up went the bonnet. Realisation hit Adrian. No tools in the boot. No phone number of Renault Assistance...did we even have a contract? Jumpleads? Ah, yes! Adrian suddenly looked calmer. He rummaged around again in the boot and held up...er...one cable. The black one. No red one. Oops.

Two guys walking by checked us out and said 'vous avez des ennuies?' Er ouais...battérie kaput. They didn't have jumpleads either. And we couldn't jump start her as Polly is a semi-automatic. No electrics = no starter motor. But as the carpark would close at 20h, they kindly pushed Polly and Adrian to a second parking lot very closeby.

I sat there wondering what to do. With no number for assistance, I noticed some coaches for tourists visiting the chateau. Maybe we could cadge a lift with them back to Paris and return tomorrow with Clo who could drive Polly while Adrian drove our other car, the one we use for long distances. Polly wasn't going anywhere tonight. Adrian continued to tinker around under the bonnet. Was it the battery? The starter? The relay? It made funny sounds, a kind of ticking like a time bomb when the key was turned. I kept trying it with the brake on so as not to accidentally end up in the chateau across the road. Nothing though.

I saw a guy coming along through the carpark and ran over, praying he was nice. Did he by any chance have the number of motor assistance? We'd broken down and...didn't have a thing on us. Indeed he did. Lucky I had an accent. he obviously thought I was some poor tourist, in the soup coz of a hired car. He had a Renault too, ferretted around in his papers and gave me the number for Renault Assistance. Oof. Adrian called and got a cretin on the end of the phone. What was our postcode? Which one? Residence or where we were? Where we were. Er...Department 77. No, exactly. Were we postmen? how could we know? We are right opposite Chateau Vaux de Vicomte. Where's that? Near Fontaineblau. Adrian was going round in circles with this guy. Eventually I grabbed the phone,

"Ecoutez cher monsieur" I started to yell, "I'm becoming hysterical. we are in a carpark bang opposite this chateau near Fontaineblau that is famous. Very famous. If you have google, go check it out and find the address. We don't have the postcode except to say it's in 77, Seine et Marne...what do you mean you've never heard of it? You're French for heavens sake. Louis XIV gave it to Foucquet, his Finance Minister in the 17th century before regretting it and hating him for it...Get someone here right now!!! Our phone number? yes, it's....right. Hurry up!" End of discussion. leave it to a woman to sort things out.

Another man wanders over to ask what's up. I explain. "Hang on", he says, "I'll get the exact coordinates from my GPS". He does and returns. I explain about the moron on the phone. "Oh", he says. "I expect you were talking to someone in Morocco. How would he know where we are?" How indeed...

He gets under the bonnet with Adrian and the two boys start tinkering around once more, filling the air with car mechanic terms and suppositions. To no avail. the phone rings. It's the guy from Morocco or wherever to say someone'll be with us within the hour. they better had be.

Our new friend tells us his own tale of woe. He's a driver/guide/interpreter for four Indian tourists who came to the chateau for dinner with their boss. The boss was suddenly unable to make it due to unforeseeable circumstances and his tourists wouldn't eat without him. They were sitting on a grass verge nearby and would wait there til he turned up. All night if they had to. The guide/driver looked worn out. Someone was having even less luck than us. We nattered about other things and Bucharest came up. He'd been there in 1995 and hadn't much liked it. Empty and dismal, he said. I advised him to return for it's changed so much he wouldn't recognise it. He said he may well do that, why not, for he'd liked the people so much. That led of course to the Rrom/Roumanian subject and loe and behold, he agreed 100%. "Roumanian people are very cultured and friendly", he said. "Those gypsies are a plague. they destroy everything they touch. Just look what they did to those beautiful houses". A man after my own heart.

I sat in the passenger seat to study my highway code as the boys chatter disappeared into oblivion. Exactly an hour later, the Renault chap turns up in his yellow pick-up and checks everything. Some element in the battery had gone bananas causing everything to splat. Just a new battery was needed. Oof. There was still hope for Polly. Thank goodness for that. He changed the battery, did a few tests, gave Adrian a bill for 160 euros and sped off. The Indians, meanwhile, were still sitting on the grass verge doing their sit-in and the driver still pacing up and down trying to get his boss on the phone for instructions as to what to do next. We waved goodbye and bombed it back here to Paris.

A very full day, but all of it fun in a strange, surrealist kind of a way! Tomorrow, Clo for brunch and evening shiatsu.

Love to you all and happy Sunday,

Sarah xoxoxoxox