The Dream Maker (13 page)

And indeed, my attitude would not have changed, even if they had questioned me. For I was convinced that there was only one person to whom I could reveal my deepest thoughts. For anything to be possible, everything depended on that person, and if he did not agree, it would be pointless to make my intentions public.

That person was King Charles.

 

*

 

For two years I tried relentlessly to obtain an introduction to the king. The obstacles facing me were of two kinds. First of all, he never stayed in one place. The peace negotiations with Burgundy and the English demanded much of his attention. But in spite of all that he did not refrain from following his armies into the field. From what I understood, he kept the possibility of negotiation open, while exerting uninterrupted military pressure on his adversaries. Scandalmongers viewed these contradictions as the effect of his indecisiveness and the conflicting advice lavished on him by members of his entourage. I preferred to see this as proof of his cunning and political savvy. Whatever the case may be, the sovereign's perpetual movement made an encounter difficult. I came to the conclusion that the best thing would be to stay in one place and wait for him to come through our town before seeking an introduction. I had some support in that domain, and though my existence might have been insignificant, it was not completely invisible.

It remained to be seen how I might obtain an audience alone with the king, an essential condition if my plan were to succeed. Should I reveal the nature of it to those who could help me meet him? Or should I use a different pretext—but in that case, what? The only time the sovereign had ever placed his trust in me, albeit without knowing me, was something I remembered with horror: my wretched experience minting money with Ravand. At first I thought it would be better not to mention it. But as I could not come up with anything better, I concluded that the coinage affair was perhaps the best way to introduce myself, particularly as I hoped eventually to act in that capacity again. I went to see Ravand.

He was living in Orléans, where he had been practicing the same profession since the liberation of the town. It was immediately obvious that he was prospering. He had put on weight, and his cheeks and nose had begun to acquire red blotches. Still, his energy was intact, drawn from the heat of the forge.

I shared with him my scruples about resuming my position as a minter after the scandal of our fraud and conviction. He had put the event so far behind him that he had to pause and think for a moment to grasp what I was referring to.

“Bah,” he exclaimed, slapping his thighs, “that's part of the trade! A minter who has never been to prison is like a riding master who has never fallen off his horse. He cannot be trusted.”

Once again he went through the things I had not wanted to hear three years earlier. And this time, I listened. According to Ravand, a minter was paid to do the opposite of what was purportedly expected of him. He was there to guarantee the content of the coins he was making, but everyone knew he actually manufactured them using a lighter alloy. Such a fool's bargain was possible because the minter was paying. He shared the profit of his fraud with all those who were in a position to indict him. In a way, he took responsibility for a collective sin. He guaranteed the order of things. If, through some misfortune—and this did happen from time to time—the rivalry of his protectors led them to quarrel, he would suffer the consequences. He would be arrested, all profits would cease, and very quickly the very same people who, because of their quarrel, had had him thrown in jail would decide it was preferable to get along, and bond together to have him released.

“The safest way to avoid such a misadventure,” he concluded, “is to ensure one always deals with someone whose power can never be questioned.”

“The king?”

“Of course!”

He smiled and raised his glass. I was glad he had broached the topic so quickly, because that was precisely where I was headed.

“That's just it, Ravand, I would like you to obtain an introduction for me . . . ”

The Dane narrowed his eyes. He took a moment to evaluate the quantity of deceit in my proposition. Was I about to double-cross him? Might I not be seeking to obtain some advantage from the sovereign at his expense?

I waited, extremely calm, my eyes wide open. He convinced himself that nothing was troubling the combination of naivety and sincerity of which he believed to me to be made.

“You want to see him . . . in person.”

“In person and alone.”

“What the devil!”

A man of fire and metal was not afraid of swearing.

“And so he receives me,” he continued. “But he has known me for a long time. The problem, you see, is that he is suspicious. Even if someone comes to him warmly recommended, until he has sniffed him out himself he remains wary. And when I say sniffed out . . . you shall see.”

We sat down to dinner even though it was very early. When the serving woman put the dish down in front of us, I understood that for Ravand it was always dinnertime, that he never refused the food she brought up from the kitchen by the hour.

“Do you know where he is at present?” I asked, to defer the moment when I would have to bite into a greasy chicken leg.

“It is difficult to say. He has been leading the talks with that scoundrel Burgundy. It seems he has brought together all his former companions, even those who were disgraced. I've known him to be surrounded by a number of different clans, depending on the era. Someone might be at court today and in prison tomorrow, or even stitched up in a sack and thrown into the water. But at the moment, there is a general amnesty. Charles wants to put an end to it. If anyone is left out, they could be bought by Burgundy or the English. The king wants no more traitors.”

Ravand spoke with his mouth full. My appetite, already poor, abandoned me altogether when I saw his chipped teeth.

“I have been told that he is continuing to wage war—”

“Scarcely. He is torn between negotiation and combat. From what I have heard, he is meeting with his counselors in Tours at the moment. Sooner or later he will head east again. He might come this way, or through Bourges.”

“Can you get a message to him?”

“In writing, certainly not. For what I have to tell him, it would be preferable to leave no trace. However . . . ”

He was hesitating. Was it over which piece of meat to pick up next, or the words he intended to say?

“I have to see him, in any event. I am reaching the end of the mission he has entrusted me with, and we must discuss the next stage. Peace has a heavy price, but war an even greater one. He needs the profit I make on the currency more than ever.”

He stood up and wiped his hand with his black fingernails on the fabric of his doublet.

“You've helped me make up my mind, actually. And I thank you. I'm going to leave tomorrow for Tours, while he is still there. And I'll let you know whether he will agree to meet you.”

“Alone, you understand?”

“Yes . . . yes, alone.”

He grabbed me by the shoulders and embraced me. Ravand burned through life the way he melted gold. Into the combustion he recklessly tossed food and drink, women and danger. But what gave it all taste was friendship, carefully gathered in small quantities, because it was a rare and precious thing, a spice of which he could never get enough.

Ravand was as good as his word. One of his guards came to our town to deliver the good news. The king would be passing through Bourges and would receive me. He would arrive on Holy Thursday, would attend Easter Mass at the cathedral, and leave again on Monday. His people would inform me of the day and hour for our audience. I must stand ready day and night during his entire stay. The sovereign was known to send for his visitors at a late hour, and would not tolerate tardiness.

Thus, there were two days until the king's visit. The time seemed both very long and extremely short. I had to think of everything, foresee everything. I was fully aware that my entire life would depend on this interview. It would be no ordinary audience. What I had to say would not be limited—as the sovereign must surely imagine—to some minor petition requesting a favor or an office. I hoped, moreover, that he would allow enough time for me to set forth my proposal. In any event, I had to be sure of his attention right from the start, and hold him captive with my words.

Whenever I thought of it, I could easily convince myself that I had no chance of success. But the moment I stared such despair in the face, I was filled with great serenity. I became master of myself, lucid and determined. I was scrupulously observing Lent, along with any other activity likely to convince others of my faith—something I no longer had—and this, too, proved how insignificant I was. I was nothing. I had nothing to lose. But if I did gain something, it would be everything.

The king arrived on the appointed day and settled in the Duke's palace. I was ready. Macé, who had been informed of the matter, was particularly attentive. Between my return from my journey and all that was to follow, this was indisputably the happiest period in our marriage. Now I regret that I was so absent during that time, as all my attention was on what I hoped to accomplish. Macé sensed that I was not really there, and she must have suffered greatly. We never spoke of it.

At night I went to bed fully clothed, like a monk who must respond at any moment to the final call. I listened for footsteps in the street, for a sound in the house. It was a damp and perpetually dark month of March. Icy rain fell at dawn.

The message I had been waiting for came at daybreak on Saturday. Three men came to the house and pounded on the door. It was as if they had come to make an arrest. However, no condemned man had ever been so eager to give himself up. In an instant I was downstairs.

I followed them through the rain. Cold drops trickled down my back and I preferred to think that they were the cause of my shivering. It must have been five o'clock. We met the watchman on his rounds, overwhelmed by fatigue, but otherwise the streets were deserted. At the Duke's palace, however, several windows were brightly lit. It was impossible to tell whether they had just been lit or whether the candles had been burning all night long. I wondered whether it was the first audience of the morning, or the last one of the night, that the king had reserved for me. In the first case, he might have trouble staying awake; in the second, his only wish would be to sleep. I forced myself not to see it as a bad sign.

I was led through rooms I had visited back in the days of Duke John, when I used to go to the palace with my father. But now the guards took me deeper into the palace. I discovered stairways, corridors, and countless antechambers. The king's retinue had occupied the premises in great disorder. The hallways were filled with chests, from which hangings or dishes had been hastily removed. Valets slept in corners. On the floor were trays piled with the remains of the supper the courtiers had eaten hurriedly in their rooms. We went up a flight of stairs and along a narrow passageway to a low door guarded by two young soldiers. They conferred with my escort. One of them opened the door, went in, and closed it again behind him. After a long while, he came back and motioned to me to stand ready to enter. One of the guards offered to take my drenched cloak and I gratefully accepted. Finally, the door opened and, bowing my head slightly, I went in alone.

 

*

 

My first impression was that I had been projected into an alternative space. I had just entered a dark room, with neither boundary nor point of reference, the only exception a table in the middle where a single candle was lit. The weak light it cast faded into the obscurity. From a certain quality of silence and the resonance of my footsteps I understood that the room must be enormous, but deserted.

My father had often spoken to me of a ceremonial hall that could hold the entire population of the Berry. It had caused much admiration at the time of its construction, because the builders had to use exceptionally tall tree trunks to carve the ceiling beams. I peered into the darkness but my eyes could not make out a thing. The room was silent. I went up to the table and into the halo of candlelight. I stood there and waited. Papers were spread on the table; I resisted the temptation to look at what they might contain. If the purpose was to disconcert, I had to concede that disconcert it did. I felt like an unarmed man walking through a dark forest, not knowing which way the danger lay. I continued to wait for several long minutes. Suddenly, behind me, although I could see nothing in the darkness, I heard a faint sound. Then I heard it again a moment later. It was a sort of breathing, or, rather, a repeated inhalation. The foolish thought came to me that a mastiff might be hidden in the thick shadow. The sound came closer. And suddenly I heard Ravand's words again: “When I say sniffed out . . . you shall see.” When I turned in the direction of the sound, I recoiled with surprise. A man was standing at the edge of the gloom. A few shards of light, lost in the dark space, bounced off him and sculpted his shape against the black background, like a bas-relief carving in the fireback of a hearth. The motionless man was staring at me, and it was he who had been making the sound that had alerted me, with his short intakes of breath.

He came forward and stood in the light. According to the description I had been given, this was the king. My surprise was such that I found it difficult to believe what I knew, or to persuade myself of it. What held me back was neither the extreme simplicity of his attire, nor his ugliness, nor his fearful manner. I had simply not expected to meet a man of my own age.

“Good evening, Cœur,” he said softly.

“Good evening, Sire.”

He went to sit on a wooden chair behind the table and motioned to me to sit opposite. He was careful to keep well back from the table, so that I could see all of him. He waited for a while, as if to give me the leisure to allow this vision to penetrate my brain and draw my conclusions. Now when I think back on this manner of his, I can easily conceive the reason for it. Charles VII, better than anyone, knows how to make his appearance speak louder than his words. By showing himself in full to his interlocutors, he immediately establishes his authority over them, an authority of a very particular nature. I have met so many men of power in my life, and I know that they can be divided into two categories. There are those who impose their authority through the strength they emanate—these men are often warlords or leaders, but there are men of the church among them as well. The energy, enthusiasm, and boldness which inform their personality give all those who come in contact with them a desire to leave everything behind and the courage to confront anything, provided it is in following them. Their strength is their power. But there is a second category, much rarer and above all much more formidable, who find power in their weakness. People of this sort come across as weak, vulnerable, or wounded. Placed by destiny at the head of a nation, an army, or an ordinary undertaking, such men confess, through their appearance, that they are helpless to carry out their task, but cannot be resolved to abandon it. Their self-sacrifice is so obvious that it triggers admiration in others and a sincere desire to serve. The weaker they are, the more strength they recruit around them. Everyone makes a great show of bravery to satisfy them, and they accept this homage without ever abandoning their wretched demeanor. These weary kings are the most dangerous.