Read Online The Dream Maker by Jean-Christophe Rufin, Alison Anderson - Free Book Online

near-white hair, and his blue eyes. His appearance alone would have sufficed to make him stand out in our Celtic country, where people’s skin and eyes are an autumnal hue of browns and reds. Added to that were his astonishing history and personality. He settled in our town at the end of one winter as it turned to flood. Everything was wet and gray. Ravand’s blue eyes were like the promise of a clear sky we had never hoped to see again. He arrived from the north in grand style, with five valets and ten men-at-arms, none of whom were from the same place or spoke French. He required no more than two weeks at the inn; fetching the gold from his carriages, he paid cash for a house, which one of our friends had just built.
    He furnished it very simply. The entire town was curious about him. I overheard talk but paid no attention. So, my surprise was all the greater when, a few days after his arrival, he sent me an invitation.
    His house was not far, so I went on foot. It was located on a winding street that led up to the cathedral. Two men were stationed at the street entrance and kept an eye on the passersby. At the door, two more men stood guard, clad in leather and coats of mail; they looked like
écorcheurs.
Such manners were not typical among merchants. Inside, there reigned the atmosphere of a fortress. The rooms downstairs, heated by a blazing beech wood fire, were veritable guardrooms. Some of the men slept on the floor, like soldiers on a campaign, while others came and went, speaking loudly. In the courtyard behind the house two ginger-haired fellows were washing immodestly in a barrel of rainwater, chests bared. I went upstairs by a narrow stairway similar to the one in my childhood home and came out into a vast room lit by two tall windows of white stained glass. Ravand greeted me, taking my hands and looking me straight in the eye with an expression of recognition and enthusiasm.
    And yet one felt that, if he so decided, all warmth would drain from those eyes and they would become cruel, cold blades. I immediately expressed my gratitude to Ravand for his welcome, the way a traveler might thank a highwayman for taking all his worldly belongings but leaving him his life.
    The room was furnished with only a table and two fluted chairs. The table was piled high with pewter dishes that were still dirty with the remains of various meals. Pools had formed where glasses had spilled. Three or four porcelain pitchers stood surveying this battlefield. I had never seen such a household, particularly as it was set in a building almost identical to the one in which we lived, and which our womenfolk were careful to keep harmonious, comfortable, and clean.
    Ravand offered me a drink. Before he served me, he inspected the bottoms of a dozen or so glasses before he found one he concluded was not as dirty as the others.
    â€œI am pleased to make your acquaintance, Jacques.”
    Neither Master Jacques, nor Messire Cœur. He spoke to me as a friend, but the friendship was that of a soldier, used to measuring a man against courage and death.
    â€œSo am I, Ravand.”
    We clinked glasses. I saw that a midge was floating on the surface of my wine, and yet I drank it down in one gulp. Ravand already had me in his power.
    He explained that he had come from Germany, where he had been in the employ of several princes. The size of their state did not match his ambitions; he had come into France from the north, after encountering the English and working for them. After several years spent in Rouen, he had taken to the road again, determined, this time, to serve King Charles. He did not tell me the reasons for this change, and I did not feel bold enough to ask him. What ensued would prove I had been wrong not to.
    Ravand talked about King Charles as if he were a prince with a great future ahead of him. This was rare enough to surprise me. Ordinarily the king’s name was only spoken in order to comment on his