The Dream Maker

by Jean-Christophe Rufin

  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.

  That first evening at the castle we dined in near silence. The last leg of the journey had been long. This place—so rich in royal intimacy, these rooms which had witnessed death and love, defeat and renewal—made us uneasy. In spite of the small dimensions of the room and the tapestries that stifled noise, we felt strangely intimidated, as if we were dining beneath high, echoing vaults.

  After supper, we wished each other good night and withdrew to our separate chambers. I had Marc bring up some water and I spent a long time washing, to remove from my skin the dust of the road and the mingled odors of sweat and horse. I could hear footsteps coming and going across the hall, which told me that Agnès w
as doing the same. Then the servants went down to their floor. Agnès’s lady-in-waiting let out a laugh in the stairway, a probable sign that Marc had not waited to be all the way downstairs to intercept her.

  At last the castle fell silent.

  Fatigue came, and with it, sleep. However, once I had stretched out on my bed, I stroked the linen sheet pensively, and could not bring myself to snuff out the candle. I revisited all the details of the voyage, and Agnès’s expressions. I wondered how I should interpret this voyage, the trust she was showing me by accommodating me so near. Her position as the king’s mistress, the attraction I felt to her, the idea that my feeling might be shared, and the fear of breaking the spell if I were to go further all formed in my mind a tight knot of contradictory and disturbing thoughts that Agnès alone could have unraveled.

  Which she did, somewhat later during the night, by coming into my room.

  *

  Ten years have passed since that night, seven without her. I have never spoken of that moment with anyone. And yet everything is etched on my mind with perfect clarity. I remember every gesture, every word we exchanged. To bring it all back to life now in writing is causing me a curious mixture of extreme delight and pain. It is a bit like reliving those moments with her but also, and forever, in her absence.

  I was hardly surprised when she opened the door. Without knowing it, I was waiting for her. And everything happened in a similar fashion, through an unspoken agreement, barely conscious but total. She was holding a copper candlestick. Her face was golden in the light, and her forehead seemed bigger than ever. She had let her blonde hair loose and I was surprised to see it fell almost to her shoulders. She did not say a word on entering, but smiled and came over to my bed. She sat on the edge and put the candle down on the night table. Matching her boldness with my own, I lifted the sheets and she slipped in beside me. Her body suddenly seemed very small, like that of a child, perhaps because she curled up against my shoulder. Her feet were icy and she was shivering.

  We stayed like that for a long time. Everything was silent outside. We could hear a shutter banging in the wind on the floor above. I felt as if I had rescued a hunted doe who was slowly recovering her calm after a long pursuit in which her life had been at stake. She seemed so vulnerable, so fragile that, despite her sweetness, the exquisite smell of her hair, the feminine lightness with which her body embraced mine, I felt my desire ebbing. The urge to protect her was too great. It crushed any urge to possess her, as if taking anything from her, let alone her entire self, would have been an unbearable betrayal.

  Finally she sat up, took hold of a pillow for support, and, holding herself at a slight remove, she looked at me.

  “I immediately knew I could trust you,” she said.

  Her eyes were open wide, staring at me and studying my face for the slightest expression. I smiled. She remained grave.

  “And why?” I asked. “I am a man, after all. A man like any other.”

  She laughed suddenly, with a clear laugh that showed me her flawless white teeth. Then she regained her composure and with a tender gesture arranged a lock of hair falling on my brow.

  “No, no. You’re not a man, in any case not a man like any other.”

  I did not know whether I should take offense at this remark. Was she mistaken as to the respect I showed her? Perhaps she believed I was incapable of desiring her. I had no time to act offended or prepare any denials: she suddenly held out her arms and, with a smile, looked straight ahead into the darkness of the room.

  “I had heard about the Argentine. That is a very serious title, and I imagined that the man with such a title would be an austere gentleman. And then . . . I saw you.”

  She turned back to me and began to laugh again.

  “Instead of an austere gentleman, I found an angel. A stray angel. That is truly what you are: a creature who has fallen from the moon, on whom fate has played a curious trick by placing him in high office. And you make a great effort to make others believe you are where you should be.”

  “Is that how you see me?”

  “Am I mistaken?”

  I protested as a matter of form, arguing that I had worked hard to obtain what I had acquired, trying to convince her that I was in earnest. But I did not bother to argue for long; she had seen me as I was. No one had grasped more quickly or more deeply the discrepancy between my official role and the world of my desires and my dreams.

  “I’m afraid,” she cried out all of a sudden. “Do you know how afraid I am?”

  She leaned toward me, put her arm around my neck and placed her head on my shoulder.

  “It is good to be able to tell someone. I have no one, do you understand? No one I can trust.”

  “The king?” I ventured.

  She sat up abruptly.

  “Even less than anyone else!”

  “Do you not love him?”

  This was not exactly our subject, but the urge to ask the question was stronger than anything. Agnès shrugged.

  “How could I?”

  Terrible, unknown images blurred her gaze for a moment. Then she regained her composure and went on in a more confident voice.

  “I have to fight everyone all the time. That’s the way it is. You cannot imagine how good it is for me to be able to lower my guard for a moment and speak freely. With an angel.”

  She gave me a mischievous look and we began to laugh. I felt incredibly at ease with her, as if I were in the presence of a sister. I told myself that she, too, was a stray angel, and no doubt we came from the same planet, somewhere in the ether.

  Then Agnès began to explain her plans. Everything was perfectly coherent and she had thought it through. Behind the young courtier who gave the impression she could not see the hostility she provoked, behind the mistress who showed admiration and tenderness for the king, behind the fragile creature from the Anjou clan, there hid a lucid, determined woman who had a powerful instinct for survival and was exceptionally intelligent when it came to inventing the means to defend her interests.

  “Now that I have come this far,” she said, “I have no choice. I have to remain the mistress of the king and exert undivided authority over him. The women he had before me were not on the same level. In their time, the king was timid and his liaisons were, if not secret, at least discreet. Now he has changed. He has placed me too high, and I am too visible to survive any repudiation. If he puts another in my place, my enemies will find me without protection and they will kill me.”

  “But why would he put another woman in your place?” I said to reassure her.

  That was indeed my conviction: the joy of having such a woman as one’s mistress must surely fulfill a man. At the same time, the thought that anyone but I had that good fortune filled my heart with bitterness.

  “I do not trust him at all in that regard,” she said curtly. “And I know that Charles of Anjou, who is constantly seeking to ingratiate himself with the king, will not fail to introduce other women in order to supplant me.”

  “It would be an error of judgment on his part. Are you not, in a way, a member of his house?”

  “Less and less. The king’s passion for me makes me independent. I have my own means, my own land now, so I am no longer subjected to the house of Anjou. They did what they wanted with me long ago. That is over now.”

  This evocation of her troubles seemed to distress her, and her tenderness faded. Then she sat up and said, “I’m hungry. Come with me to the dining room.”

  “Do you think they’ve left anything?”

  “My lady-in-waiting knows that I get up every night to eat something, and she always leaves me a bowl of fruit or some cakes.”

  She stood up and I followed. We were in our nightshirts, and walked cautiously through the dark rooms like children. Agnès held me by the hand. We opened the door to the small dining room. And indeed, on a sideboard, a
pewter bowl was waiting, full of Pippin apples. She bit into one and I did likewise. We pulled up two chairs so that we could sit side by side. With one elbow on the table, Agnès pivoted and rested her legs on my thighs.

  “I am pregnant,” she said distractedly, reaching for another apple.

  “That’s a fine thing. It should attach you even more to the king.”

  She shrugged.

  “On the contrary. He has the queen to give him children. My condition will only make things awkward, and I must hide it from him as long as possible. The only consequence at the moment is that I must take action sooner than ever.”

  “Take action?”

  She tossed the apple core onto the table and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. With her hair down and her throat uncovered, sitting sideways with her elbows on the rough table, she looked like a tavern wench, a raw and sensual little savage. Her courtly restraint had totally vanished. Far from being horrified by this transformation, I was delighted. It made me aware that I was in the presence of the real Agnès, the one she hid from the rest of the world. She confided in me as she would to herself. And although I, too, was accustomed to dissimulation and solitude, I had the strangest certainty that I could tell her everything and reveal to her the truth of my soul.

  “Yes, take action. Everything is ready, my Cœur.”

  She laughed suddenly and took my face in her palms.

  “Well, that is how I shall call you. I do not like Jacques. You will be ‘my Cœur.’”

  She came closer and kissed me on the lips. A chaste kiss.

  “You were saying, you must take action?”