The Dream Maker (30 page)

Her attitude during the
pas
, which I observed attentively and with no need to dissimulate, because she was the object of all gazes, showed me that she was in love with the king more than ever, and more than ever beloved by him.

When one's heart is sad during such celebrations, one is sure to cast a cool eye upon the events. I had eight full days, therefore, during the festivities, to form an opinion about King René and the nature of the luxury and enjoyment he had introduced to the court. I was richly attired, as was befitting, for the king constantly sent for me to accompany him here or there, or asked me to see to some material details. I wore a smile for the occasion, to make everyone think that I, too, took part in the general merrymaking. In reality, my mood was glum.

These tournaments seemed ridiculous and inappropriate to me. They were an attempt to revive a bygone era. If at last we were about to triumph over the English, it was because we had created a modern army, which Bureau provided with artillery and I was financing. It was this new army we should have been celebrating, not the chivalry that had ruined the realm.

And if only this evocation of the customs of the past had been humble and modest! When I acquired my fortified castles, it was the muffled echo of that long-ago time that I heard, and it filled me with a pleasant nostalgia. But during these tournaments, on the contrary, chivalry claimed to be alive still, whereas I knew very well that it was dead. And I knew what was going on underneath it all. I had an exact accounting of the lands that had been sold, the castles let go for nothing, the loans under contract. I knew how much poverty went to pay for this debauchery of riches. Chivalry was alive when it was founded on the possession of land and the submission of men. Now it was money that reigned, and there were no more lords.

One of the highlights of the spectacle, in Châlons, was the gallant demonstration by the paragon of knights, the illustrious Jacques de Lalaing, who was known all over France to be the epitome of the valiant knight. He was a hero straight from the legends of King Arthur. His gestures of piety were known to all, and he shone with the halo conferred by the reputation of his exploits in single combat. He made of his chastity a virtue and a paradoxical tool of seduction. I was curious to meet this prodigy who claimed to be keeping the discipline of chivalry alive and at its most rigorous level.

What I saw was a pretentious and virginal young man, crude and actually quite ridiculous. His chastity was clearly not the result of a vow but rather of timidity disguised as virtue. His manners were so unlike those of the time that it was as though he were acting a part. Spectators eyed him with the same curiosity that had caused them to applaud the comedians performing before the
pas.
During the tournament, Jacques de Lalaing turned his experience to good advantage as he went from combat to combat. While ordinary gentlemen rarely indulged in such activities, for this professional knight they were a familiar routine. He owed his success more to the awkwardness of his adversaries than to any talent of his own. However, he glorified every one of his acts with so much affectation, he sacrificed so scrupulously to the most complicated and old-fashioned rituals, that his victories seemed to be the logical consequence of a nobility, the appearances of which he painstakingly maintained.

In reality, the little man was a perfect imbecile. Conformity was taken to the extreme, in lieu of originality. I had proof of this when, between two jousts, I had the opportunity to converse with him. Wandering in the vicinity of his valets, I realized it would be better not to look too closely at the knight's equipment. The leather of his harnesses was dry and split, fabrics were patched, and his horses, once they were stripped of their showy battle gear, were scrawny, underfed beasts. These details reassured me somewhat. They made the knight more human, and above all more representative of the caste he claimed to incarnate. Like everyone else, he had no money. The world he thought he belonged to no longer had anything in common with the errant knights of yore. No matter how much he hurried from one combat to the next, luxuriously received each time, he was finding it difficult to survive. In the course of our conversation I urged him to speak of material issues. He looked at me with horror. I realized that his aim to live a life of heroic, eternal chivalry was not an act. He obstinately refused to see the world as it was, and he looked on people like myself with the same scorn his ancestors had lavished on our kind. If I had not seen Agnès showing him so much admiration, casting loving gazes on him, perhaps I would never have been so cruel as to hound him into a corner during our conversation. But I could not resist the pleasure of watching him squirm. He knew of my role in the king's entourage and could not treat me as disdainfully as he would have liked. His defense, when faced with my impertinence, was to mumble some confused words.

I was accustomed to behaving quite naturally around all the noblemen at court, and thus was acting perfectly normally when I offered him new mounts and leather imported from Spain. I prodded his battered armor shamelessly, while cruelly vaunting the quality of our Genoese breast plates, and informed him that all he had to do was come by the Argenterie to have one made to his size. As he was choking on his words, desperately seeking a pretext to run away, I aggravated his distress by offering him payment facilities for any amount he might deem necessary to spend. Absolutely terrified by now, more disarmed than if a fire-breathing dragon had attacked him in the forest of Brocéliande, Lalaing climbed back into his saddle without waiting for help from his valet. His armor rattled like old saucepans and he had to make three attempts to get his leg over his horse's rump. He did not stop shouting, “Thank you, thank you,” and trotted away sitting sideways and blinded by his helmet, which, during these acrobatics, had slipped down over his eyes.

This entertainment left me with a bitter taste, and in any case did not suffice to reconcile me with this merrymaking that to me smelled of death. I pondered my rage all through the remainder of the festivities. I had come to a decision: I would leave the court. I had been totally mistaken with regard to Agnès's feelings, and moreover, what could I dare hope for? This brief interlude had been absurd, sheer madness, one of the manifestations, no doubt, of that melancholy that grips men in midlife and makes them imagine, mistakenly, that they can begin a second life, enlightened by the experience of the first one. All that remained was for me to find a way to announce my decision to the king and to persuade him to accept it.

I do not know whether it is to be regretted or seen as an opportunity. In any case, my resolution was broken in the weeks that followed, when Agnès sent for me from Beauté.

 

*

 

The king, whose frugality had long verged on miserliness, now liked to spend. He expressed joy or gratitude by giving gifts. Every time she gave birth, the queen received a superb gown. And as I mentioned, Charles found it equally natural to buy a huge diamond for his mistress. His victories over the English gave him opportunities to make many other, even more generous gifts, since they consisted of land seized from the enemy. In general, this war booty was used to reward his most valiant captains or other notables at court.

The king combined the practice of bestowing gifts of affection with the royal privilege of granting prerogatives when he decided to give Agnès an estate. I doubt he picked it out himself, because his basic stinginess would certainly have compelled him to choose a more modest dwelling. No doubt it was Agnès herself who asked for Beauté. And she got it.

Did she already know the place, or had she been charmed by the castle's name? In any case, she made an excellent choice—too excellent, even, for it caused a scandal. Built by Charles V, the domain of Beauté, near Vincennes, is one of the most beautiful castles in France. Charles's grandfather had made it his favorite residence. It had been recaptured from the English by Richemont five years earlier.

The nature of this favor suddenly revealed what everyone knew but pretended they didn't: the king was in love. By taking possession of this royal domain, Agnès rose above the status of a mere mistress. And yet no one was prepared to envisage her entry into the royal circle. Jealousy was rampant, and the courtiers' expressions now gleamed with hatred.

Neither the king nor Agnès gave these envious courtiers the satisfaction of paying attention to their moods. Charles was certainly sincere: he was far above such base considerations, and if he did happen to notice the scowls of jealousy on others' faces, his natural cruelty must have rejoiced in it. As for Agnès, she understood everything. But with the exertion of a constant effort she managed not to let anything show, and was even more considerate with her worst enemies.

She did not let her new title as Dame de Beauté go to her head. However, the name was doubly provocative because it was both a sign of nobility and a compliment. She wore it the way she wore her gowns: perfectly naturally, and with pleasure, neither seeking to shine nor depriving herself of the means to do so.

The celebrations at Nancy and Châlons required her presence, and gave her no time to settle into her estate. It was only after the
pas
that she decided to go there. And, to my astonishment, she took me with her.

Thus, I had a first opportunity to observe how clever she was. She had indicated her indifference and even coldness toward me all these weeks so conspicuously that the king, no matter how jealous, made no objection to my presence at Agnès's side for the voyage. Moreover, as there was talk of refurbishing and renovating the castle, it was logical that I go there myself to see what would be needed.

We set off with an armed escort, but there were only four of us with Agnès. She had brought only one of her ladies-in-waiting, and I was accompanied by Marc. I had hesitated to take him. I knew I would have to put up with his knowing smile and suggestive glances. If Agnès happened by chance to intercept one of these signs, she might take me for a vulgar individual. In the end, I did take Marc, but ordered him to trot behind us and keep his distance.

It was a fairly short journey, because Agnès was a good rider and preferred to cover as much ground as possible. We had two days of bad weather. She loved galloping through the storm, causing the escorts to panic. In their efforts to keep up, the men were encumbered by their weapons, so I often found myself alone with her. It was as though I were seeing another individual emerge from under the noblewoman's mask, an exalted, almost reckless woman whose gaze at times burned with a disquieting flame. Her hair was ruined by the rain, and her powder was running. She emanated a wild energy. The looks she gave me at times, her peals of laughter, and the way she would run her tongue over her lips, wet with the cold rain, were all deeply disturbing. Once again I felt the powerful familiarity of our first encounter. But, for all that, I did not know what to think or, above all, say.

We went through Vincennes on a fine sunny day. But we arrived at Beauté before we had a chance to recover from the ravages of the storm. Consequently, we looked more like a gaggle of gypsies when we crossed the drawbridge over the castle moat.

At the end of the afternoon I went with Agnès on a tour of Beauté. The English had not kept it up, but at least they did not pillage it. The rooms were already dark, and I held a torch in my hand. In Charles V's library, thousands of neatly aligned books shone in the glow of the flames, sparkling gold in the darkness. The square tower in the middle of the castle consisted of three stories. The room of the Evangelists was decorated with monumental paintings. The room “above the fountain” had not been altered since Charles V had died there. His son liked to retire to the castle with Isabeau of Bavaria, in the days when the madness had not yet alienated his mind. He had closed up the austere and tragic rooms where the old king had ended his life, and had arranged one floor where he could live with his lover. Agnès took one of the rooms on this floor for herself and gave the other to me, which was separated from hers by a landing furnished with a large oak wardrobe. She decreed that the staff would stay on the ground floor, as had been the custom under Charles VI. Her lady-in-waiting was a tall, silent, smiling girl. Agnès seemed to have chosen her deliberately from among the others, because there was little that was spiteful about her. She did not object to being apart from her mistress. Marc seemed delighted to be lodging near the young woman—now it was my turn to give him a mocking smile.

Before night fell, Agnès led me up to the top of the tower. We could see far into the distance above the forest, and even make out the smoke above Paris to the west. We stood side-by-side with our elbows on the rough stone of a large crenellation. The peacefulness of twilight did little to calm the turmoil inside me. I could hear Agnès's breathing, slightly quickened from walking up the stairs—unless it was from emotion, and I thought I was mad to hope that it was. However, she did nothing that might let me guess her feelings, and I remained as cautious as ever. When it was dark we went back down. Marc served us supper in a room on our floor that must have been used for councils of war in the time of the English. The table in the middle was small. It must have dated from the time of Charles and Isabeau's love affair. All around there were the chairs that the English had set out for their war meetings.

Agnès and I had already talked a great deal during the journey. While she was from Picardy, and I from the Berry, we discovered we shared a passion for Italy. She had lived there for several years with Isabelle of Lorraine, and, thanks to her, she had met many artists with whom she corresponded.

Our conversation, as we rode along in the open air within earshot of her lady-in-waiting, could not be very private, although every word Agnès said seemed to carry a weight of feeling which extended its meaning. I learned a great deal about her background and education. She was the daughter of a minor lord from the region of Compiègne. He belonged to the House of Bourbon, and, through the intercession of the Duke, who had allied himself with the House of Anjou, Agnès had been sent at a very young age to attend to Isabelle of Lorraine. Isabelle was an energetic and cultured woman, and she had a great influence upon Agnès. Agnès told me what I already knew: that after the defeat of her husband and his capture at Dijon, Isabelle had united René's vassals at the castle in Nancy, and had made them take an oath of loyalty to her. When, subsequently, through the random nature of succession, the unfortunate captive had found himself king of Naples, Sicily, and Jerusalem, Isabelle had left for Italy to take possession of this legacy while waiting for her husband's release. She had valiantly defended his property, selling jewels and silver to raise an army against the king of Aragon. And she had been far better at it than poor René, who, once he was released, had hastily proceeded to lose everything. The episode was well known. The most interesting thing was to see the impression it had made on Agnès. In addition to high culture and a good education, Isabelle of Lorraine had left her with the model of a bold, free, strong woman. Agnès particularly admired in her the mixture of deep, total love—for she had known true passion with René—and independence, which meant she could act on her own. Circumstances had not left Agnès with similarly favorable conditions to follow Isabelle's example. But I could sense, and the future would prove this to me, that she nurtured the same qualities in herself, and would find the means to express them.