The Dream Maker

by Jean-Christophe Rufin

  However, given my extreme deprivation, I had no choice but to defer to Marc. I was infinitely grateful to him for his efforts.

  He did not limit himself to compiling a list of the weaknesses of the château’s inhabitants. He subjected them to a subtle treatment that converted each of those vices into a same unit of value: money. Whether they went about it through drunkenness, adultery, or cupidity, in the end they all proved vulnerable to that universal property which in itself is nothing, but is worth everything. Once he had put a price on every man in the château, Marc began, with me, to lay down the precise plans that would enable us to know whom we actually needed. And, therefore, how much money.

  *

  Yesterday, Elvira and I moved to her cousin’s sheepfold and I had to interrupt my story. We left at night so no one could inform the spies watching me of our direction. The island is not very big, but every island always has its surprises. When you see an island from the coast you cannot tell how big is, and above all you have no idea of the geography of the center. We had to follow narrow donkey paths, cross a wooden bridge, and make our way around rocky ridges.

  Now we are in our shepherd’s hut. It is much less comfortable than Elvira’s house. But given the level of poverty to which I have fallen, and if I judge it from the palaces I have known, it’s all the same.

  The house, as we hoped, has the advantage of being very safe. To reach it, one must climb a winding footpath. It is protected all around by steep slopes covered with thick, thorny bushes. Even if someone were to find me here, they could not approach without making noise, and the hairless dog chained outside will notify us well in advance of any arrivals. There is a cellar where I can hide, and its entrance is hidden by boxwood. This will be a good place to wait for Campofregoso’s reply. Elvira sent one of her friends to the port to keep her informed of any ships arriving from Genoa.

  Elvira is more loyal and loving than ever. I am ashamed I ever suspected her. Whatever I do, deep down I still find it difficult to trust women: for a long time I believed this was the fruit of experience, but now I know it is, rather, a sign of pride and stupidity. This blindness exempts me from having to show greater nuance in judging them and above all from being more attentive to what differentiates them all. I have been very tender and thoughtful with Elvira of late, to make up for my suspicions. I don’t know quite what she thinks of all my shifting moods. In any case, she accepts them with equanimity and changes nothing in her attitude.

  *

  I will not go into the details of the plan Marc conceived for my escape from the château at Poitiers. It would be tedious and pointless. I will simply say that it had to meet two conditions: it must make my flight possible, and any traces of complicity used to that end must be erased. This requirement stemmed from the fact that several of the key conspirators had consented to being bought, but only on the explicit condition that their betrayal would not be discovered. Consequently, their superiors who were also bought must keep silent. Rather than come up with a plan based on the improbable sacrifice of one or two guards, Marc was able to convince me that it would be better to buy everybody, in such a way that after my disappearance the investigation would not incriminate anyone and would be attributed to a mystery. Had they not already suspected me of being an alchemist and something of a wizard? Marc set about swaying people’s opinions by confiding to some of them that I was capable of . . . vanishing into thin air.

  Once we had worked out how much we needed to buy all our accomplices, I sent Marc to Bourges to see my son Jean at the archbishopric. Dauvet, out of the goodness of his heart, had allowed him to visit me a few months earlier. Our conversation took place in the presence of a guard, and I had not been able to give him too many details. I had simply advised Jean to place his trust in Marc if one day he should happen to visit. Jean was able to obtain without difficulty the sum we requested, and Marc brought it back to Poitiers.

  Once the funds had been distributed among the beneficiaries, it was time to put our plan into action. Autumn had come, and we must not wait until the cold of winter. And yet Marc hesitated. There had been recent changes to the garrison at the château, and there were some new guards he did not know yet and whose participation he could not be sure of, as he had not had time to observe their weaknesses. I pressured him, for while it may have taken me some time to accept the idea of flight, now I was completely won over to it. I could not sleep, and I was eager to act. How deeply I regret my impatience now! As always, Marc had an intuition of what might happen and I should have trusted it. In the end, to make me happy, he took a risk. He had obtained the list of guards on duty, and he chose a day where none of the newcomers would be on watch. He suggested that date for our operation. I accepted enthusiastically.

  It was a Sunday morning. All of the men present would be attending mass at the chapel of the château, with the exception of the guards keeping watch at my door. And there were fewer of them than usual. Everything went as planned. At the appointed hour, I saw Marc come in and motion to me to follow him. He handed a purse to each of the guards as we went by: the promised supplement to what he had already given them. We went down the grand staircase without meeting anyone. The entire hierarchy of jailers had been bribed, so that when the time came and they realized I had fled, each of them would answer for those he commanded. No one would have seen anything. Only the supernatural could explain my disappearance.

  We walked across the deserted courtyard. I was shivering in the damp early morning air. The guards on duty at the great gate to the château did not appear, and we found ourselves outside. All that remained was to cross the open space around the moat, and reach the labyrinth of tiny streets in the town.

  We were beginning to run when a shout stopped us. Two guards on their rounds had come around the corner of the nearest tower and they had seen us. One of them seemed embarrassed and didn’t move: no doubt one of Marc’s clients, duly compensated for seeing nothing. But his colleague, who, I later learned, had replaced another soldier who was ill, was one of the newcomers who was not in on the plot. He pulled out his sword and came after us.

  I tugged Marc by the sleeve and began to run. We could easily have gotten away. But our plan relied on one essential condition: the alarm must not be raised too early. That was why we had decided to leave in the morning, in order to have a full day ahead of us to flee as far as possible. If we did not overpower the guard, he would soon inform the entire castle, and however much the individuals we had bought might be on our side, they would be obliged to raise the alarm, if proof of our escape reached their ears.

  Marc had grasped all of this. He turned around and began walking toward the guard.

  “My friend, my friend,” he said, drawing nearer.

  The guard did not trust him. He had already seen me during my walks in the courtyard and he had recognized me. However, he was confused by Marc’s friendly tone. He lowered his sword but his expression remained hard.

  “Where are you going? Is that the prisoner?”

  Marc was now right next to the soldier. He was grinning broadly and his easy manner, in spite of the circumstances, was confusing. The guard let him come too close, at a distance appropriate for sharing secrets or friendly explanations. Marc pulled out a dagger and stabbed him in the stomach. The soldier felt the blow, and could not believe what was happening. But almost at once he realized that the blade had not gone all the way in. He was wearing a coat of mail beneath his tunic and the dagger had not pierced it. And so he returned the blow with his sword, and although he was too close and at an awkward angle, he was able to strike Marc in the shoulder. Marc’s reaction was magnificent and will deserve my gratitude forever. He turned to the other soldier and cried, “If you don’t kill him, he will tell the king that we bought you all.”

  This revelation threw everyone into a momentary stupor. Marc used it to his advantage to step back, but not far enough, alas. When the soldier had come to
his wits, he raised his heavy sword against him and struck his skull. Blood gushed from the wound and Marc fell down, dead. A moment later, before the murderer had time to turn around, his associate, into whose thick brain Marc’s warning had finally penetrated, took his colleague by the neck and with a single gesture slit his throat.

  Now that the other guard was on the ground, he motioned to me to run. I found out only much later that he disposed of the two bodies by throwing them into the moat. No one noticed Marc’s death. As for the disappearance of the other guard, it was disguised as a desertion. He was a bad sort, a former écorcheur and known assassin: no one was surprised that he went elsewhere to make his fortune.

  I hurried down the steep little street I had reached. Turning twice to the right and once to the left I reached the inn where Marc’s friend the cook was waiting for me. She was a red-faced girl, somewhat plump, who wore on her face the signs of a life of labor and poverty. When she saw me, she stood on her toes to look over my shoulder to see whether Marc was following. She stared at me; I shook my head, and was unable to say anything more. She pressed her sorrow into her heart and made it disappear. She went through the motions to concentrate on our plan, but I am sure that once she was alone she must have wept profusely. This was Marc’s great asset: no woman could fail to realize that he was unfaithful, or rather, that his presence was only destined to last a certain limited length of time. And yet he aroused a sincere and deep attachment that had the power of love, even if it could not bear its name.

  The cook gave me warm clothing and led me to the stable where two horses were waiting. She looked away from the one that had been meant for Marc. The saddlebags were filled with food and a blanket was rolled tight and fixed on the horse’s rump, and I climbed in the saddle. She opened wide the door to the stable. I rode out and took her hand on the way. We exchanged a gaze where gratitude, sadness, and hope were mingled, in a flash. Then I spurred my horse and trotted to the edge of town.

  We had rehearsed everything painstakingly with Marc, so that his absence did not compromise the success of my plan. But I felt his loss deeply. He was the one person who had filled my thoughts over the last months. This escape was an adventure that we had conceived and dreamt up together. It was a great effort for me to return to solitude.

  October was already cold in the Poitou region. Gusts of a northerly wind found their way through the hedges surrounding the fields. I followed the road as planned, meeting convoys and horsemen who greeted me without the slightest idea they were speaking to an escaped criminal. The brisk air, the pale colors of the sky where the sun had managed to break through in the early afternoon, the sight of the well-kept villages, the well-fed cattle, the carts full of produce, all banished the sad thoughts of my escape. A new feeling came over me, and it will seem banal if I say it was a feeling of freedom. There ought to be another word to designate exactly what I was feeling. It was not just the freedom of the prisoner who has left his jail behind. It was the culmination of a long journey, which had begun with my arrest, the loss of all my property, and the cessation of all my business dealings. It had continued with Marc’s arrival, the restoration of my health and strength and appetite for life, and the long-nurtured project of my escape. And it all combined into a single sensation, that of the cold wind against my cheeks, my eyes misting with tears that no longer came from the soul but were brought by the icy wind. It all came back to me: people, landscapes, colors, movement. I shouted with joy to the rhythm of the gallop. The gray horse the cook had provided also seemed to have stayed too long in his stall. He flew along, and I did not need to urge him. Children laughed as we galloped by. We were an allegory for happiness and life.

  *

  At around eight o’clock in the evening, it was already dark in the forest leading to the priory of Saint-Martial, not far from Montmorillon. A friar with a lantern was waiting for me. I found refuge in the inviolable walls of the sanctuary.

  I did not know the prior. Marc had certainly made a generous offering in my name, which earned me an attentive but frosty greeting. I must not outstay my welcome. What the clergy feared most was that I might be found on their premises, and no longer be able to leave. And so after a few hours of food and rest for myself and my horse I left Saint-Martial, at dawn.

  We had agreed, when planning with Marc, that we should head in a southeasterly direction. I would find salvation initially in Provence, where King René was still master of his domain. After that, Italy.

  I now know that once the alarm was raised at last in Poitiers, the first difficulty my pursuers encountered was that of determining which direction I had taken. Some thought I must have gone east, through Bourges, and on to the duke of Burgundy. Others thought I would flee to the north: Paris, then Flanders. But Dauvet had better reasoning. He knew that only two people would be pleased to welcome me: the Dauphin, and King René. He sent missives to Lyon with the order to watch all the crossing points to the north and south of the city, leading to the Dauphiné or Provence. His clairvoyance deceived me. As in the early stages of my flight I met no obstacles, I imagined somewhat too hastily that the coast was clear. From monastery to castle, I kept strictly to the path Marc and I had laid out. Convents were very safe, as they could not be inspected. In carefully chosen castles I found friends, associates, debtors, all of whom gave me a magnificent welcome. It was, in a way, an antidote to the poison of the trial. After the long procession of envious individuals who had come to denounce me, here was this solid chain of affection and recognition. In November the rain battered the routes of the Auvergne. Fortunately my horse was bearing up, and my clothing, which I always hung up to dry by the fireplace in the evening, protected me from the cold. As I rode through the desolate provinces I could still see some traces of pillaging, but the armed bands had disappeared and one need no longer fear any evil encounters. At last I reached the other slope, the one that leads down to the Rhone Valley. The horizon was washed with rain, a gray and green line: the shores of Provence. A wind from the north began to drive away the clouds. I galloped toward the river beneath a white sun that warmed only the soul. I would soon be safe. I thought of Guillaume and Jean, who were waiting for me on the other side.

  Alas, the return to reality was a harsh one. In one of the monasteries where I stopped, along the Regordane Way, at the top of the last hill overlooking the river, the monks informed me that soldiers were out looking for me. They had visited the surrounding area and had even stopped at the monastery to ask if anyone had seen me. The friars who went to sell their firewood and cattle at the markets in the valley warned me that all the crossing points on the river were being watched. Patrols were crisscrossing the region, stopping travelers.

  The last of my optimism evaporated. Without Marc’s help, how would I manage to make my way past this final obstacle? I imagined prison and torture all over again. The cold air I had not noticed as I was riding now gripped me and I fell ill. I had a fever for an entire week. The monks took care of me, but I could tell they were impatient to have me gone. Their monastery was poor and isolated, open to the wind, and if the soldiers came, they would not hesitate to violate the immunity that religious communities enjoyed.

  As soon as I had recovered, they advised me to go as far as Beaucaire, where the powerful Cordeliers kept a snug monastery, of the sort no one would dare enter to drag me out by force. I left one evening after Vespers. Monks returning from the market had made sure the coast was clear as far as the river.

  I reached the shore at nightfall. The moon was almost full and lit my way. Instead of turning to the right toward Beaucaire, I decided to go cautiously back up to a little port where salt boats were moored. Most of them, in this region, belonged to me. Sailors are a faithful lot, and if I could find one who recognized me . . .

  I headed quietly toward a cluster of small boats. The dim light from a few lanterns was reflected on the water and the sound of voices carried on the still air. Suddenly to my left
someone cried out. A man was calling to me in a loud voice.

  “Hey, you, come over here!”

  Now I could see a campsite at the edge of some trees. A few soldiers were sitting around a fire and a halo of light shone on their hobbled horses not far from there.

  I immediately turned around and headed south. My gray horse had regained strength during my illness and over the last few days I had ridden him gently. He displayed all his spirit. Although the light was dim, it enabled us to gallop flat out without danger. After roughly an hour I stopped my horse, headed a short way along a path and, hiding in the darkness, I listened out. Everything was silent. I concluded that the patrol had not followed me. They must have received the order to watch a certain part of the shore and no further. I continued on my way at a gentler pace. A few hours before daybreak I arrived in sight of the walls of Beaucaire. I slept in a clearing, and with the first light of dawn I rode toward one of the gates. I nodded to the watchman, who was still drowsy, and headed up to the monastery. The brother at the gate greeted me and I asked to see the abbot. We were acquainted, because I had often come through the town when there were fairs, and I had made substantial donations to the monastery.

  Father Anselme ensured me of his hospitality and took me to one of the cells. Later in the day we had a long discussion. His order was a wealthy one, and I could stay as long as I liked without inconvenience. But he warned me that I ran the risk of not being able to get out again. The town was infested with soldiers who checked everyone passing through. The incident on the riverbank would have reached their ears by now. They would logically conclude that I had come here. The abbot, while he would answer for my protection, if asked, could not hide the fact that I was in the monastery.