Dreams So Fleeting

by Sylvia Halliday

  The Peerless Theatre Company anticipated a rich week, as profitable as the one they had enjoyed at Nevers, and in consequence rented the theater for at least eight days, half the fee payable in advance. The theater, its general layout the same as a tennis court, needed very little renovation, and the first afternoon’s performance, a pastoral and a farce, went well.

  That night, Marc-Antoine swept in to supper with a flourish, wearing a magnificent black beaver hat adorned with half a dozen white and pink plumes; behind him trailed a lad, perhaps fourteen, dressed in the costume of a pageboy out of some exotic court, his doublet heavy with gold braid, his petticoat breeches swagged with pink ribbons. “My servant,” explained Marc-Antoine, ignoring Colombe’s jeering laugh.

  Toinette looked bewildered. “Why do you need a servant? To help you dress in the morning?”

  “Don’t be a silly goose, Toinette,” said Colombe, her lips curved in a smile of malice. “Marc-Antoine needs the lad to help him undress. And to get him up.” There was no mistaking the lewd meaning of her words.

  “Shut your mouth, Colombe,” growled Valentin. “You have your ways, Marc-Antoine has his. Who is to say a whore is better than…”

  “Than an unnatural man? That shittlebrain? That pretender to nobility? Marc-Antoine de Ville de La Motte? Ha!”

  “What is your servant’s name, Marc-Antoine?” Ninon asked quickly, hoping to still Colombe’s poisonous tongue.

  “Pierre.”

  Ninon turned to the lad and smiled. He was soft and baby-faced, almost pretty, his hair falling over his eyes. She guessed from the roughness of his hands, and the way he fidgeted in his new clothes and glanced uneasily about at the roomful of flamboyant actors, that Marc-Antoine’s newfound valet de chambre had lately been a farmer or menial servant. “Have you supped, Pierre?” The boy shook his head. “Then sit you down, next to me,” she said, ladling out a bowl of soup.

  “Poor Valentin,” cackled Colombe. “Where will you sleep now? You have been cast aside for a downy-faced child.”

  Sanscoeur’s face twisted into a sardonic smile, reminding Ninon once again of the devil she had first thought him. “Whenever I begin to think I have judged the female sex too harshly, Colombe,” he drawled, “you are there to show me I have not.”

  In the morning they rehearsed the play they were to present that afternoon, nearly coming to blows because Marc-Antoine stopped every few minutes so Pierre could hurry over and dab at his face with a silk handkerchief. And when they went to dine at twelve, Marc-Antoine fussed over the lad, heaping his plate with meat, pouring more wine, like a lover who could not do enough for his new amour. The boy still seemed dazzled—though delighted—with his new station in life.

  As they dined, a messenger appeared with a letter for the whole company. Monsieur le Vicomte de Léris, whose daughter was getting married in a week, had heard only favorable reports of the Peerless Theatre Company. Accordingly, he now invited the strollers to perform at his château as part of the festivities honoring the bride and groom. On Saturday, five days hence, if it pleased the players. It would be his pleasure to pay them the lordly sum of five hundred livres. Gaston was ecstatic, and even Valentin beamed as he sent back a message agreeing to Monsieur de Léris’s terms.

  “Five hundred livres!” crowed Gaston. “We did not make that much on our best day in Nevers.”

  “Shall we do Le Vicomte Jaloux?” asked Chanteclair.

  Valentin nodded. “And Herod. ’Tis a noble tragedy, and Ninon plays it well.”

  Gaston shook his head. “Not without a new throne. We cannot appear before nobility with the wretched piece we have now. I saw a chair in an upholsterer’s shop yesterday. Larger than the one we now have, and with a little ornamentation and gold leaf quite suitable to our purposes.”

  “Mon Dieu,” said Chanteclair. “Larger, you say? And thus heavier. The ox cannot bear the added burden. The creature suffers even now.”

  “Get another ox,” said Valentin. “We could use a team.”

  “A new throne and an ox? We shall be woefully short of funds.”

  “But only until Saturday,” said Valentin.

  It was agreed that Gaston should, that very day, buy a companion to their beast of burden and arrange to have the upholsterer’s chair converted to a suitable throne. They went off to the theater in good spirits.

  The play had barely begun, however, when a great noise arose in the pit. Ninon would have stopped to notice, but Chanteclair, who was on the stage with her, continued his tirade as though nothing were amiss. She responded in her turn, but the noise had grown so loud that she could scarcely be heard above the shouting. It soon became clear that a young dandy—a nobleman, to judge by his sword and boots—was attempting to take a seat in the gallery without paying for it, and half the men in the pit had taken sides either for or against him, and were shouting at one another.

  “God’s blood!” bellowed the young man, his voice more than a little slurred by too much wine. “I have paid to get into the parterre! Why should I pay more to sit in the gallery?” This was greeted with a chorus of catcalls. “A pox on the lot of you! Show a little respect for your betters!”

  Ninon looked in consternation at Chanteclair. They could scarcely continue with this disturbance. She knew it was a favorite pastime of the young blades to attempt to get into the theater without paying, to show that they were worthy. And once allowed in for nothing, or for only the price of the pit, they used the threat of future quarrels to keep from paying ever again. Still, something had to be done to silence this drunken coxcomb. She stepped to the front of the stage.

  “Monsieur!” she called. “If you please!” And waited until the noise had died down a bit. She smiled down at the malcontent. “Kind sir, sit where you will. Only allow us to continue with our representation.”

  He looked up at her. “Upon my word, but you’re a pretty wench! I should like to get under your skirts!”

  “Sit down, monsieur.” She was still smiling, but her voice was tight and controlled.

  “With pleasure, fair one.” He bowed elaborately, if unsteadily, and turned to the usher. “Fetch me a chair. I shall sit upon the stage.”

  The usher shook his head. “Only if you pay for it, monsieur.”

  “Plague take you, you pricklouse!” The young gentleman swung his fist with all his might, and the hapless usher went down, blood gushing from his nose.

  It was too much for the spectators. With cries of “Throw the wretch out!” they bundled the dandy to the door—ignoring his threats to them, to the players, to the world at large—and pushed him out into the afternoon sunshine.

  The company thought they had seen the last of him. But the next day, waiting backstage to begin the play, they were interrupted in their last-minute preparation by a distraught Joseph, who had been counting the house with the doorkeeper.

  “He has come back,” he announced. “And with his friends.”

  Valentin pounded a fist into his palm. “Damn! How many?”

  “Half a score.”

  “Can they not be thrown out?”

  “No. They have all paid. Some have paid double, for good measure. And bought every tallow end the candle-snuffer could sell them.”

  There was a murmur of unease among the players as they crowded around. Valentin and Chanteclair frowned at each other. Reaching into his pocket, Valentin threw Joseph a small purse. “We shall play La Mort de Sénèque to begin. You have no part in it. See how many horses you can rent, and have them waiting at the inn. And the wagon and oxen at the ready. Have Marc-Antoine’s boy Pierre help you.” He turned to Chanteclair. “We can save the back-cloths, but if need be we shall leave the wings behind.”

  “Better yet,” said Chanteclair, “I’ll have the scenemen remove the laths now, and roll up the wings; we can play without them.”

  Valentin nodded in agreement. Crossing to a large trunk at one side of the stage, he opened it and removed several rapiers, which he distributed to the other
actors. Slipping the leather harness over one shoulder, he adjusted the rapier on his hip and glanced up to see Hortense and Toinette looking at him with worried eyes. He smiled gently in reassurance. “God willing, we’ll not have to use them!”

  Chanteclair had been peering through the closed curtains. Now he straightened up and turned to Valentin. “I thought I saw the lieutenant to the provost of Moulins in the audience. If he has brought his men with him, all will be well.”

  “Monsieur?” A stranger tapped Valentin on the shoulder.

  Sanscoeur whirled, clutching the man by the shirtfront and lifting him off the ground. “Who let you in here?” he exclaimed, his eyes blazing. “What do you want?”

  The man began to blubber. “I’m just a poor farmer, monsieur! Sent to look for Monsieur Sanscoeur.”

  “What do you want of him?”

  “Please, monsieur, put me down. I only have a letter. I’m just a poor farmer from Nevers. I was asked to deliver a letter. No more. I’ve just come from Nevers with a cart full of squash…fine squash, monsieur. I mean you no harm. My squash mean you no harm. Please put me down!” The farmer was nearly in tears.

  Valentin sighed in relief and lowered the man to the floor. “Well then, give it here. And a crown for your trouble,” he added. The farmer snatched at the coin and scurried away. Valentin took the letter and turned it over in his hand. At sight of the handwriting on the covering, his face went white. “Merde!” he whispered, and tore the missive into a thousand pieces. He looked up. Ninon was watching him, a mystified look on her face. “Damn you,” he growled, “have you nothing better to do than stare at me? We play La Mort de Sénèque, instead of Miriamne. Do you know your part?”

  She nodded curtly and took her place in the center of the stage. “Whenever the prologue is ready.”

  The first quarter-hour of the play went well. The brash nobleman and his friends, crowded together in the front ranks of the pit, were content to clap loudly at the end of each speech. But then they began to pelt the actors with the candle ends they had bought, taking great delight in hearing Toinette squeak each time she was hit.

  “Go on,” hissed Chanteclair from the side of the stage. “They will soon tire of the game.”

  At last the supply of candle ends was exhausted, and Ninon breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps now they would be content and let the play continue.

  “You. Pretty little wench with the red hair. Will you let me touch your breast?” The rowdy from the day before had come close to the edge of the stage and now was leering up at Ninon.

  His companion, a swaggering man in red velvet, nudged him. “This one with the yellow curls is for me! If she squeals at the prick of a candle end, what would she do for a full taper, stretched to its entire length?” He scratched at his groin and made an obscene gesture with a finger.

  The dandy turned to his companions. “Will no one have the plain one?” he asked, indicating Hortense, who was standing to one side of the scene.

  Another nobleman stepped forward. “I will.” He shrugged. “All cats are gray in the dark!” This remark was greeted with raucous laughter.

  “I wonder if the pretty doxy has red hair all over?” said the first one, and leaped upon the stage. Before Ninon could defend herself, he had her about the waist and was trying to kiss her, his slobbering mouth on her face and neck and bosom.

  The man in red velvet followed suit, jumping up to grab Toinette, who screamed helplessly as he plunged his hand down the front of her gown. Gaston, standing next to her, tried to pull off the ruffian, receiving for his trouble a cuff on the ear that sent him flying over the edge of the stage into the pit, where he lay groaning and clutching his arm in pain. With a growl, Valentin leaped into the fray, swinging his fists like an avenging angel, taking on the noblemen as they scrambled onto the stage to help their companions. In a moment the stage was crowded with brawling bodies, flailing and striking in all directions. Ninon picked up a lath strip that had been left by the stageman as he pulled down the wings; she swung it at the first aristocratic head she could find, and was delighted to see the oaf go down crying.

  There was now general fighting in the pit as well, the audience having decided that there was more joy in a good brawl than in a play; the spectators in the gallery, feeling deprived of the sport, had begun to pick up their benches and hurl them into the parterre. But on the stage the battle suddenly turned serious, as a sword was drawn, and then another. The nobleman in red velvet lunged at Sébastien before he could unsheath his sword, slashing him across his neck and forcing him backward so that he tripped and fell; then he stood over him with his blade against the actor’s throat.

  “Turn, you coward!” roared Valentin, and drew his rapier. He leaped at the man, his blade flashing, his weapon a graceful extension of his arm and hand. The skills of an indolent gentleman were no match for those of a trained actor who played the battling hero every day upon the stage. Valentin could have run him through at any moment, but he merely kept him at bay, playing with him, while he pondered how the company might extricate itself from this dilemma.

  Above the noise in the theater there was the sharp report of a pistol. The place became suddenly, eerily quiet as the brawlers froze. The lieutenant to the provost of Moulins stood in the pit, a smoking weapon in his hands. “Put up your swords, messieurs,” he said, “and go your ways in peace.”

  There was a general grumbling as the noblemen sheathed their blades and straightened their fancy doublets and capes. The spectators in the pit began to file out of the theater. Sébastien and Chanteclair jumped from the stage to help Gaston, who sat in a daze, supporting his injured arm. But the dandy in red velvet was still smarting from his humiliation at Valentin’s hands. With a growl, he turned about and lunged at Sanscoeur’s retreating back with the point of his rapier.

  “Val!” Ninon’s voice was shrill and urgent.

  Valentin whirled, parrying the murderous thrust and leaping forward to pierce the red velvet doublet just beneath the man’s ribs. With a look of surprise, the man clutched at his side and dropped to his knees.

  “Damn!” said the lieutenant. “I had hoped it would not come to this.” He turned to the rest of the noblemen. “Get Monsieur de Léris out of here!” Shamefaced, like a bunch of bullies whose game has gone too far, his companions picked up the wounded man and hurried him out of the theater.

  “De Léris?” said Valentin. “Monsieur le Vicomte?”

  “No. His son. The Chevalier de Léris.”

  Chanteclair groaned. “And brother to the bride, n’est-ce pas? I fear me that is one wedding we shall not attend!”

  “Alas, no, good masters,” said the lieutenant, not unkindly. “Although I can attest to your innocence in this affair—you were clearly provoked, all of you, and the Chevalier de Léris attacked you in most cowardly fashion, monsieur—still, Monsieur le Vicomte is a powerful noble in this parish. It will be best if you leave Moulins as fast as ever you can, before Léris sends half a hundred of his men to avenge his son’s honor. The provost does not have enough men-at-arms to protect you. Get out of Moulins at once.”

  They packed as quickly as they could. While Hortense bound the cut on Sébastien’s neck, Ninon brought Gaston to a surgeon to set his arm, which was clearly broken. Joseph had managed to rent only a few horses. They left Moulins as the sun was setting, riding double and even triple on their mounts, and urging on their new team of oxen.

  By ten o’clock Gaston was in too much pain to continue. They built a campfire back from the road and prepared to settle in for the night, trying to cheer one another for the loss of the day’s receipts, the wedding commission they had been counting on, and the precarious state of their finances. But Marc-Antoine’s little pageboy, Pierre, far less innocent than he appeared, had managed to steal a roasted leg of mutton and a large demijohn of wine from their innkeeper before they left. They sat around the fire eating and drinking, reliving—with much boasting and drunken laughter—the events of the afterno
on.

  Only Valentin stood apart from them, leaning against a tree on the edge of the clearing and gazing into the black night. At last Ninon rose from the ground and went to stand beside him.

  “’Tis not such a terrible thing,” she said gently. “We can sup on ale instead of wine, cheese instead of meat. And there is always the next town.”

  He seemed to look at her from a great distance, frowning in bewilderment. “What?”

  “The money,” she said. “I only came to tell you…”

  “Little fool, what makes you think I want to be disturbed? Go away!” The voice was harsh and ugly.

  How strange, she thought, seeing the handsome face distorted with hatred. A month ago she would have cringed at his tone, or answered him in anger. She had thought his venom, his hatred, a weapon, a sharp sword with which he attacked the world; she was beginning to see it in a new way—as his shield. “I only came to cheer you,” she said, “because you are worried about our means.”

  He laughed, a low, guttural laugh of derision. “Our means? My God! We have known harder times than this and survived! Do you think I worry about that?”

  “Yet you are downcast tonight.”

  “God’s blood!” he burst out. “Leave me be. It is my nature. Go and be cheerful with poor Gaston, who truly suffers this night.”

  “What was the letter?” she asked softly.

  He knotted his hands into tight fists and pounded them against the trunk of the tree, drawing a deep breath through clenched teeth. “Sweet Jesu! If you value your life, you will vanish from my sight tonight!”

  She had not thought she could still fear him, but the expression in his eyes sent her back to the firelight and Gaston, fetching a silk scarf from the cart to support the weight of his splinted arm.

  They had hoped to stay at Souvigny and rest for a few days while Gaston recovered his strength. There was a small jeu de paume that had served them as a theater the last time they had passed this way. But the provost of Souvigny met them at the walls of the town and forbade them to enter. Word of the brawl at Moulins had already reached his town, and he was loath to allow such scum (as obviously they were) the freedom of Souvigny’s streets, the companionship of its leading citizens.