The Dream Maker (21 page)

He went into the house and began walking around the room, opening the cupboards and moving things. I was afraid he might see my writings and take them away with him. But if he saw them, he was not interested; I found them where I had left them.

When Elvira came home, I was still somewhat stunned by the visit. She calmed me down as best she could. And somehow managed to explain what the visitor wanted. Because she had met him on her way back and spoken to him. He was an emissary from the podestà of Genoa who governs the islands. Upon his return from a voyage, the old man had got wind of my presence on the island and subsequent disappearance. The innkeeper had not felt bound by his promise of silence, since he was answering to the master of the island. When he found out where I was staying, the podestà sent his messenger to inquire after my health.

I don't believe a word of these explanations. It is surely a trap. Those who are looking for me must have found a way to convince the podestà to hand me over. If, as I suppose to be the case, my murderers are the envoys of Charles VII, I do not doubt that the good king has deployed every means at his disposal to capture me. Yet I was the one who, once upon a time, brought him the alliance with Genoa. He will know how to reactivate it to have me eliminated. I recognize his absence of scruples, the ardent hatred that I had learned to tolerate. I adapted to such perversity for as long as it targeted other men. Who would ever have thought that one day it would be my turn to be its victim?

But Elvira had a happy surprise in store for me: she had the presence of mind to tell the messenger that I had died. What I fear is that the podestà might send his people to verify what she said; in any case, since now anyone can find my hiding place, I am no longer safe. At least Elvira's lie will have allowed me to gain some time.

This morning she left for a village on the western coast, isolated in a small bay surrounded by cliffs, where one of her cousins lives. She will try to see with that fisherman how I might sail with him to another place. I have heard that a day's sail from here there are two small islands that belong to Venice. I would be safe there, provided there is enough fresh water to survive. Ever since Elvira spoke to me of these havens all I dream of is settling there. I have been the richest man in the West. I have lost count of the number of castles and estates which are still my property, yet I have but one concern: to find out whether there is enough fresh water so that I might live naked on a desert island . . .

Elvira made me promise to take her with me. I don't know what she imagines. No doubt she sees this flight, after all, as the first stage of an escape. I wonder whether, on carrying out the errands I ask of her, she has not learned too much about me. I greatly preferred the time when she looked on me as an unfortunate fugitive. I would not like the notion of my wealth to disturb the simple happiness I feel here with her. Life has taught me that money can transform even the simplest creatures. Nothing and no one can resist it, except perhaps those who, like myself, have surrendered to it completely and have seen its charms fade. Only money can deliver one from money. Elvira, as she has been getting to know me, has started having dreams that she does not share but which, I am sure, lead her toward dangerous desires for finery and worldly goods.

How can I explain to her that, while I might want to go on living, I no longer have the strength to recapture a place in the world? In truth, I am not seeking to escape. How can I explain what I feel? This unexpected stop at Chios has transformed me. On disembarking on the island, my intention had been to continue on my way. These days of writing and idleness have completely removed any desire to go further. My only hopes and fears concern this story of mine: I'm afraid I might not be able to finish it. If I am trying to save something, it is neither my life nor my future, but this work I took up quite by chance, and which now seems to me the most necessary task.

Given the point I have reached in my story, one might think it is futile to go on. After all, the day the king appointed me Argentier and named me to his court, my life became public. All my deeds were performed before witnesses, and those witnesses, summoned by the prosecutor Dauvet in preparation for my trial, have told all they know. My business, down to the slightest details, is a matter of public record: the immense success of the Argenterie, my three hundred agents all across Europe, the silver mines in the Lyonnais, the galleys which in my name have exchanged so many goods in the Levant, the commerce in salt, the estates bought all over the realm, the loans I have granted to people in high places, the friendship of the Pope and the Sultan, my sons' episcopal sees, my palace at Bourges—it is all known and acknowledged and recorded. I could stop my story here because from this point on my life speaks for me.

But what I feel is just the opposite. During the entire trial this was my greatest despair: to see my life reduced to numbers, property, stones, honors. It was all factual and yet none of that was
me
. Material success was only one aspect of my life. It is not of success that I wish to speak, but of that which troubled my soul for all those years: the passions, the people I met, and the fear, which from that day in Orléans has never left my side.

 

*

 

As the sole master of the Argenterie, I gave myself, body and soul, to the work. I wanted to prove myself worthy as purveyor not only to the king, but also to the entire court. The Argenterie must have everything that was needed in store and, above all, everything that was superfluous. I sent orders to all our branches and enjoined Jean and Guillaume to devote themselves for a time to this activity alone. I hired a lot of people. The warehouse in Tours, its doors and windows now flung open, was a beehive of activity. I acquired two more storehouses, one of which I equipped for arms and leather, the other for spices, and I kept the first warehouse for cloth. I worked with my employees from morning to night, in my shirtsleeves and sometimes even, when the heat obliged me to, bare-chested.

One afternoon without warning, the bastard of Orléans came into the leather warehouse. He found me sweating at the top of a ladder and burst out laughing when he saw me. But he was one of those noblemen who prefer the battlefield to the court. He was sharing the life of his men in camp. He concluded I must be doing the same and he treated me like a soldier on campaign. I clothed myself and invited him for a drink in the upstairs rooms of a tavern where I took my meals.

He surely had his own purpose for the visit, but I did not care; I was pleased to see him. Apparently he had come specifically to see me. The conversation was going round in circles, like the initial phases of a battle, and then, finally, he got to the point.

“I came to warn you in person, Cœur. The princes have had it. They ensured the king's victory over the English and now he despises them and treats them without respect. They are going to rebel. And I am going to join them.”

“I thank you for your warning,” I said tentatively.

He leaned closer and looked me deep in the eyes: “Join us! We need a talented man like you. And we will know how to reward you.”

In the words of the bastard of Orléans there was a touching mixture of enthusiasm, as always when he sensed the possibility of battle, of the doubt one could sense behind his too obvious certainties, and of sadness, because he sincerely loved the king. I understood that he was waiting anxiously for my reply, not only because in joining them I would reinforce the camp he had chosen, but also because my decision would shore up his own or, if it was negative, undermine it.

I have never practiced treason, but I have only condemned it weakly, for I know how close it can often be to loyalty. There are moments in life when, faced with the enigma of the world and of the future, any human being can feel torn between a cause and its contrary. The step from one to the other is so small that in an instant one can jump from one side to the other with the ease of a child hopping across a stream.

To relieve him of his difficult identity as an illegitimate child, Charles VII had recently named him Comte de Dunois. The only grievance he had against the king was the monarch's lack of inclination to pay the ransom of his half brother, Charles of Orléans, who had been held prisoner by the English since Agincourt. Dunois, in all honesty, had no liking for his half-brother, who, had he been free, would have looked down on him. But that is the way bastards are: the difficulty of their condition incites them to try everything to obtain recognition from the family in which they were born. Charles of Orléans was writing poetry in London, and Dunois, deep down, did not feel sorry for him. The admiration and recognition he showed the king far surpassed the displeasure he felt on seeing him abandon his half-brother. And yet, out of loyalty to a family that did not love him, he was now preparing to betray his king.

Dunois informed me that the Dauphin, Louis, had joined the conspiracy, as his father had predicted, out of spite at not being granted any privileges. I had not yet met him. One day, in Blois, I had seen his tall, pale-faced form walk across a salon, with a cluster of noisy, boisterous young men in his wake. He cast looks like daggers all around him. It was said that he was a roué, both vain and dissembling, and had since childhood shown signs of the most alarming cruelty.

Dunois insisted on my joining their cause, as it would add greatly to the conspirators' legitimacy. He complacently drew up a list of their members, which included the majority of the great lords, princes by blood, and dignitaries of the realm. Convinced they had saved the king, they now intended to assert their power by bringing him to ruin.

Dunois's open face awaited my response, eyes wide open, the corner of his lips agitated by a slight tic, which betrayed his impatience. From behind him, through the open window, there rose the smell of hay from a cart that had stopped in the street. It was high summer, a time when nothing seems serious, for it is as if the heat and its attendant pleasure were destined to last forever. I squeezed his hands.

“No, my friend, I cannot bring myself to abandon the king. I have decided to stay loyal to him, whatever the cost.”

And I added with a smile, and as much softness as my voice could hold, that I understood him, that I remained his friend and wished him well. He left me, looking vexed, with a warrior's embrace.

In Dunois's presence my resolution had been firm. When I found myself alone, it was another matter. Thus far, there had been times when I was closer to the king, but never so much so as to compromise myself. After my journey to the Levant, I had maintained various friendships that enabled me to hope I might survive and even prosper, no matter the political situation. By accepting the office of Argentier and above all by refusing to join in the princes' rebellion, I had thrown in my lot with the sovereign. But now the conflict that was brewing promised to be as difficult as the one he had fought against the English. He was already in a very bad position, because now he would be fighting the very same men who had made that victory against England possible.

The highly placed individuals who had gone to make up the king's council were now his adversaries. Once again Charles was alone, betrayed by his own people. The situation, which might have discouraged others, was so natural to him that he seemed to adapt to it without a second thought. He immediately appointed a new council, and, to my great surprise, it included me.

The first meeting was held in Angers in a room on the second floor of the château. The atmosphere was strange. While most of the participants were visibly ill at ease, this diminished my own malaise. We could not count on the king to dissipate it. Sitting at the end of the table, his hands clenched, no doubt to hide the trembling, he opened the session, and contrived to bring about long embarrassed silences. There were no princes around the table, and only a few less illustrious noblemen, their first rank including the Constable de Richemont and Pierre de Brézé. The rest were burghers, the very men who, as I had noticed of late on arriving in Orléans, had filled the void around the sovereign. Their expressions were attentive and anxious. One could tell that no hereditary titles legitimized their presence in this place, that they derived that honor solely from their own merit, a quality which, at any moment, they might be called upon to prove. A prince does not have to justify who he is: centuries of history testify on his behalf. He can allow his gaze to wander through the casement, to dream of his mistresses, to think about his next hunting expedition. A burgher must stand ready to prove his usefulness. Next to me, the Bureau brothers were visibly in such a state of mind. They were joking in a low voice, smiling as men who for several months now had been used to being part of this inner sanctum, but their sharp gaze never strayed from the sovereign for long. When he questioned them, their answers came in clear voices. I tried to model my attitude on theirs. This went some way toward helping me forget the tinge of disappointment I had felt when coming in. Once again, when confronted with reality my dreams lost their lightness and mystery. So this was supreme power—this assembly of shabbily dressed men sitting sideways on uncomfortable chairs and trembling in the presence of a leader who had neither grace nor charisma?

And yet over time and my continued participation, the council began to seem different. Its true grandeur lay not in ourselves but in the decisions we made. Something mysterious, which is called power, transformed our ephemeral words into concrete acts with enormous consequences. In the space of only a few months, we made capital decisions. The king intended to make the most of his freedom and of the competence of this new council to implement broad-reaching reforms throughout the kingdom. He followed a methodical plan destined to destroy the power of the princes once and for all, and establish the authority of the monarchy at last.

The first thing to be done, to ensure the effectiveness of our decisions, was to win the war. Hence our priority was to give substance to the permanent army the king had created for himself. If he was to be free of his dependence on the great lords, or the contributions both in kind and in cash which the various regions agreed—or did not agree—to grant him when he was at war, he must have his own army, and be sole master of it. I set about financing and equipping these
compagnies d'ordonnance
.
2
The privilege of these armies, composed of simple peasants, was that they could use weapons that knights considered unworthy. Thanks to their archers, the English had defeated us time and time again; we now tried to organize a corps of archers, although with less success. Above all, Gaspard Bureau developed a new weapon, which had until then been little used, or used badly, an arm whose power no one had yet imagined: artillery. For the nobleman, this weapon of war was anything but honorable. An instrument made of metal and chemistry, used to strike someone from a distance, had no place on the fields of honor. That some miserable wretches could drag a cannon or brandish a culverin, that was one thing. The knights placed these methods on the same level as the machines that had been used from time immemorial to launch assaults on city walls. But to win a war by using artillery would have seemed disloyal and even ungodly to them.