LITMIR.BIZ

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this lord to recover his happiness. For some time past, Tolomei had acquired almost a taste for thinking of others.

      ‘Are the regulations concerning the export of currency to be promulgated in the near future, Monseigneur?’ he asked.

      Robert of Artois hesitated before replying.

      ‘Oh, of course, I don’t suppose you’ve been told yet …’ Tolomei added.

      ‘Of course, naturally I’ve been told. You very well know that nothing is done without my advice being asked by the King, and by Monseigneur of Valois above all. The order will be sealed in two days’ time. No one will be permitted to export gold or silver currency stamped with the die of France from the kingdom. Only pilgrims will be allowed to provide themselves with a few small coins.’

      The banker pretended to attach no greater importance to this piece of news than he had to the price of candles or the adulteration of jam. But he was already thinking: ‘That means foreign currency will alone be permitted to be taken out of the kingdom; as a result, it will increase in value … What a help these blabbers are to us in our profession. How the boasters give us for so little the information they could sell so dear.’

      ‘So, my lord,’ he went on, turning to Mortimer, ‘you intend to establish yourself in France? What can I provide?’

      It was Robert who replied.

      ‘What a great Lord needs to maintain his rank. You’re accustomed enough to that, Tolomei.’

      The banker rang a handbell. He told the servant to bring his great book, and added: ‘If Messer Boccaccio has not left, ask him to wait till I’m free.’

      The book was brought, a thick volume covered in black leather, smooth from much handling, and its vellum leaves held together by adjustable fastenings so that more leaves could be added as desired. This device enabled Messer Tolomei to keep the accounts of his important clients in alphabetical order and not to have to search for scattered pages. The banker placed the volume on his knees, and opened it with some ceremony.

      ‘You’ll find yourself in good company, my lord,’ he said. ‘Look, honour where honour is due, my book begins with the Count of Artois. You’ve a great many pages, Monseigneur,’ he added with a little laugh, looking at Robert. ‘Here’s the Count de Bouville for his missions to the Pope and to Naples. And here’s Madame the Queen Clémence …’

      The banker inclined his head in deference.

      ‘Oh, she gave us a lot of anxiety after the death of Louis X: it was as if mourning put her in a frenzy of spending. The Holy Father himself exhorted her to moderation in a special letter, and she had to pawn her jewels with me to pay off her debts. Now she’s living in the Palace of the Templars which she exchanged against the Castle of Vincennes; she gets her dowry and seems to have found peace.’

      He went on turning over the pages which rustled under his hand.

      ‘And now I’m boasting,’ he thought. ‘But one must do something to emphasize the importance of the services one renders, and to show that one’s not dazzled by a new borrower.’

      He had a clever way of letting them see the names while concealing the figures with his arm. He was only being half-indiscreet. And, after all, he had to admit that his whole life was contained in this book, and that he enjoyed every opportunity of looking through it. Each name, each figure evoked so many memories, so many intrigues, so many secrets of which he had been the recipient, and so many entreaties by which he had been able to measure his power. Each figure commemorated a visit, a letter, a clever deal, a feeling of sympathy or one of harshness towards a negligent debtor. It was nearly fifty years since Spinello Tolomei, on his arrival from Siena, had begun by doing the rounds of the fairs of Champagne, and then come to live here, in the Rue des Lombards, to keep a bank.¹¹

      Another page, and another, which caught in his broken nails. A black line was drawn through a name.

      ‘Here’s Messer Dante Alighieri, the poet, but only for a small sum, when he came to Paris to visit Queen Clémence after she had become a widow. He was a great friend of hers, as he had been of King Charles of Hungary, Madame Clémence’s father. I remember him sitting in your chair, my lord. A man without a spark of kindness. He was the son of a money-changer; and he talked to me for a whole hour with great contempt of the financier’s trade. But he could afford to be ill-natured and go off and get drunk with women in houses of ill-fame, while talking of his pure love for the Lady Beatrice. He made our language sing as no one before him has ever done. And how he described the Inferno, my lord! You have not read it? Oh, you must have it translated. One trembles to think that it may perhaps be like that. Do you know that in Ravenna, where Messer Dante spent his last years, the people used to scatter from his path in fear because they thought he really had gone down into Hell? And, even now, many people refuse to believe that he died two years ago, for they say he was a magician and could not die. He certainly didn’t like banking, nor indeed Monseigneur of Valois who exiled him from Florence.’

      The whole time he was talking of Dante, Tolomei was putting out his two fingers again and touching the wood of his chair.

      ‘There, that’s where you’ll be, my lord,’ he went on, making a mark in his big book; ‘immediately after Monseigneur de Marigny; but be reassured, not the one who was hanged and whom Monseigneur of Artois mentioned a little while ago. No, his brother, the Bishop of Beauvais. From today you have a credit with me of ten thousand livres. You can draw on it at your convenience, and look on my modest house as your own. Cloth, arms, jewels, you will find every kind of goods you may require at my counters and can charge them against this credit.’

      He was carrying on his trade by habit; lending people the wherewithal to buy what he sold.

      ‘And what about your lawsuit against your aunt, Monseigneur? Are you thinking of taking it up again, now that you’re so powerful?’ he asked Robert of Artois.

      ‘I most certainly shall, but at the right time,’ the giant replied, getting to his feet. ‘There’s no hurry, and I’ve learnt that too much haste is a bad thing. I’m letting my dear aunt grow older; I’m leaving her to exhaust herself in small lawsuits against her vassals, make new enemies every day by her chicanery, and put her castles, which I treated a bit roughly on my last visit to her lands – which are really mine – into order again. She’s beginning to realize what it costs her to hold on to my property. She had to lend Monseigneur of Valois fifty thousand livres which she’ll never see again, for they went to make up my wife’s dowry, and incidentally enabled me to pay you off. So, you see, she’s not quite so noxious a woman as people say, the bitch! I merely take care not to see too much of her, she’s so fond of me she might spoil me with one of those sweet dishes from which so many people in her entourage have died. But I shall have my county, banker, I shall have it, you can be sure of that. And on that day, as I’ve promised you, you shall become my treasurer.’

      Messer Tolomei showed his visitors out, walking down the stairs behind them with some prudence, and accompanied them to the door that gave on to the Rue des Lombards. When Roger Mortimer asked him what interest he was charging on the money he was lending him, the banker waved the question aside.

      ‘Merely do me the pleasure,’ he said, ‘of coming up to see me when you have business with the bank. I am sure there is much in which you can instruct me, my lord.’

      A smile accompanied the words, and the left eyelid rose a little to reveal a brief glance that implied: ‘We’ll talk alone, not in front of blabbers.’

      The cold November wind blowing in from the street made the old man shiver a little. Then, as soon as the door was closed, Tolomei went behind his counters into a little waiting-room where he found Boccaccio, the travelling representative of the Bardi Company.

      ‘Friend Boccaccio,’ he said, ‘today and tomorrow buy all the English, Dutch and Spanish currency you can, all the Italian florins, doubloons, ducats, and foreign money you can find; offer a denier, even two deniers, above the present rate of exchange. Within three days they’ll have increased in value by a quarter. Every traveller will have to come

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