The Dream Maker

by Jean-Christophe Rufin

  Jean emphasized the need to recruit an escort to assist him in these undertakings. A gentleman could not travel alone, still less if he was transporting goods. Guillaume, already acting the accountant, protested that we did not have the means to pay the wages of armed escorts. Jean rather scornfully demonstrated to him that he was better acquainted with such people than Guillaume was. To hire them, it was not necessary to pay them up front; the gangs that were ravaging the country on behalf of princes and noblemen of every stripe were only remunerated on the basis of future booty. Their members often waited for a long time before obtaining their share. But expectation sufficed, provided that when they went to sleep at night, drunk, soothed by a whore, they could dream about whatever Providence, always kind to simple hearts, might have in store for them.

  “And what sort of spoils would you offer our men?” objected Guillaume.

  “A share of our profit, once we have it.”

  I felt that they had already established a rapport of emulation and jealousy, of brotherhood and mutual incomprehension, which would make them irreplaceable as a team. Without ever deliberately trying to divide and rule, I have always held the union of contraries to be the secret of every successful undertaking.

  When it came time to define my role in the business, I simply declared that I intended to resume my trade as a minter. Our commerce, like all commerce in those days, would be perpetually hindered by the lack of precious metal within the realm. As long as we did not have enough goods in reserve, we could not resort to barter; we had to be able to control the circulation of coinage and dispose of credit with all the moneychangers in France. This would be my task.

  That is what I told them, and they agreed. But they knew very well that there were other things I was not telling them. The first of these required no explanation because it was self-evident: I would be their leader. The establishment would bear my name. When dealing with others they would evoke it as if it were a sort of Open Sesame, a divine formula uttered respectfully in hushed tones. It went without saying that from that day on, in our shared interest, their task would be to contribute to the creation of my legend, to making my name a mark and a myth. They would be for me what Peter and Paul had been for Christ: the subservient creators of his universal glory. I fully appreciate how ridiculous and grandiloquent such a comparison is, and I would like to reassure anyone who might be tempted to think I was taking myself for a god that we were fully aware that the entire enterprise rested upon a fabrication. We knew better than anyone how weak, mortal, and fallible I was. However, our activity must be seen as more than mere trade, as something vital, but without glory or expectations. We wanted our business to be inspired, to have scope, to envision horizons in keeping with an entirely new purpose. To this end, our enterprise must not appear to be merely a merchant’s property, but rather the sect of a prophet. And that prophet, since we must have one, would be me.

  It was evening and we were still at work. We had rolled up our sleeves, our brows were pearled with sweat. Through the open casements we had heard the bells ringing vespers from two neighboring clock towers.

  There could be no greater divide between our ideas and projects and our actual situation. What characterized us best at that time in our life was failure, and perhaps that was also what united us. Those who looked on us with the pity one reserves for losers would shrug their shoulders if they overheard us weaving our wild dreams. Because I knew that deep down they were aware of the ridicule we might inspire, I abstained from sharing with my associates the true dimension of the plan that haunted me. They knew me well enough, since the siege of Bourges, to realize that in addition to our practical measures, and the enterprise I shared with them, I certainly had other ideas, a loftier vision of the goal I sought to attain. They did not question me further. Perhaps that element of mystery was necessary for them to convince themselves I was truly the prophet whose message they would be carrying out into the world. Perhaps they knew, above all, that it was pointless to try and make me say any more about it than I was prepared to.

  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 h
eaded.

  “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, beca
use 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.