Agnès took no pleasure in seeing her gestures made public, however. On the contrary, she made every effort to conceal the acts of charity or piety that she initiated. Prayer, for her, was a private affair. It was an opportunity for her to allow her pain, remorse, and sorrow to surface. I found this out later. But the moment she left behind her private meetings with God, alone or at the private masses where no one else took part, she came back to the court and was gay and in a good mood. Unlike Macé, she fled from the company of sinister prelates, and went as little as possible to high mass.
When she found out I was going to see the new pope, she entrusted me, blushing, with a private mission. She made her request in the presence of the king, so that he would know what she had asked me to do. But as we had the opportunity shortly thereafter to meet for three long days at Bois-Sir-Amé, she subsequently explained her reasons to me, once we were alone.
Agnès’s goal was straightforward: she wanted to obtain from the Pope the right to own a portable altar. Such an instrument, with all its accessories—ciborium, patera, cruet, and so on—makes it possible for the believer to celebrate mass outside of a consecrated building. As always with Agnès, this request was proof of both immense pride and great modesty. It required great boldness for a young girl twenty-four years of age, whose only eminence was the fact she was the mistress of the king, to solicit a favor to which only high notables had been hitherto entitled. But this was not for appearance’s sake, far from it. Agnès did not want anyone to know about this favor, if it was granted to her. On the contrary, it would enable her to practice her faith in a more complete withdrawal from the world.
When we were alone, I questioned her further about these practices. They were so foreign to me that I found it impossible to believe they were sincere. I was particularly eager to understand. Agnès lived in such obvious sin, and seemed to take a great deal of liberty with her body, as well as partaking in affectionate relations like our own, something which the Church would have found difficult to define, let alone condone: how could she embrace the rituals of a religion whose principles she so rarely obeyed? So, over two long evenings, sitting side by side, our legs entwined and my arm around her shoulder, we spoke about God.
Far from contradicting her, let alone making fun of her, I listened at length to her reasons for believing, or, rather, I was given the proof that she was inhabited by faith of the sort which knows no reason and which even goes against all reason. Christ, for her, was a sort of companion who protected her and called to her in his martyrdom. Whence the blend in her character of insouciance and tragedy, of an unprecedented gift for the joy of the moment and the resigned certainty that fate would grant her only the smallest of favors. Jesus put her to the test, then helped her to find joy in her pain.
This was also the first time that we spoke openly about her feelings for the king. She had been brought before him by the Anjou clan, and had felt immense horror at being handed over to such an individual. Everything about him was repulsive. His appearance repelled her: the big sleeves that hid his shoulders were too narrow, and his tights were often dirty and emphasized the deformity of his legs. She did not like his manners or his ideas. His voice and even his breathing, when he dozed off, filled her with violent aversion of an almost animal nature. And yet, she did not rebel. She called to Jesus, for hours on end, to give her the strength to face the ordeal He had set before her. And it was during that time that she felt closest to Him, the Crucified. He listened to her, consoled her, and gently showed her the way to a sort of resurrection.
If she had learned to live with Charles, it was because Christ had given her the strength to overcome her disgust, to drown her aversion in the cheer of festivities, to delude her repulsion with the help of a great deal of perfume and priceless fabrics. So much effort had to go into it. In the beginning, beneath the sweet sauce Agnès could still taste the bitterness of the dish. And yet, gradually, the miracle came about. Beneath the twin influences of his love and his armies’ victories, Charles changed. To be sure, she was under no illusion, any more than I was, that beneath his new appearance the same man continued to exist. But at least life with him was becoming more bearable. And she rendered thanks to God for this transformation. At last she had understood the words of her confessor, to whom she had been careful never to divulge her most secret thoughts: salvation comes through the trials sent to us by the Lord. This thought prevented her, should she ever be so tempted, from acting ungratefully toward her Creator. Christ had saved her, but she had no doubt, since He wanted what was good for her, that He would send her further trials. So she continued to nourish a generous fear, the certainty that she was in imminent danger, and the hope that Christ would help her to overcome any new obstacles along the path to wisdom and salvation.
With the king’s transformation, her fear changed in nature. In the beginning Agnès feared his presence, and dreaded that the situation fate had imposed on her would last for a very long time. Then she was afraid of the contrary: that he would abruptly cast her off, a fear she had shared with me in private at Beauté. Now that the Anjou clan had been eliminated, her fears were more diffuse, but just as strong. Now I know that she had a premonition of her fate.
I confess that at the time I did not fully understand her fears. They seemed to stem from a worldview that was not very Christian. Everything Agnès saw was a sign, and only had meaning in another reality known to her alone. For example, as I have said, she identified me as a sort of twin in the world of her dreams or of her origins. On the other hand, some people were bearers of curses, by virtue of the role they played in the invisible. These ideas could have led her to madness but, oddly enough, on the contrary, they gave her great strength and cunning. Certain people she was wary of, others she trusted; she protected herself from the former and opened her heart to the latter, guided by her intuition and memories. However astonishing it might seem, she was rarely mistaken.
Reincarnation, spells, curses, and superstition filled her thoughts, and, though she was not aware of it, these notions led her far away from Catholic concepts. If anyone had pointed this out to her, she would have protested: she was convinced she was an exemplary believer. And indeed, next to her strange ideas—or, if you like, above them—her great respect for all the institutions of Christianity predominated. She truly revered the pope, the heir to St. Peter. It is true she was born during the period where there was only one pope, before the Council of Basel imposed a second one.
I was touched to learn more about Agnès through these revelations. She must have been a tragically solitary and unhappy child. That day we went for a walk by the ponds surrounding the castle, the sky over the Berry was dappled with clouds. Laughing, Agnès picked dry grass and moss. I watched her, frail and joyful, running across the russet moorland. A thought occurred to me then, unexpectedly, and which seemed grotesque at first: she was like Joan of Arc. I had not known the Maid, but Dunois and so many others had told me about her. She and Agnès were two similar young women, obedient to their solitude and capable of drawing great strength from it. One had become the king’s mistress, the other his general, but beneath these differing roles lay hidden a similar capacity to seize power in order to bend it to one’s will. Charles was sickly and indecisive, so he latched onto this kind of energy to overcome insurmountable obstacles. But he could not bear to follow and be dependent on others for long. He had made no effort to save Joan, so obviously so that some people wondered whether her death had not freed him from an ally who had become burdensome. I suddenly had the painful premonition that he would abandon Agnès in a similar way.
She handed me her dried bouquet and asked me why, when I looked at her, I had tears in my eyes. I did not know what to say, so I kissed her.
*
I would like to have the time to finish this story. I must find a way to tell of my love for Agnès, to the end. To follow the path right to the last moment, to cross the meadows full of flowers unti
l I reach the frozen fields . . . It seems to me that my life depends on it. It will only ever be truly fulfilled and, dare I say, happy and successful, if I manage to do this.
Thus, I find it even harder to forgive myself for yesterday’s carelessness, for which Elvira has harshly reproached me. The fact that nothing had happened since the visit of the podestà’s envoy, over two weeks ago, had given me the impression that I was no longer at any risk. I became bolder, and during my walks I went closer and closer to the town. Yesterday, I even thought I could go into the town without danger. I do not know what force compelled me to venture as far as the harbor. I am so thoroughly inhabited by the memory of Agnès that I walked on without thinking of anything else. I found myself sitting on the wooden bench near the fish market and for a long while I gazed at the boats rocking gently by the pier. This was incredibly foolhardy.
It was late afternoon and the shadows in the harbor were beginning to lengthen. I don’t know how long I sat there dreaming. Suddenly I was roused from my torpor by a furtive movement behind the pillars of the covered market. I came to my senses and looked around. A moment later I saw something move: a man was leaping from one pillar to the next, coming closer to me. Between each leap, he hid behind the stone column, but I could see him peek out and look hastily in my direction. By his third leap, I had recognized him: it was the man I had seen upon my arrival, the assassin who was after me.
I came to a decision in a split second: was it really the best, under the circumstances? I jumped to my feet and ran around the corner of the house next to which I had been sitting, on up the street, and then I turned twice and began to walk normally again. My pursuer, given the time he had been in the town, was surely better acquainted than I with the labyrinth of its alleys. I constantly changed direction to be sure I had lost him. So great was my effort to cover my tracks that I eventually did reach the edge of town, but on the opposite side from the path that led to Elvira’s. After walking for some time I realized with terror that my pursuer had been joined by two more henchmen, and was still on my trail. I made the most of my head start and began running again, recklessly, now that I was out in the countryside. Night was falling, but far too slowly for my liking. I hoped that the moon would not rise too soon. When darkness fell they had almost caught up with me.
Finally, after great fright and an entire night of wandering, I managed to shake off my enemies. I arrived at the house at dawn, all in a sweat. Elvira had not slept a wink, worried sick.
This incident upset me greatly. It convinced me that from now on I must work twice as quickly to finish these memoirs, because clearly my days are numbered. It also convinced me that I must ask for Elvira’s help. Until now, I had never sought to clarify my situation to her. Now I explained as best I could the threat hanging over me. She is going to try to find out more about my pursuers. Before now, I didn’t want to get her involved in this, but it seems I no longer have the choice.
She left for the town this morning, determined to get to the bottom of the matter. I no longer allow myself to go for walks or indulge in disordered daydreaming. As long as I have daylight for writing, I stay at my table and continue with my story.
*
I left for Rome in the spring, taking Agnès’s requests, and many others, with me. It must be said that, by virtue of my lengthy stays at court, I was now in contact with an infinite number of people. Naturally, I knew all the members of the council and the royal entourage; I was acquainted with the noblemen who gravitated around the sovereign, but there was also a multitude of merchants, bankers, magistrates, artists, and the teeming crowd of those who came to solicit a purchase or a loan. I maintained a lively correspondence with our agents and the various relays in our possession, for purchases or payments, from Geneva to Flanders, from Florence to London. To be sure, Guillaume de Varye saw to the everyday business, together with Jean, Benoît, and now many others. But there were some tasks only I could fulfill, when it was a matter of a major decision or an important client. Which meant that even though most people at court were idle, I was constantly busy. The rare moments I spent with Agnès were exceptions in my life, but they gave meaning to all the rest. It was during those moments of idleness and tranquil communication that I could take the full measure of how little my life belonged to me. My dreams of long ago had been so fruitful that they were now buried beneath a stifling everyday life of documents and meetings. Others might envy my success, but for me it was a servitude. With the exception of the freedom I sometimes stole with Agnès, all I saw around me were constraints and obligations. An invisible whip lashed my sides and I was hurtling forward at ever increasing speed. I could no longer count my fortune; I was the king’s right-hand man, and controlled an immense business network. And yet I never gave up hope that some day I would be my own person again.
The Argenterie had become the instrument of royal glory. We worked wonders, in particular for grand ceremonies, an opportunity we were given regularly through the capture of new cities, where the king must make a majestic entry. Horses, weapons, cloths, banners, costumes: everything must shine, and ensure that anyone who had just joined the realm would never wish to leave it. Diplomatic missions were also opportunities to display to foreigners the king’s newfound power. I deployed all my accumulated expertise in such circumstances to confer unequaled brilliance on the mission to the pope. Eleven ships left Marseilles for Civitavecchia with everything that was vital for the mission on board. The tapestries destined for the pope had been shipped down the Rhone with the help of King René. Three hundred richly harnessed horses would serve as mounts for the plenipotentiaries and their suite upon their arrival.
Our ambassadors—the likes of Juvénal, Pompadour, Thibault and other dignified prelates or scholars—did not rely on their prayers to preserve them from danger. They refused to embark, and made the voyage over land. The only intrepid voyager who deigned to accompany me on my ships was Tanguy du Châtel. He was nearly eighty years old, and had little choice remaining in his life, only the place of his death; thus, he was not averse to the idea of perishing on the open sea. He was not granted that satisfaction. Our crossing was without incident: we met neither corsairs, nor tempests, nor accidents. A warm wind carried us to Civitavecchia. I spent many a delightful hour conversing on deck with the old swashbuckler from the Armagnac; we were in our shirtsleeves, our heads sheltered from the sun by huge straw hats. Tanguy regaled me with hundreds of anecdotes of the early years of Charles VII, when he was still no more than a precarious Dauphin, or a king without a territory. Du Châtel despised the Caboche rebels, for it was from them that he had rescued the young sovereign one night. His story recalled Eustache, whom I had forgotten, and this in turn brought back my own thoughts from those days, when I, too, wanted to be liberated from those in power. We spoke openly of the assassination of John the Fearless on the bridge of Montereau. He confessed that he had been one of the assassins. It was his idea to kill the Burgundian leader during that meeting, and Charles was not informed. Given the series of misfortunes the assassination had unleashed, Tanguy was filled with remorse for having conceived it. But now that a more beneficent monarchy had eventually emerged from the web of events, along with the defeat of the English and the surrender of the princes, he reasoned that in the end he was right to trust his intuition and slay Charles’s rival. This thought, as he approached death, brought him much peace of mind.
He had a deep affection for the king, of the kind one has for those one has known since they were unhappy children. His love found greater sustenance in the kindness he had shown him than in any favors Charles might have granted. For in return all he had received was disgrace and ingratitude. He saw the king for who he was, neither misrepresenting his character nor hiding his faults. After several days of such confessions we had established a certain intimacy, and he gave me a solemn warning: to the best of his knowledge, there was not a single example of someone who had risen under Charles VII who did not, eventua
lly, go on to arouse his jealousy and suffer the consequences of his cruelty.
I looked in silence at the ships bending to the canvas. Surrounded by white seabirds, the squadron sailed across a sea stained violet by the shallows. Nothing could give a greater impression of power than this convoy laden with gold and royal gifts. That was the nature of the Argenterie: it was a peacetime army, but the king, indeed, could still fear it. Tanguy’s warnings had a greater effect on me than all of Agnès’s impetuous terrors, because they were based on a long acquaintance with the monarch and numerous personal disappointments. At other times when I was alone, I gave much thought to how I might protect myself from an eventual reversal of the royal favor, and I secretly made a number of decisions I promised myself I would implement upon my return.
Upon our arrival, we met the plenipotentiaries who had come by land, and who were growing impatient. The pope was receiving an English mission at the same time, and our legates were eager to quash their influence by a show of strength. When we unloaded the treasures the ships contained in their hulls, they were reassured.
Our delegation’s entry into Rome made such an impression that even five years later it had not been forgotten. Luxury was necessary to emphasize the importance the king attached to this mission and the respect he showed the pope. But to go so far as to believe that this debauchery of power would impress the pontiff and induce him to act in a conciliatory manner during the forthcoming negotiations—that was another matter altogether.
*
Pope Nicholas V was a frail little man, slow in his movements. He seemed to hesitate before making the slightest gesture. To reach for a goblet and lift it to his lips he would start over three times. Before walking from one corner of the room to the other, he would evaluate the distance, and any eventual obstacles. Was it the danger inherent in his position that had forced him to act so cautiously or, on the contrary, had he attained his position by means of an inherently cunning nature? I cannot say. The only thing of which I could be certain was that the apparent hesitation of his body hid a great firmness of mind. He was a thoughtful, determined man who made his decisions very wisely and implemented them without accepting the slightest concession.
The Dream Maker Page 28