The Brotherhood of Book Hunters (17 page)

In his opinion, the book trade would blossom much more here than in Madrid, Turin or Frankfurt. So far, Louis XI had been more astute in his choices than the Italian princes or patrons from the German aristocracy. Cosimo de' Medici had appointed a philosopher, Marsilio Ficino, director of the Platonic Academy. He had not hesitated to open its doors to the Talmudists, to encourage the researches of Phoenician astronomers and Arab mathematicians, to finance the work of doctors and alchemists. In Mayence, Gutenberg only survived by publishing grandiose bibles and tedious commentaries. But the King of France, against all expectation, had developed friendly feelings for a maker of rhymes whose escapades he had pardoned more than once. And Fust thought he knew why. Villon helped Louis XI in his plans as no brilliant theoretician or faculty heavyweight could have done. In speaking of his life, of women, of his sorrows, of Paris, he invited the subjects of the kingdom to all share the same destiny. His song united the French, be they from Poitou or Picardy, in a single anthem, a single language, which transcended dialects and coteries. Unlike the Medicis, Louis XI was not steeped in Greek and Latin but in the language of his country, as handled so well by Master François. The king was not a great lover of poetry. He quite simply saw Villon as the bard of a nation in the process of being born.

Nevertheless, Fust was plagued by doubt. The subject he had come to discuss today was of little interest to a monarch who was under attack on all sides. The rebellion of the nobles was taking on an unexpected scale. Charles the Bold, Count of Charolais, now at the head of an impressive coalition of dukes and barons, had just openly declared war on the crown. Bretons, Burgundians, and other provincials jealous of their prerogatives, hoped to dismiss their ambitious monarch and remedy the problems of government by placing on the throne an eighteen-year-old boy, the Duke of Berry, who was none other than the king's brother. To put down this rebellion, Louis XI had called on his surest allies, the Italians. With the Sforzas and the Medicis entering the battle, Fust found it hard to see how the book hunters' operation could be properly launched. If Louis XI was ousted, the Brotherhood's secret agreement with France would be rendered null and void. The defeat of Paris would be much more serious than a simple political reversal. It would give the dark forces that had governed Christendom for centuries a highly regrettable reprieve, pushing back the deadline once and for all. A fatal blow must absolutely be dealt to the demons of this abject past that would not resign itself to die. The young king's possible victory against the lords would not be complete if it did not also ring the funeral bell for the age of chivalry. A military victory was not enough. If the rebellious knights and paladins perished only by the sword, their deaths would be glorious, their bravery legendary. Unless a soldier from quite another legion denied them this final honor. While composing their elegy, he would dig their grave. He would bury them once and for all with a melancholy stroke of his pen. And it was on Villon that Louis XI was counting to deal this fatal blow.

 

Waiting to be called, Fust did not move from his bench. The king had not made any announcements on the measures to be taken. He had given no orders, being content to amiably thank the speakers and now and then whisper a few mysterious instructions to his aide-de-camp. The dignitaries and the captains gradually withdrew. It was getting colder and colder, darker and darker, in the great council chamber. Only the Bishop of Paris remained in his place. Once everyone had gone, Guillaume Chartier began an inaudible dialogue with his monarch. His Majesty, who until then had appeared impassive, bent forward to hear better, interrupted the bishop on several occasions, and even smiled with a crafty grin that reminded Fust somewhat of François.

At last summoned to join in the discussion, the bookseller rose laboriously and approached, leaning on his cane. He prostrated himself awkwardly in what he hoped was a bow, then conveyed greetings to the king from Jerusalem. This tribute did not fail to disconcert Louis XI, who remembered suddenly, with a certain embarrassment, that he was negotiating with Jews. Should he consider this mark of their deference as a courtesy of protocol or be offended by such arrogance? Since when had these godless people without a land of their own had ambassadors? True, he did not trust his own courtiers, nor indeed his own brother. But the Jews? After helping him to undermine the power of the Pope, they would no doubt try to erode his own. Even though they had been recommended by the Medicis, Louis XI suspected Fust's patrons of having aims that were quite different than those of Florence or Paris. He thought of the only Jews he knew: moneylenders richer than Croesus, a doctor from Toledo who had cured his dislocated shoulder, and a few unfortunates burned in the public square.

 

Fust tried to present the Brotherhood's plan as best he could. After the imposing parade of soldiers and diplomats that had just taken place, it was not easy to come here and boast of the merits of an offensive involving books. To weaken the papacy without setting off an actual conflict, the Brotherhood had carefully chosen the texts to be disseminated. But it was first of all the books themselves that the operation aspired to change, their form, their weight, their appearance. It would liberate them from the yoke of the cloisters and the colleges. Printers, engravers, binders, and peddlers would make them easier to handle, lighter, less expensive. And much less serious. Instead of attacking scholasticism head-on, they would drown it in a stream of works of all kinds, flooding the marketplace with accounts of journeys, treatises on physics, tragedies and farces, manuals on algebra or boilermaking, historical chronicles, tales and legends. And above all, the booksellers would encourage the use of French, Italian, and German. Latin would no longer be a sacred idiom but simply the language of Livy and Virgil.

Guillaume Chartier seemed to approve. By diminishing the influence of Rome, the clergy of France would strengthen its position within the kingdom. The goods of the Church would at last be in its full possession rather than filling the pockets of the Pope. The expenses incurred in fighting the rebellion of the barons would rapidly place the royal coffers at the mercy of the ecclesiastical finances. And so the Bishop of Paris would become at once spiritual head of the country and principal treasurer to the court.

The king, who had begun stroking his dogs again, did not deign to express his opinion on the proposed strategy and dismissed Fust. His indifference, whether feigned or not, made the printer ill at ease. The light was gradually going out in the melted wax of the candelabra, plunging the chamber into darkness. As a majordomo escorted Fust to the exit, Louis XI suddenly spoke up. The German turned, tense, all ears.

“Tell Jerusalem to take good care of Master François.”

A
isha sat down on the coping of the well, hoping it would provide a little coolness. François remained standing, facing her. As soon as she took his hand, an animal heat, both burning and delicious, spread through the hollow of his palm.

“Are you as good a poet as they say?”

Aisha's innocent question made François smile. He would have liked to lay the girl on the ground and take her right here. He raised his head and examined her for a long time.

He could not help thinking that the presence of this nomad by his side was far from being fortuitous. Every time he wanted to detain her, the rejection he met with was merely formal—or feigned. She was more than just bait, he knew that. She was his guide through the paths and
wadis
. Or else an enchantress in the pay of Gamliel.

A stroke of the cheek immediately swept away François's anxieties. Seeing him a prey to doubt, was Aisha trying to distract him? There was nothing unlikely about that. But why not accept this truce? He pulled close to her and kissed her forehead. Even though it had often led him astray, he had never resisted the spell of women for very long.

In the darkness, a solitary spectator applauded. His back against the low wall that surrounded the courtyard of the cloister, Colin doffed his hat low, paying tribute to the admirable way in which the wild girl of the desert had gone about taming the Parisian libertine.

*

In the refectory, the guests were talking at the tops of their voices. The prior drew his best beverage from a keg at the end of the table, generously filling a large stoneware jug, humming cheerfully as the divine nectar flowed. Federico was deep in conversation with Médard, who still disapproved of the choice of books to be taken to France and Italy. Above all, he was critical of Master Villon's
Testament
, finding it frivolous and insubstantial. He was also offended by the pompous title. There were two Testaments, the old and the new. What need was there of a third?

Federico, who was a little drunk by now, explained to him condescendingly that it was precisely Villon's flippancy that would make the greatest impression on people's minds. And on their hearts. Dante and Pindar wrote in a pure language that touched the clouds, whereas Villon addressed ordinary people face-to-face, in lively speech. His ballads did not celebrate the odyssey of gods or princes, but that of the man in the street, a hearty fellow with whom one would gladly share a drink. Therein lay their strength. Satisfied with the effects of his oratory, interspersed as they were with hiccups, Federico poured himself another generous helping as soon as Brother Paul put down the jug and invited those at the table to say grace.

G
amliel reached the monastery early in the morning. Politely cutting short the formulas of welcome uttered by the barely sober prior, the rabbi went straight to the cellars. Brother Médard was waiting for him there, legs dangling, perched on a chest from the Indies. Rabbi Gamliel walked past the shelves with a resolute step, as if inspecting the troops. Scrolls and books stood to attention. The best trained agents could fail, make mistakes, but Cato and Averroes would not falter in the face of the enemy, nor would a noose ever be put around Homer's neck. Sea maps did not yet interest the censors. And yet the enormous distances they covered would soon make Rome tiny and insignificant. The recent auto-da-fés revealed the panic that was already gripping the clergy. But the more treatises on astronomy they burned in the public square, the more the onlookers would watch the smoke rising from the pyres. Eventually they would look up and see the stars.

Gamliel rapidly checked through the lists. The names of the greatest thinkers, the titles of the most important books, succeeded each other from line to line in a glorious inventory interspersed here and there with more lighthearted works. Nobody knew which would be better at defeating the adversary: Greek tragedies or village farces, the truth of science or the fantasy of dreams.

Gamliel bade a solemn farewell to the rows of volumes. It was in a slightly hoarse voice that he gave permission for Médard to load the wagons.

 

Colin and François sat at the long table in the refectory, talking. The only news they had of France had reached them through Brother Paul. It was not always fresh, often taking more than a month to cross the Mediterranean. Nobody knew if Louis XI's reign had survived the revolt of the barons. It was only when they got to Genoa that the book hunters would discover if they could go to Paris or if they had to give up the idea and follow Federico to Florence. If that was the case, Colin planned to run away as soon as possible and rejoin the Coquil­lards, wherever they were, rather than dog the Florentine's heels. Shouldn't they seize the opportunity to rob him and take revenge for the trick he had played on them? Just as François was about to reply, Colin nodded his head in the direction of the door. Gamliel was standing in the doorway. He had surely heard a good part of the conversation.

The rabbi assumed an affable smile tinged with mischief, which reminded François somewhat of Chartier's when he had entered his cell all that time ago. The bishop's aura had been accentuated by the semidarkness, his white alb illuminated by the light of his lantern. Here, it was the blinding rays of the sun that enveloped this other priest with their light, giving him the look of a prophet. But François doubted that he was bringing glad tidings. Gamliel approached and sat down. He poured a little water into a metal tumbler, took a sip then, giving François a penetrating look, told him without further ado that only Colin would be returning to France.

François leapt to his feet, his face red with anger. It was he, not Colin, who had been entrusted with the responsibility for this mission. He had to make sure personally that the cargo arrived safely. Keeping him here in the Holy Land was a scandal, tantamount to taking him hostage! Gamliel firmly rejected these outraged protests. He justified the decision by asserting that it would be inappropriate to repatriate Master Villon simultaneously with his rebellious verses, at a time when Rome would show itself most likely to pursue their author and when Louis XI, in the middle of a military conflict, would be unable to protect him. The orders of the head of the Brotherhood were categorical: Villon was staying.

Gamliel had received instructions to persuade the Frenchman to put off his departure, but was forbidden from using force to do so. Being as stubborn as a mule, Villon would not do what was expected of him if he was threatened. He had to be cajoled. Gamliel suggested amiably that François take up his pen again. In the meantime . . .

Parodying the rabbi's affable tone, François thanked him humbly, and declared himself flattered that such well-informed book hunters had found him worthy to fight shoulder to shoulder with Horace and Epicurus against stupidity and narrow-mindedness. But Epicurus and Horace were long dead. In their lifetime, nobody would have dreamt of keeping them out of the fray like this. Even as he cursed and protested, François rapidly made his accounts, less and less convinced that this extension of his stay would be as bad as he claimed. Nobody was waiting for him in Paris, apart from Chartier. There was nothing for him there but debts and problems with the law.