The Dream Maker

by Jean-Christophe Rufin

  I went back to the inn feeling quite dejected. It was already cold, and in spite of my promise to reward him generously, my landlord had not found any good firewood. The fire burning in the only working hearth produced more smoke than flames, and heated nothing.

  The next morning, in the hope that I might approach the king, I went to linger at the Louvre. With my official letter I was allowed into the rooms where the courtiers gathered. I did not see a single familiar face, and wandered aimlessly among the different groups. At least it was warm, and I stayed there for a while until my hands, blue with the chill of the icy wind, had regained their color. I was standing by a window blowing on my fists when a youngish man came up to me. He was tall and held himself somewhat bent over, as if leaning down to examine me. He was friendly enough for all that, and had the simple manner of a soldier. He had heard that I had been entrusted with the mint, and that I was a merchant.

  I immediately understood that his solicitude was self-interested. No doubt he needed money and was counting on me to procure services or things for him that he would not have to pay for. This was a practice I had been familiar with since birth. And it still seemed to be the order of things, though to a lesser degree than before. After all, he was a nobleman. For the time being, in any event, I was destitute and could not do anything to help him. He could help me, however. I asked him about the court, about the political situation in the capital, and about the progress of the war. He explained that the English had not gone far, that they had attacked Saint-Germain-en-Laye and there would surely be more fighting. His opinion of the capital was quite severe, and he did not seem sensitive to the pity which, in my opinion, the martyred city deserved.

  “They are going to pay now,” he said, referring to the Parisians.

  As for the political situation, it filled him with bitterness.

  “Now we are friends with the Burgundians,” he scowled. “All is forgotten, don’t you see? Even my father’s murder.”

  At that moment I realized that he was the son of Louis of Orléans, whose murder my father had described the winter of the leopard.

  “My brother is still in the hands of the English, but no one seems in the least concerned.”

  Charles of Orléans had taken up arms to avenge his father and he had been held prisoner ever since the debacle at Agincourt.

  Thus the man whose acquaintance I had just made was the famous bastard of Orléans, Joan of Arc’s companion and a valiant captain whose feats of arms were renowned throughout the land. I liked his blue eyes, his youthful air. There is always something very direct about soldiers, which may be due to their familiarity with administering death. To strike someone, even in battle, one must cast off the weight of a civilization that confines most of us to falseness and forced gentility. Once this screen is removed, man’s true nature is revealed. Most of the time, only coarse men emerge from this bur, with the violent nature of roughneck soldiers. But now and again, stripped of any social artifice, a simple, almost tender nature can appear, a pure soul with the sensibility of a child, and the tactful manners ordered by a sincere respect for others. This was the impression made on me by the young man who, for some time longer, would be called the bastard of Orléans. When he took his leave I felt as if I had discovered a precious stone in the mire of that court.

  *

  But I was no further along for all that. Once the time for celebration was over, life in Paris once again became what it had been all during these last years: violence and hardship. Everything was rare and expensive, starting with food, and all the more so because there was still fighting around the capital, as the bastard of Orléans had informed me. I had written to Ravand to ask him to send me what I needed for coin making, but I had not yet received any response. I hoped at least to have some time before the first monetary production was demanded of me. One morning, no more than four days after I had moved into the workshop, two carts stopped outside, escorted by the provost’s guards. They were filled with objects to be melted. There were cartloads of candlesticks, dishes, and jewelry, and the guards were piling them in the middle of the courtyard. A cluster of onlookers, their faces hostile, were watching this delivery. I learned somewhat later that the king, in thanks for the triumphant welcome he had received, had ordered that the confiscations take effect immediately. Churches were looted, private homes were raided, and anyone caught trying to hide their wealth risked their head.

  All I could hope was that the battered city would not have much left to be requisitioned. As for everything that had already been taken and piled up at my workshop, I must set about melting it as quickly as possible.

  Fortunately it turned out that Roch, the old worker, was a skilful foreman. He knew many of the former employees of the workshop who had deserted for lack of work. By the end of the week there were over a dozen of us, including the apprentices and guards. We made use of the old molds, by altering the inscriptions: Charles VII replaced Henry VI. Our makeshift effort resulted in Chenrl VII, but in all likelihood no one would take offense.

  Our alloys were not very precise and the coins we produced did not look like much. As a merchant I would willingly have attempted to manufacture a higher standard of currency. I was convinced that the quality of its coin was necessary for a country to inspire confidence and attract the best merchandise. But du Châtel had implied that he hoped to see the profit of this activity without delay, and I could not meet his expectations without resorting to Ravand’s underhanded formula.

  By the end of the month my workshop was functional. I delivered sizable quantities of coins to the royal treasury, and kept enough to pay my employees and myself. I had become a person of some importance. I avoided going to court, where I would have been overwhelmed with requests for loans or assistance. That did not prevent people from visiting me for the same reasons.

  Never had I seen so much wealth and poverty side by side as in Paris. Aristocrats felt obliged to show off, because the city now had the honor of being the capital. In spite of the filth and poverty all around, they continued to live in grand style in those palaces which Eustache had described to me all those years ago. But in order to receive guests in style with torchlight and chandeliers, they would go five days a week without supper. The women had more face paint than food. Starving carcasses were clothed in silk and velvet. In spite of the appetite this lifestyle was beginning to awaken in me, I effortlessly turned away any number of opportunities. All I had to do, when I saw a woman headed eagerly my way, was to see her withered bosom, her missing teeth, the scurf on her décolleté covered in powder, to feel all temptation vanish. Never had I known such a strange mixture of extreme luxury and utter decline. In Bourges we were more or less well off, but no one would have endangered his health for the sole benefit of superfluous appearances.

  Thus, in spite of myself, I quickly acquired a reputation for virtue.

  Roch, my old foreman, did not leave the workshop. He slept in a shed at the back of the courtyard. And yet, inexplicably, he knew everything that was going on in the city. He was the one who, one morning, brought me the latest rumor: the king was going to leave again. The people of Paris did not know what to make of this decision. On the one hand, they were proud to be the capital once again, proud to have their monarch staying there. On the other hand, Charles and his entourage had treated them not as loyal subjects but as a defeated populace, with a harshness even the English had not shown them.

  And as for me, I did not know either what this departure implied. Was I to follow the king? And if so, where? Or should I remain alone in this hostile city, where I felt like a stranger? I had gone no further in my conjectures when, one evening shortly before nightfall, I received a visit from a strange character. He was a hideously deformed dwarf who went about in carnival clothing. He was followed by a horde of children who jeered at him. He sent for me, and introduced himself with astonishing self-confidence for someone who had been so afflicted by nat
ure. In truth, if one disregarded his size and his deformity, he lacked neither daring nor nobility. I had heard about these royal dwarves who lived in the society of the highly ranked and adopted their manners, but this was the first time I had been granted the privilege of meeting one of them. He told me his name was Manuelito, that he came from Aragon, and after having served several masters he was now in the personal service of King Charles. No doubt his mission was to distract the king, but he spoke gravely to me. He hoisted himself onto a chair and we had a very serious conversation.

  He started by announcing the most important thing: the king wished to see me again, that very night. Manuelito insisted that his master wanted this audience to remain secret. He was surrounded by noblemen who, under the guise of serving him, were actually keeping him prisoner and scrutinizing his every act and deed. He explained how we would proceed so that no one would know of my visit.

  We then spoke about Paris, and he confirmed that the king intended to leave the city. He had never liked it there. He continued to be haunted by the memory of the ill-fated night when he had had to flee to escape slaughter by the Burgundians. Ever since he arrived in Paris he hardly slept and was prey to debilitating anxiety. Manuelito then took great liberty in describing the court to me. He explained that the princes were now demanding retribution from the king for their support. If they had helped him to defeat the English it was first and foremost for their own benefit. If the king were to grant them what they wanted, the kingdom he had just reunited would immediately be dismembered. These feudal lords wanted to be their own masters, and the king would be subject to their will.

  “And what does the king want?”

  “To reign.”

  “But he is so weak and indecisive.”

  “Don’t be mistaken! He may be weak, and even that is a subject for debate. But he is not at all indecisive. The man has a will of iron. He is capable of overcoming all obstacles.”

  I was grateful to Manuelito for confirming what my intuition had begun to suspect. To conclude, he urged me to defy everyone. I do not know whether this devilish man had his spies and knew something. He was referring to the noblemen who would surely come to solicit me, and warned me against any temptation I might have to help them.

  “Anything that reinforces them weakens the king. If they are in such a needy position today, it is because they are preparing to attack him.”

  I had a clear conscience and replied calmly that I would refuse to entertain any dishonest compromises. He nodded silently.

  That night, at the appointed hour, I went to the Louvre, crossing the Pont-Neuf. I walked along the gutter until I reached the door Manuelito had indicated. The guard let me in without asking anything. My walk through the palace was short. The king was waiting for me in a small room near the entrance. It was in an outbuilding of the guard room, heated by the back of the big fireplace on the other side. There was no furniture in the room, and Charles was standing. He squeezed my hands. He was the same height as me but seemed smaller, because in his close-fitting garment his legs were twisted and remained somewhat bent.

  “I am leaving, Cœur. You must stay.”

  “As you desire, sire. But—”

  He waved his hand.

  “I know. I know. It won’t last. Wait. Be patient. I am no more satisfied than you are to see the way things are going. The fact remains that for the time being I must deal with what is most urgent. I need a great deal of money. I must not depend on them any longer.”

  From the knowing way he had said these last words, it was clear he knew that I knew about the princes. Manuelito could only have spoken to me on his orders.

  “You are doing a dirty work, I am aware of that. Later, for the kingdom, if God grants me the strength, I will proceed differently: we will have a strong and stable currency. For the moment, if I am to survive, what I need is to get out of this city that I despise and which returns the sentiment for all it is worth. You must continue. Do not yield to threats. You will have news from me in due time. Farewell, my friend.”

  Again he squeezed my hands. I had the impression that he was on the verge of tears. Regardless of what Manuelito might have said, I was still convinced, at that time, of his weakness. And this weakness was all the more repellant to me in that his will, as the jester had said, was strong. I would have given anything to protect him, to provide him with the means to resist and overcome. Thus, I agreed to stay in Paris despite his absence.

  *

  The king and his retinue departed from the city the following week. He left a small garrison behind. But it was clear that, in the absence of the sovereign and his army, those who represented him in Paris were in great danger. The city was subject to riots, to great popular uprisings and intrigue among the burghers, and periods of calm were always precarious and deceptive. My position aroused individual envy, and collectively it marked me out for general hatred. Was it not to my workshop that every day the bounty seized from the city in the name of the king was delivered? I was obliged to reinforce the guards around the workshop and arrange for heavily armed escorts to accompany the coin-filled coffers I sent to the king. We had to fight off an attack in the middle of the night, and never discovered who had planned it. I had no difficulty finding a house near the workshop to rent, given the number of empty, boarded-up ones in the vicinity. I engaged an aging cousin of Roch’s to serve me. Two mastiffs in the courtyard tasted my food to thwart poisoning.

  I had time to take stock, painfully, of my present situation, and a surprise visit from Jean de Villages further stimulated my thoughts. Between two missions he came to Paris to bring me news of our business, which was prospering. Jean had appointed agents or simple correspondents in fifteen towns or more. He managed to ship cloth, gold, leather, and many other goods throughout the realm, as far as England and the Hanseatic League. Guillaume had sent a second shipment to the Levant, and was expecting the return of the first one soon. Our profit was considerable. The agents, once they had taken their own pay, were ordered to reinvest the surplus. Jean was suntanned from riding from town to town. I could see the adventure thrilled him—the element of risk, the success. In spite of the uncertainty of the highways, he had lost only one delivery, and even then, with his mercenaries, they had given chase and recovered from the thieves a booty equivalent to what had been stolen. I gave him all the surplus cash that our coin-making activities had allowed me to put aside, in order that he could use it to increase our purchasing power, and he went on his way. He left me feeling very dejected. I felt as if I had made a fool’s bargain. My aim in approaching the king had been to place our enterprise under his protection, and allow it to flourish according to my own ambitions for it. Instead, the king had granted me a partial favor, which, even if it was provisional, nevertheless took me away from my own business. While my partners could enjoy the wind on the road or the salt spray on the sea, I was shut away in a pestilent city melting spoons and sharing my food with mastiffs.

  And I was far away from my family. Macé wrote to me; she was totally absorbed by the children, and she gave me their news. I made sure she always had plenty of money. This was the beginning of an unequal and fatal exchange: for my absence and distance I paid a price that seemed sufficiently high to atone for my sins. Thus, material consideration gradually replaced feeling. But while the weights might be comparable in quantity, in quality they were no such thing. And yet even at the time I realized this, and I felt guilty. As time passed, and other presences came to make up for the absence of my family, however imperfectly, I would be less concerned.

  I have already said that there were ample opportunities to betray Macé. And I was not lacking in desire. But the two never came at the same time. Until the day I had a visit from Christine.

  She had come upon the workshop by chance, or at least that is what she said. Her story was heartbreaking. The daughter of an excellent family, well-educated, she had found herself orphaned after
the epidemic of smallpox that had stricken the city a few years earlier. In despair, she had yielded to the advances of one of her distant cousins who wanted to marry her. She consented, although she did not like him. She referred to her own taste by lowering her eyes in a charming way, and blushing. To confess that she might have preferences in the matter was to reveal that she had desires, and the nuns had convinced her that this was evil . . .

  The couple settled into a house in the street next to my workshop. Alas, her husband had greatly compromised himself with the English and so he had fled with them, but not before promising to send help. He asked her to stay in Paris to keep an eye on their property. She would quickly discover that he had lied. Creditors came to her door, and she could not honor their demands. Her house was about to be seized along with all her belongings. She told me all this with great dignity, or should I say, in hindsight, with great mastery. I thought she must be no more than twenty years of age. Her beauty was perfect, humble, and modest, but when she looked up, and deep into my eyes, she lit a fire which my vanity drove me to believe was shared.

  I was occupying an entire house on my own. I stammered a suggestion that she move into the upstairs while waiting for her situation to become clearer. She accepted after an appropriate hesitation.

  Two days later, a late winter storm shook the house at night. The wind blew open the windows and hurled tiles into the street. In the middle of the night, Christine let out a scream. I thought something terrible had happened and I rushed to her room. I found her lying on the floor, trembling, prey to an intense terror. Sobbing, she explained that the thunder brought back terrible memories. I stayed with her. Unaware of the fact that she was making a great effort to convey as much to me, I assumed she would only find peace in my arms. Like most men, I was eager to find it natural for a woman to desire my protection, and from this vanity I drew the strength to comply. The moment I put my arms around her, Christine calmed down and her breathing became more regular, until a new source of agitation seized her. Filled with ridiculous pride at having rescued her, I was overcome with desire. We became lovers, and although there were no more storms, I returned nightly to her bedchamber.