The Dream Maker

by Jean-Christophe Rufin

  He was clearly pleased to see our mission arrive. The support of the king of France was a great asset to him. However, in the discussions he held with the plenipotentiaries, he purposely showed himself to be demanding and inflexible, particularly with regard to his rival, the antipope appointed by the Council. He expected his abdication, pure and simple, without compensation.

  Nicholas knew that I was not the head of the delegation and that his official discussions would be held with others, in particular Jean Juvénal, the Archbishop of Reims. However, he was well-informed, and a letter from the king further clarified things: he was aware of my true role and my preeminence in financial matters. He was a Tuscan who had once worked as a tutor to the Medici family. He knew that the essential value nowadays was money, and that everything, whether one welcomed the fact or deplored it, was subordinate to money, even nobility. Thus, our discussions had neither the luster nor the official stamp of the forthcoming diplomatic talks, but they were every bit as decisive.

  In order to have me accommodated in his palace, he resorted to subterfuge so that we could confer tranquilly and in private. One day, when we had all been convened to an important audience, he suddenly stood up, came over to me, and, stretching my eyelid with a hesitant finger, he cried, “You are ill, Master Cœur, I must warn you. Beware of malaria, which is rampant in our region and kills a great many healthy men every year.”

  A shiver of terror went through the archbishops and theologians, and they all stepped away from me. When the pope offered to have me examined by his personal doctor (“He works wonders for that illness in particular.”), they nodded their approval. And the relief was obvious on their faces when, as a practical conclusion to his offer, the pope, with no further ado, invited me to stay in a wing of his palace.

  Thus two parallel negotiations were under way. One was held in the afternoon, in an official hall decorated with imposing frescoes. The ambassadors expressed themselves one after the other, swelling their voices and employing interminable circumlocutions. The pope responded unctuously, but remained inflexible.

  With me, matters were different. Most often we met in the morning, in a small dining room, with windows open wide onto a flower garden. Fruit juice, bouillons and pastries adorned the little round table shining with silver dishes. The pope wore a simple chasuble, which left his forearms uncovered. In these private interviews, he left off all the compunction that hindered his gestures in public. Instead, he used his hands to illustrate his words, and often, when speaking, he stood up, went over to the window, and came back to sit down. Our dialogue was simple and to the point, of the sort to which my commercial activity had accustomed me. We were doing business and, as I had sensed right from the beginning, we soon struck a bargain that satisfied both parties.

  Nicholas V repeated to the plenipotentiaries that he expected the unconditional abdication of the antipope. He did not want it said that he would accept the slightest concession in order to obtain it. With me he was more realistic. Through his legates and an efficient network of spies, he knew his rival better than anyone.

  “To convince the antipope to leave,” he said, “we must negotiate . . . with his son—that is, the Duke of Savoy.”

  Before devoting himself to religion and becoming pope, Amadeus had transferred the Duchy of Savoy to his son Louis. Louis was very ambitious: he wanted to take possession of the Duchy of Milan. To do so, he would have to assert his rights regarding this inheritance, and above all do battle with the condottiere Francesco Sforza. This all required a great deal of money, and the support both of the king of France and of the House of Orléans, who were heir to the Viscontis’ rights to the Duchy of Milan. An expert on Italian affairs, the pope advised me how best to proceed. If we provided the young duke of Savoy with the means to go to war—on the condition that his father give up the papacy—it would no doubt be possible to sway the elderly Amadeus.

  I followed his advice and was satisfied. The subsequent missions I undertook with the antipope, directly or indirectly, were far more fruitful now that they were founded on money and not on something far less central to the situation: theology.

  To conclude the negotiations with the antipope, moreover, particularly on the issue of the conquest of the Duchy of Milan, on the strength of the information I relayed to him the king thought it fit to appoint Dunois. Dunois knew how to speak to Amadeus using the raw language of war, and helped the duke of Savoy to organize his army. He was definitely the man necessary to put an end to the Schism.

  Thus, the trip to Rome was profitable to me thrice over. I found the means to help solve the crisis of Christianity, and indeed, early the following year the antipope abdicated. I consolidated my relations with the House of Savoy by offering them a loan whose conditions were very favorable to me. Finally, and most importantly, I befriended the pope.

  Pleased with our meetings, and with the knowledge that I had adhered to his suggestions, Nicholas V granted me all the favors I asked of him. I obtained permission for Agnès to have a portable altar, and I ordered one in gold, encrusted with rubies, from the craftsmen of the Trastevere. The pope honored my intercessions in favor of a number of protégés. Finally, and I would say above all, he renewed and extended the indult authorizing maritime commerce with the Sultan. The clearance now contained neither expiration date nor limits to the number of ships. It also gave me permission to transport pilgrims to the Levant. At my request, the Pope added the right to export arms, in the form of a gift from the king of France. Alas, either through caution or a misunderstanding, Nicholas V never published a bull regarding this matter.

  But our relations were not limited to these exchanges of good procedures. We both knew what to expect in these matters. People in positions of power have simpler relations with the notion of interest than ordinary people do. At this level, you cannot help but be aware that anyone who approaches you will be asking for something, and there is no reason to be offended. For ordinary people there can be no friendship, love, or even trust when the shadow of an interested expectation looms. For the powerful, on the other hand, the only way to establish true relations is to deal openly with the subject of interest. First and foremost, they will ask: what do you expect from me? And the possibility of moving to a higher level of intimacy will depend on the frankness of one’s reply.

  Pursuant to our plain discussion of serious matters, Nicholas V and I were able to relax and indulge in conversation that had neither purpose nor profit, but which enabled us to become better acquainted. Moreover, the ailment of convenience with which the pope had diagnosed me did truly and thoroughly infect me. I had to remain longer in Rome than the plenipotentiaries, and during my convalescence I was the pope’s guest. As I saw him every day, I eventually got to know this man of multiple faces well. He is dead, and I am nothing now; I can speak the truth, both about him and about myself.

  He belonged to that group of Italian prelates for whom religion hides above all a great passion for antiquity. Nicholas was a learned scholar of the Greek and Roman philosophers. In Rome he had taken in a number of scholars fleeing Byzantium as it was about to fall. He had always maintained that he was acting for the good of the Catholic Church by taking in those who were heir to the Eastern church, as well as struggling against the Schism in the West. And it is true that during his pontificate Rome became once again the only center of Christianity. However, as I followed him around his library, I quickly understood that the passion he nurtured for ancient culture had very little to do with religion, that it even went against it. Unlike others, he made no effort to prove that Plato and Aristotle had merely been paving the way for Christ through their ideas. He read them and respected them for themselves. He even confided to me that every day, like the followers of the philosopher, he put into practice the teachings of Pythagoras summed up in the “Golden Verses.”

  He had set about building a new pontifical palace in Rome, whose majesty would exemplify the new and,
he hoped, eternal unity of the Catholic Church. This Vatican is still under construction; I had the opportunity to visit it before embarking for Chios. To design the building the pope commissioned two architects who were steeped in ancient learning. He went with them to visit the remains of temples, and did not hesitate to climb among the ruins himself to measure the proportions of pediments and colonnades.

  One day he made an astonishing confession: if he earnestly hoped to convince the European monarchs to launch a new crusade, it was primarily to save the cultural treasures of Byzantium. His primary reproach to the Turks was their lack of consideration for ancient works.

  “In addition to which,” I ventured, “they are Mohammedans . . . ”

  He looked at me and shrugged.

  “Yes,” he said.

  The clever smile that spread slowly across his face, and the gleam of irony that I could read in his eyes, convinced me once and for all: he had no faith. He must have discovered my own weakness long before. This secret bound us more closely than an oath. Later, he would have the opportunity to prove it to me.

  *

  Italy, the Mediterranean, the Levant: now our gazes were turned in that direction. Perhaps we forgot about the English a bit too hastily. To be sure, the new king of England hated the thought of going back to war, and his wife, the daughter of King René, usefully apprised him of the advantages of peace. But not everyone in England was of this mind. When I returned from Rome, the five-year truce was coming to an end. Incidents had broken out with the English garrisons still present in France: they were no longer being paid. Fougères had been attacked by an adventurer in the employ of England. The city had been looted down to the last spoon.

  The court was in an uproar. Over the last five years, everyone had forgotten the English peril, as if the sum of the horrors that endless war had accumulated had blocked the entrance to memory and prohibited any thought of fighting. The king himself had reverted to his former despondent and indecisive attitude. It was as though the English peril took him back to the distant, hateful past of his childhood. His change of appearance and his new manners had been valid in every respect except that one. His indecision was the despair of his warriors, and I shared their dismay. For five years we had been striving to build a powerful army. The compagnies d’ordonnance, the francs-archers, the artillery detachments: everything was ready. The truce had brought us prosperity, and quickly, and however fragile that prosperity might still be, we were now favorably positioned to resume fighting and conclude the war to our advantage.

  I found Agnès in a state of extreme anxiety. She was very pale, and was at pains to hide a great weakness. She informed me that a month earlier she had once again given birth to a daughter, who, like the two previous ones, had been sent away at birth. Agnès had lost a great deal of blood and had suffered from a fever, which had only just abated. But this time she had not been able to hide her condition from the king. He had not said anything, but he had done nothing to alter his festive lifestyle during Agnès’s absence. A thousand gazes, in the dangerous shadow of the court, had been observing the first station of what might become a way of the cross. Agnès had one knee to the ground. Beautiful young women were complacently shoved in front of the king. Nothing had happened yet, and Agnès was back on her feet. But everyone was waiting for the next ordeal.

  She feared it herself. It was taking her a long time to regain her usual energy. She was particularly languid, which was not usual for her. However, Brézé, Dunois, the Bureau borthers, and all her protégés on the council begged her to intercede with the king to persuade him to go to war. She could not bring herself to do it; my return encouraged her.

  I had come home filled with enthusiasm, exalted by my stay in Rome. On my way through Bourges, I was pleased to see that the work on my palace was progressing. Inspired by my visits to various houses in Rome, I ordered a few modifications. I also had the idea of building a steam bath like the ones I had visited in the Levant. I had some difficulty persuading Macé. But this was a private fantasy of my own, invisible to anyone outside, and it would not affect our reputation in any way. On that condition, she accepted.

  I then went through Tours, before returning to court. Initially I had to devote myself to various meetings related to my work at the Argenterie. But as soon as I had a moment, I went to see Fouquet to tell him about the painters I had discovered in Rome. And it was he who first brought Agnès’s condition to my attention. During my absence he had met her fairly often, and had achieved his purpose: she had agreed to sit for her portrait. He had made a number of studies but did not yet know how to portray her. He was still fascinated by her beauty, but as a man who was used to staring at people’s faces, he had noticed a new gravity in her expression. In truth, this was merely an exacerbation of a quality he had always noticed in her. Until now, however, these tones had been in the background and hardly showed through, hidden as they were by the bright colors of her gaiety.

  Now, that gravity was there for all to see. Agnès’s efforts to act cheerfully served to dissipate the clouds for a short while, but they soon came back. All the sketches Fouquet showed me depicted her with her head slightly tilted forward, eyes downcast, mouth closed.

  He had laid the sketches out on a table and we looked at them silently. The unease I felt on seeing the pictures was vague and inexplicable. And suddenly I understood: this was the face of a recumbent statue, a death mask. I looked up at Fouquet and saw that his eyes were filled with tears. He shrugged his shoulders and picked up the sheets of paper, muttering to himself.

  When finally I returned to court and saw Agnès again, I understood she was glad of my presence. But she did not show it in her usual way. Even alone in her apartments she seemed afraid that she would be found out. As we conversed, the awkwardness was perceptible. To make things easier for her, I moved quickly from a personal register to the question of war. I told her that I thought the looting at Fougères was providential. We must use it to our advantage to finish the work of re-conquest, and have done with the English peril once and for all. Initially my enthusiasm seemed to arouse her own. But very quickly her eyes glazed over. She reminded me of the Dauphin’s attacks on Brézé the previous year, perpetrated by a miserable spy called Mariette, whom I had had imprisoned. According to Agnès, the Dauphin was continuing to lay his diabolical traps in order to discredit her. For him, the best way to undermine her was to target those she supported. Was this business with the English not simply yet another provocation? I could not see how, from his faraway Dauphiné, Louis could be attempting to revive the war with England, nor to what end. Agnès admitted that I was right, but in the very same moment almost burst into tears. She was nervous, and saw danger everywhere, even when it was most unlikely. Finally, we agreed that we must act, each of us with the means at our disposal. She told me that in her opinion, the best thing would be to persuade the queen to begin with, and they would go together to exhort Charles to engage the enemy. It was not a bad idea. It would avoid making the war seem like the intention of one party—Agnès—which would have had the effect of driving all those who were jealous of her into the opposite camp.

  As for me, I went the very next day to see the king and we had a long conversation. I related in detail my exchanges with the pope. We also had a thorough discussion about Italian affairs, and he inquired about Jean de Villages’s mission to the Sultan. It fascinated him, and his face lit up with delight when he spoke of these subjects.

  So his displeasure seemed all the greater when I took the initiative to steer the conversation onto the subject of England. It mattered little that the June heat was coming through the window with the brilliant sunshine: Charles began to shiver. With one hand, he pulled his collar tight, and slumped in his chair. He listened as I enumerated my arguments, then he protested weakly, speaking about the king of England.

  “Henry is our relative now. René’s daughter has been working wonders, it would see
m, to prevent him from going back to war.”

  “Indeed, and many people there blame him for that weakness.”

  “The English have kept their commitments in spite of everything. The truce has been lasting.”

  “Do not forget we had to send Dunois and an army to re-conquer Le Mans, even though they had agreed to evacuate.”

  “The English Regent of their provinces in our region has presented his apologies regarding the matter of Fougères. It was a roughneck from Aragon who took the liberty—”

  “Sire,” I interrupted, seizing his hand, “the reality of things matters little. The pretext is there, just waiting. You will win. Now you have the strength, the arms, and the money.”

  Charles drew his hand away and paused on my last word.

  “Money, you say?”

  There was a long silence. His searching gaze burned into me.

  “Such a campaign would cost a great deal of money,” he continued. “Even if I now have the means to maintain a permanent army without calling upon the princes, it would be something else again if I have to pay for their campaign . . . ”

  He was still staring at me.

  “Money,” I answered at last, perhaps a bit too late, “is not an issue. You know that everything that is mine, is yours.”

  These hollow formulas, which one can use fearlessly in the Levant because no one would venture to give them credit, ring differently in the ears of a man like Charles. He nodded, and I wondered if I had not poured a poison into his mind that would someday prove lethal to me. He looked away from my face and let his gaze wander into the opalescent clarity of the window.