The Dream Maker (39 page)

For those of us in Charles's entourage, who were responsible for an entire country, this celebration bore us much further than the city where it was held. For France it meant the end of a century or more of war, misfortune, and ruin. To be sure, we still had to drive the English from Guyenne. But there they were far from their home base, and surrounded by hostile forces; it was only a matter of time. There had been at least one advantage to this endless war: it had ushered in the demise of the world of princes, who exchanged land and people as if they were inert things, the way a woman might bring a mill, a pond, or a forest to her marriage as part of her dowry. The man who had delivered these people from their yoke was the king of France; they were no longer the property of the local lord, but the king's subjects.

I glanced over at Charles from time to time. He was wearing a full suit of armor, with a hat of gray beaver fur, lined with vermilion silk. To the front of his headpiece I had attached a little fermail set with a big diamond. The king seemed to be nodding off on his horse, his eyes half closed. What was he feeling? I would not have been surprised, if I could have asked him, if he had answered: boredom. Before we mounted our horses, while the procession was being prepared, he had ordered white wine to be brought to his campaign tent. If he had drunk four or five glasses, it was not to calm the impatience anyone in his place might have felt, but rather to give himself the courage to confront an ordeal he would have gladly done without.

When I had gone to find him to inform him of the order for the ceremony, he had asked trivial questions about the supper, for he wished to spend it in the company of a select few, those same ladies whose arrival we had witnessed several days earlier.

This king truly had a strange destiny, tossed as he was into the world, so weak and humiliated, the scorned sovereign of a ravaged, occupied, divided land yet who, through his will alone, had overcome all the obstacles, putting an end to a war that everyone had thought would be eternal, terminating the Schism of the West, witnessing the fall of Byzantium and rescuing part of its heritage by opening his country to the Levant. And while he desired and organized all of this, it was not in the manner of an Alexander or a Caesar. Such men, in a moment of victory, would have ridden out bareheaded, borne by the crowd's enthusiasm, and it would be clear to all that their armies had followed them because they were inebriated and adoring. But Charles had prepared everything in silence, like a thwarted child plotting his revenge. The great things he accomplished were merely the projected shadow of his petty calculations. His weakness meant that men of worth attached themselves to him, felt sorry for him, and he used them like lifeless playthings, never hesitating, should his feelings toward them change, to smash them to bits. And now that the hour of victory had come, now that the capricious child had had his revenge, he had none of those other ambitions which true conquerors always nourish, which grow and increase until they can grow no more; Charles's rewards were selfish and petty: drink, entertainment, and lust. In short, a void.

In the midst of great events there are often men about whom poets and dreamers will say, “Oh, if only I were in their place, what an unforgettable harvest of emotions I would reap!” And in comparison to this supposed turbulence, the calm of great figures passes for self-mastery. But these victors are often men without dreams, and for them hours of glory are monotonous and fastidious; to endure them they focus their thoughts on insignificant objects. An aching corn on their foot, their unassuaged appetites, the ill-timed memory of a kiss refused or awaited: their mind bathes in this lukewarm, stagnant liquid, while the crowd acclaims them.

It was an endless day of festivity and emotion. Charles attended mass in the cathedral, and received endless tributes. People's cries could be heard everywhere, even from out-of-doors. Drunken bell-ringers took turns at pulling the bell-ropes. The wine, food, and clothing that had been hidden from the English poured out into the street. Fortunately for the king, November days are short, and that one, in addition, was bitter cold. An easterly wind hurled icy gusts at the populace but could not subdue them: the feasting continued indoors. After making an appearance at various official sites, the king withdrew to the intimate supper he was expecting.

I spent a solitary evening surrounded by revelers. All those to whom I had lent money were eager to invite me, as if to prove the good use they had made of my funds. Their cordiality was unbearable. I refused to look on them as my debtors and, in general, to judge them in proportion to their fortune. I did not however, go so far as to view their debt as sufficient reason to appreciate their company. I was overcome by melancholy, and that me made me drink; the wine contributed further to my sadness. I finally made my escape from a house where the feasting was still at its height, and I began wandering through the streets.

I happened upon Dunois. He was sitting on a guard stone, holding his head in his hands. When he saw me, he let out a hoarse cry of joy. There was nothing left of the cheer we had felt that morning. He too, with the help of the wine, was drifting on a flow of dark thoughts. This man who, thanks to an impressive pyramid of victories, titles, and lands, had managed to make others forget his illegitimate origins, was now, with the ebbing tide of triumph, once again the bastard of Orléans, that same man who had welcomed me to the court, who had gone looking for death and found glory, until this day we had just lived through and which, by fulfilling all our desires, had annihilated them. We pulled our hoods down over our brows, to keep our faces in shadow, and we wandered through the streets, speaking at length about the past, as if we refused the proof that it had abandoned us. Then Dunois began a soliloquy about further conquest. His forced enthusiasm did little to mask the fact that, if there were more battles, they would lack the invisible albeit essential uncertainty as to their outcome.

Finally our steps led us back to the castle where we were staying. We presented ourselves to the sentry and walked into the great courtyard. From the keep, through the open windows of the king's apartments, there came the sounds of music and women's laughter. Dunois stopped, looked up toward the lighted rooms whence these joyful sounds were coming, and suddenly turned to me.

“Beware of him,” he whispered, pointing with his chin in the direction of the king.

His breath made it clear to me that he was speaking under the influence of alcohol, but while until now his words had seemed confused, and his mind fuddled, at that moment he seemed to master himself perfectly.

“You saved him, and now he no longer needs you.”

“Did he say anything that might have led you to think . . . ?”

But lucidity had already faded from Dunois's face. He shook his head and made a painful grimace.

“Goodnight!” he called.

And he disappeared down the corridor leading to his room.

 

*

 

I slept poorly and woke the next morning shortly before dawn. The intoxication and feasting had left the castle in a stunned silence. Marc was nowhere to be found. He was surely out enjoying the festivities as well. I went myself to the kitchen to try to find something to eat. Two baker's boys were sleeping on the chopping table near the warm oven. I went through the cupboards and found a jar of butter, and a crust of bread at the bottom of a bin. I took a stoneware bowl from a mountain of dirty dishes and wiped it on the apron of one of the sleeping baker's boys.

I went back upstairs with my provender and cleared a space among the bottles scattered across a stone table on the castle's flower-decked terrace. The sun had returned and covered the city with warmth, much welcomed by those who had fallen asleep in the street or on their doorstep. I had been there daydreaming for an hour or so when a man stood in the entrance to the great hall. In one hand he was holding a pitcher and in the other a dish of salt meat covered by a red-and-white checked cloth. It was Étienne Chevalier. We had hardly seen each other during the ceremonies: he had been part of another group, riding behind King René. I could see from his demeanor that he had slept no better than I had. His beard, which ordinarily he kept close-shaven, blackened his face, and his eyes were bloodshot and swollen. He sat down next to me, removed the cloth from his terrine and began digging into it. He too must have rummaged to see what he could find in the kitchen.

We began talking about the celebration, and we both remarked on how long ago it already seemed. We were both surprised, despite our experience of life, at how our exaltation could have subsided so quickly and so thoroughly.

Sleepy valets were drifting down the corridors. They seemed to be headed to the king's apartments. Chevalier and I were thinking the same thing, I am sure. He knew Agnès and loved her, too, though in a very different way, with greater distance and respect.

“I have been told that one of those ladies has precedence over all the others,” I ventured, repeating something I had heard somewhere during the night.

“Antoinette de Maignelay,” murmured Chevalier, and he cast a dark look at the king's windows.

There was a long, awkward silence. We were not well enough acquainted to confide further in each other or speak freely of the king's behavior.

“I could scarcely have believed,” he continued, seeming to come back to his senses, “that I would live to see this day. To think I would be here one day, with you, in Rouen, with the city liberated . . .”

He sniffed noisily, grabbed a piece of terrine and, before lifting it to his mouth, said with a sudden exhalation, “And I never would have thought that such a moment would leave me feeling so unhappy.”

I stayed three more days in Rouen on business for the Argenterie. We had to seize the opportunity offered by the return of the city to the realm as quickly as possible: Normandy, its products and its maritime trade were now wide open to us. I met the king only once during my stay. He sent for me on the perfectly trivial matter of an embroidered doublet he had ordered from the Argenterie and which did not fit. I was used to having him refer to me for all sorts of things, from the greatest to the most insignificant. This time however, I sensed an ulterior motive behind his summons. While he was questioning me regarding this minor issue about which I, obviously, knew nothing, Charles stared at me with an enigmatic smile. The interrogation was held in the presence of several courtiers and some of the women who had joined the court during the campaign. I tried to determine which one might be Antoinette de Maignelay. But the king did not leave me the leisure of such a discovery. He began to reproach me for mismanaging the Argenterie. Without looking at me, he called on all those present as his witnesses. Clearly he felt a sinister joy in humiliating the man who had provided him with the means to his victory. Thus, my premonition had been correct. By advancing the four hundred thousand écus, I had inflicted a deep wound on him, which might prove mortal for our understanding. This first blow dealt in public was a harbinger of further ordeals and greater danger.

I left Rouen, trying to put a good face on things. No one could imagine the turmoil in my thoughts. At least there was one advantage to my alarm: it aroused my spirit, made dull by the languor of victory. I was now certain that something had been set in motion. I must find shelter before the king's vengeance came to strike me. My only chance was his predilection for complicated maneuvers and cold revenge. While he played with me, and grew annoyed with tormenting me, I could act. Thus was I reduced to the woeful extreme of hoping that my ordeal would last a long time.

I headed first to Tours, where Guillaume de Varye was expecting me on business. We had made good progress by nightfall and had already stopped at a postal relay on the road to Tours when I called to Marc in sudden haste and had him saddle the horses again, though he had just groomed them and led them to the stable. We went back the way we had come, galloping furiously as far as the crossroads for Loches. It was a moonlit night and we continued on our way, in spite of the darkness and cold, until by dawn we were in sight of the castle where Agnès was staying.

I had dreaded seeing her again, for fear she might question me about the king's behavior and I would have to lie to her. But such cowardice was not worthy. I had made her a promise; now I must honor it. I lay down to rest on an embellished chest, near the big fireplace, and that is where Agnès found me in the morning. She was as I loved her, unaffected, her hair on her shoulders, wearing a simple chasuble with fine straps that both hid her body and revealed its curves. I soon understood, however, that this relaxed appearance was not a good sign. Her eyes were swollen and her nose was red. Her hands were trembling slightly and her gestures were so abrupt as to be—something which was rare for her—awkward. She almost knocked over a candlestick and somewhat later she broke a glass she was trying to raise to her lips. Above all, she seemed chilled to the bone, as if some invisible protection had been taken away, leaving her vulnerable to everything, including the biting damp air of the old castle.

The huge chimney in the room where I had slept spread its warmth easily enough for me. But Agnès led me to her room, shivering. Around her bed she had hung a tapestry of Nebuchadnezzar that the king had given her. I had had it made, and for several months I had followed its execution at the weavers'. I was pleased to find it there and, above all, to see that Agnès liked it and was glad to have it there. As soon as we were in the room she climbed onto her bed and motioned to me to sit next to her. This nest kept the damp at bay and preserved the body's gentle warmth, and she seemed to relax. It was as if her energy could now leave her limbs and enter her mind. She began speaking, so sharply that sometimes she choked on her emotion.

I realized she already knew everything: I had been afraid she would question me on the king's behavior, but it seemed someone had already related it to her down to the slightest detail. When she saw that I was surprised, she told me that Étienne Chevalier had passed that way two days earlier, and had told her everything he knew. It was not the king's unfaithfulness that grieved her. If she had learned that he sported with whores during the campaign, she would have understood and not felt alarmed. But she could not bear what she conceived as a double betrayal: Charles's, and her cousin's. For Antoinette de Maignelay was directly related to her mother, and it was Agnès herself who had introduced her at court. As for the king, it was a typical betrayal, concealed beneath the appearances of a favor. In fact, at the very moment he sent her the keys to the city of Vernon, he was taking another woman to his bed.