The Dream Maker (36 page)

Reincarnation, spells, curses, and superstition filled her thoughts, and, though she was not aware of it, these notions led her far away from Catholic concepts. If anyone had pointed this out to her, she would have protested: she was convinced she was an exemplary believer. And indeed, next to her strange ideas—or, if you like, above them—her great respect for all the institutions of Christianity predominated. She truly revered the pope, the heir to St. Peter. It is true she was born during the period where there was only one pope, before the Council of Basel imposed a second one.

I was touched to learn more about Agnès through these revelations. She must have been a tragically solitary and unhappy child. That day we went for a walk by the ponds surrounding the castle, the sky over the Berry was dappled with clouds. Laughing, Agnès picked dry grass and moss. I watched her, frail and joyful, running across the russet moorland. A thought occurred to me then, unexpectedly, and which seemed grotesque at first: she was like Joan of Arc. I had not known the Maid, but Dunois and so many others had told me about her. She and Agnès were two similar young women, obedient to their solitude and capable of drawing great strength from it. One had become the king's mistress, the other his general, but beneath these differing roles lay hidden a similar capacity to seize power in order to bend it to one's will. Charles was sickly and indecisive, so he latched onto this kind of energy to overcome insurmountable obstacles. But he could not bear to follow and be dependent on others for long. He had made no effort to save Joan, so obviously so that some people wondered whether her death had not freed him from an ally who had become burdensome. I suddenly had the painful premonition that he would abandon Agnès in a similar way.

She handed me her dried bouquet and asked me why, when I looked at her, I had tears in my eyes. I did not know what to say, so I kissed her.

 

*

 

I would like to have the time to finish this story. I must find a way to tell of my love for Agnès, to the end. To follow the path right to the last moment, to cross the meadows full of flowers until I reach the frozen fields . . . It seems to me that my life depends on it. It will only ever be truly fulfilled and, dare I say, happy and successful, if I manage to do this.

Thus, I find it even harder to forgive myself for yesterday's carelessness, for which Elvira has harshly reproached me. The fact that nothing had happened since the visit of the podestà's envoy, over two weeks ago, had given me the impression that I was no longer at any risk. I became bolder, and during my walks I went closer and closer to the town. Yesterday, I even thought I could go into the town without danger. I do not know what force compelled me to venture as far as the harbor. I am so thoroughly inhabited by the memory of Agnès that I walked on without thinking of anything else. I found myself sitting on the wooden bench near the fish market and for a long while I gazed at the boats rocking gently by the pier. This was incredibly foolhardy.

It was late afternoon and the shadows in the harbor were beginning to lengthen. I don't know how long I sat there dreaming. Suddenly I was roused from my torpor by a furtive movement behind the pillars of the covered market. I came to my senses and looked around. A moment later I saw something move: a man was leaping from one pillar to the next, coming closer to me. Between each leap, he hid behind the stone column, but I could see him peek out and look hastily in my direction. By his third leap, I had recognized him: it was the man I had seen upon my arrival, the assassin who was after me.

I came to a decision in a split second: was it really the best, under the circumstances? I jumped to my feet and ran around the corner of the house next to which I had been sitting, on up the street, and then I turned twice and began to walk normally again. My pursuer, given the time he had been in the town, was surely better acquainted than I with the labyrinth of its alleys. I constantly changed direction to be sure I had lost him. So great was my effort to cover my tracks that I eventually did reach the edge of town, but on the opposite side from the path that led to Elvira's. After walking for some time I realized with terror that my pursuer had been joined by two more henchmen, and was still on my trail. I made the most of my head start and began running again, recklessly, now that I was out in the countryside. Night was falling, but far too slowly for my liking. I hoped that the moon would not rise too soon. When darkness fell they had almost caught up with me.

Finally, after great fright and an entire night of wandering, I managed to shake off my enemies. I arrived at the house at dawn, all in a sweat. Elvira had not slept a wink, worried sick.

This incident upset me greatly. It convinced me that from now on I must work twice as quickly to finish these memoirs, because clearly my days are numbered. It also convinced me that I must ask for Elvira's help. Until now, I had never sought to clarify my situation to her. Now I explained as best I could the threat hanging over me. She is going to try to find out more about my pursuers. Before now, I didn't want to get her involved in this, but it seems I no longer have the choice.

She left for the town this morning, determined to get to the bottom of the matter. I no longer allow myself to go for walks or indulge in disordered daydreaming. As long as I have daylight for writing, I stay at my table and continue with my story.

 

*

 

I left for Rome in the spring, taking Agnès's requests, and many others, with me. It must be said that, by virtue of my lengthy stays at court, I was now in contact with an infinite number of people. Naturally, I knew all the members of the council and the royal entourage; I was acquainted with the noblemen who gravitated around the sovereign, but there was also a multitude of merchants, bankers, magistrates, artists, and the teeming crowd of those who came to solicit a purchase or a loan. I maintained a lively correspondence with our agents and the various relays in our possession, for purchases or payments, from Geneva to Flanders, from Florence to London. To be sure, Guillaume de Varye saw to the everyday business, together with Jean, Benoît, and now many others. But there were some tasks only I could fulfill, when it was a matter of a major decision or an important client. Which meant that even though most people at court were idle, I was constantly busy. The rare moments I spent with Agnès were exceptions in my life, but they gave meaning to all the rest. It was during those moments of idleness and tranquil communication that I could take the full measure of how little my life belonged to me. My dreams of long ago had been so fruitful that they were now buried beneath a stifling everyday life of documents and meetings. Others might envy my success, but for me it was a servitude. With the exception of the freedom I sometimes stole with Agnès, all I saw around me were constraints and obligations. An invisible whip lashed my sides and I was hurtling forward at ever increasing speed. I could no longer count my fortune; I was the king's right-hand man, and controlled an immense business network. And yet I never gave up hope that some day I would be my own person again.

The Argenterie had become the instrument of royal glory. We worked wonders, in particular for grand ceremonies, an opportunity we were given regularly through the capture of new cities, where the king must make a majestic entry. Horses, weapons, cloths, banners, costumes: everything must shine, and ensure that anyone who had just joined the realm would never wish to leave it. Diplomatic missions were also opportunities to display to foreigners the king's newfound power. I deployed all my accumulated expertise in such circumstances to confer unequaled brilliance on the mission to the pope. Eleven ships left Marseilles for Civitavecchia with everything that was vital for the mission on board. The tapestries destined for the pope had been shipped down the Rhone with the help of King René. Three hundred richly harnessed horses would serve as mounts for the plenipotentiaries and their suite upon their arrival.

Our ambassadors—the likes of Juvénal, Pompadour, Thibault and other dignified prelates or scholars—did not rely on their prayers to preserve them from danger. They refused to embark, and made the voyage over land. The only intrepid voyager who deigned to accompany me on my ships was Tanguy du Châtel. He was nearly eighty years old, and had little choice remaining in his life, only the place of his death; thus, he was not averse to the idea of perishing on the open sea. He was not granted that satisfaction. Our crossing was without incident: we met neither corsairs, nor tempests, nor accidents. A warm wind carried us to Civitavecchia. I spent many a delightful hour conversing on deck with the old swashbuckler from the Armagnac; we were in our shirtsleeves, our heads sheltered from the sun by huge straw hats. Tanguy regaled me with hundreds of anecdotes of the early years of Charles VII, when he was still no more than a precarious Dauphin, or a king without a territory. Du Châtel despised the Caboche rebels, for it was from them that he had rescued the young sovereign one night. His story recalled Eustache, whom I had forgotten, and this in turn brought back my own thoughts from those days, when I, too, wanted to be liberated from those in power. We spoke openly of the assassination of John the Fearless on the bridge of Montereau. He confessed that he had been one of the assassins. It was his idea to kill the Burgundian leader during that meeting, and Charles was not informed. Given the series of misfortunes the assassination had unleashed, Tanguy was filled with remorse for having conceived it. But now that a more beneficent monarchy had eventually emerged from the web of events, along with the defeat of the English and the surrender of the princes, he reasoned that in the end he was right to trust his intuition and slay Charles's rival. This thought, as he approached death, brought him much peace of mind.

He had a deep affection for the king, of the kind one has for those one has known since they were unhappy children. His love found greater sustenance in the kindness he had shown him than in any favors Charles might have granted. For in return all he had received was disgrace and ingratitude. He saw the king for who he was, neither misrepresenting his character nor hiding his faults. After several days of such confessions we had established a certain intimacy, and he gave me a solemn warning: to the best of his knowledge, there was not a single example of someone who had risen under Charles VII who did not, eventually, go on to arouse his jealousy and suffer the consequences of his cruelty.

I looked in silence at the ships bending to the canvas. Surrounded by white seabirds, the squadron sailed across a sea stained violet by the shallows. Nothing could give a greater impression of power than this convoy laden with gold and royal gifts. That was the nature of the Argenterie: it was a peacetime army, but the king, indeed, could still fear it. Tanguy's warnings had a greater effect on me than all of Agnès's impetuous terrors, because they were based on a long acquaintance with the monarch and numerous personal disappointments. At other times when I was alone, I gave much thought to how I might protect myself from an eventual reversal of the royal favor, and I secretly made a number of decisions I promised myself I would implement upon my return.

Upon our arrival, we met the plenipotentiaries who had come by land, and who were growing impatient. The pope was receiving an English mission at the same time, and our legates were eager to quash their influence by a show of strength. When we unloaded the treasures the ships contained in their hulls, they were reassured.

Our delegation's entry into Rome made such an impression that even five years later it had not been forgotten. Luxury was necessary to emphasize the importance the king attached to this mission and the respect he showed the pope. But to go so far as to believe that this debauchery of power would impress the pontiff and induce him to act in a conciliatory manner during the forthcoming negotiations—that was another matter altogether.

 

*

 

Pope Nicholas V was a frail little man, slow in his movements. He seemed to hesitate before making the slightest gesture. To reach for a goblet and lift it to his lips he would start over three times. Before walking from one corner of the room to the other, he would evaluate the distance, and any eventual obstacles. Was it the danger inherent in his position that had forced him to act so cautiously or, on the contrary, had he attained his position by means of an inherently cunning nature? I cannot say. The only thing of which I could be certain was that the apparent hesitation of his body hid a great firmness of mind. He was a thoughtful, determined man who made his decisions very wisely and implemented them without accepting the slightest concession.

He was clearly pleased to see our mission arrive. The support of the king of France was a great asset to him. However, in the discussions he held with the plenipotentiaries, he purposely showed himself to be demanding and inflexible, particularly with regard to his rival, the antipope appointed by the Council. He expected his abdication, pure and simple, without compensation.

Nicholas knew that I was not the head of the delegation and that his official discussions would be held with others, in particular Jean Juvénal, the Archbishop of Reims. However, he was well-informed, and a letter from the king further clarified things: he was aware of my true role and my preeminence in financial matters. He was a Tuscan who had once worked as a tutor to the Medici family. He knew that the essential value nowadays was money, and that everything, whether one welcomed the fact or deplored it, was subordinate to money, even nobility. Thus, our discussions had neither the luster nor the official stamp of the forthcoming diplomatic talks, but they were every bit as decisive.

In order to have me accommodated in his palace, he resorted to subterfuge so that we could confer tranquilly and in private. One day, when we had all been convened to an important audience, he suddenly stood up, came over to me, and, stretching my eyelid with a hesitant finger, he cried, “You are ill, Master Cœur, I must warn you. Beware of malaria, which is rampant in our region and kills a great many healthy men every year.”