The Dream Maker by Jean Christophe Rufin

Author:Jean Christophe Rufin
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Historical
ISBN: 9781609451561
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2013-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

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I was given the opportunity to contribute myself, by means of building the palace I had promised Macé. Before I went to Florence, I could not conceive of this building as anything other than what was in keeping with my notion of supreme luxury: the château at Mehun-sur-Yèvre. Built long ago by Duke John, it was the king’s residence when he was in the region. It was a fortified building surrounded by round towers, and its only novelty, albeit a very tentative one, but which was what made it so attractive, were the tall windows set in the walls, which offered an admirable view of the countryside.

The land I had acquired, with its Roman foundations, was to serve as a foundation for a construction similar to Mehun, or at least that is what Macé and I had decided. To that end, we decided to flank the tall Roman tower with a twin, which would give the building the air of a fortified castle. But when I came back from Florence, I realized that this was a ridiculous idea. In Florence I had seen palaces blossoming without a single trace of war, and for good cause. They were tall, airy buildings, whose only towers were used to contain spiral staircases. The architects vied with each other to beautify these dwellings with an elegance and lightness that made our fortified houses seem barbarian. On the walls, frescoes burst with color, and stained glass filtered a living light.

I decided to follow these examples and rethink our project completely. Alas, the moment I arrived in our town, I saw that in my absence Macé had already started construction work. The Roman wall had been reinforced and redesigned, in such a way that one could already see the two towers rising on the lower end of the plot, in a smaller imitation of Mehun. Macé toured the site with me, delighted to show me how diligently she had worked in my absence. I was in despair. I did not dare show her the plans an architect in Florence had drawn up at my request.

I had a quick journey to make to Le Puy. All through the trip I could think of little else than the palace. I had tried to put on a good face in Macé’s presence, and, given her enthusiasm, I had acted satisfied. But the moment I was alone I felt overwhelmed with despair. For what obscure reason? I had other properties, and the means to build whatever I liked elsewhere, more in keeping with my Italian taste. I had just purchased the land to build a house in Montpellier. Neither Macé nor anyone else could tell me what to build. And yet these thoughts were no consolation. The palace in Bourges, which hitherto I had paid so little attention to, and had only decided to build in order to please Macé, had now come to occupy an unexpected place. In truth, since Florence, I could think of nothing else. It seemed

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