Exhausted, they pushed on to Montluçon, taking the cheapest inn they could find. They stayed for two weeks, so that Gaston might recuperate, but played only four times, the audiences being scant and poor. Even Pierre, who seemed to be an accomplished pickpocket, complained of the poverty of the folk in Montluçon. In a rage over the lad’s stealing, Valentin nearly beat him, but Marc-Antoine, now totally enamored of the boy, would not have it, promising instead to keep a closer watch on Pierre and his larcenous tendencies.
They moved on at last to Bourges, where the company had played before, and were greeted with enough warmth, by townfolk who remembered them, as to dispel the miseries of the last few weeks. They stayed for two and a half weeks, playing almost every afternoon, their days falling into a comfortable pattern. They awoke at nine or ten (though Toinette and Joseph, who were now sharing a bed regularly, slept later, and Hortense, who had spurned both Sébastien and Gaston since the morning near Nevers, arose early and paced the courtyard like a caged tigress), rehearsed for an hour or so, and dined at noon. They played at two, then changed clothes and removed their makeup and strolled about the town until suppertime, supping as often as they could with a petty noble or self-important merchant who was delighted to pay their billet, if only to brag to his friends that he had supped with actors who had seen the world, and actresses whose beauty set a man’s heart to fluttering.
As the evening wore on, Marc-Antoine and Pierre would vanish into the night with like-minded companions, and Sébastien, with a great flourish to Hortense, would go off to the local tripot, or gambling den, to lose his money as fast as he had earned it. Gaston, still nursing his broken arm, would get drunk and go to sleep, leaving the rest of the company—even a reluctant Valentin—to smile and laugh with their admirers.
Ninon found it a difficult path to tread, keeping her panting suitors at bay while contriving to flatter them and convince them that she found them the most charming gentlemen it had ever been her pleasure to meet. But remembering the fight in Moulins, and the ugly provost in Souvigny, she knew she had no choice. Despite recent royal edicts forbidding bias against actors, they were still considered inferior beings and treated accordingly. Only flattery and agreeableness to the local notables kept them in funds—and out of prison.
Sometimes when the strain of being pleasant became too hard to bear, Ninon would go back to the inn and sit with her sewing. It filled the quiet hours, but it could not fill the longing for Philippe, the pain that had come flooding back as the hard work of the first weeks had lessened, and the heady flush of excitement had worn off. She had given up her love, her heart, for this tawdry existence, and she was beginning to see the real face of the actor’s life beneath its pretty mask.
This was her mood by the time they moved on to Auxerre. She no longer tried to be pleasant to Valentin, finding his hatefulness tiring, and the petty concerns and jealousies and amours of the company bored her as much as the long hours between performances. Without Philippe, she felt less alive than she had at the convent, when she had still had her hopes and dreams.
She played her roles indifferently at their first performance in Auxerre, and was paid back by the audience with catcalls and a shower of rotten food.
“What the devil were you doing out there this afternoon?” shouted Valentin, as soon as the curtain had closed. “Are you ill that you played like a sleepwalker?”
Colombe smiled like a cat and rubbed her belly, grown enormous by this time. “Do not fret, Valentin. Soon enough I shall be brought to bed with this child. When I have my place back, we can send this creature packing!” She glanced at Ninon, who was still brushing bits of food from her gown. “’Tis remarkable, my dear, how well old cabbages suit you!”
“Madame Guillemot.” A young pageboy stood before Ninon. “Monsieur le Duc asks if you will be supping tonight at the Golden Crown? Le Duc de Barre. He would welcome your company.”
Ninon hesitated, feeling her heart sink. She had noticed the nobleman in the audience, smiling and winking. A fat old man, with eyes that looked like shiny buttons in a pig’s face; he had stared hungrily at her all evening. The thought of being pleasant to him at supper made her stomach turn.
“Madame would be better served staying home and learning how to be an actress,” Valentin said sarcastically. Colombe cackled in triumph.
Oh God, Ninon thought, despair clutching at her. If she could only run away. If she could only keep from crying in front of all these vultures who picked at her heart and waited to see her downfall.
“Alas. Madame Guillemot is supping with me tonight. Alone.” Chanteclair smiled down at her. “Is it not so, ma chère?”
She had never been more grateful for his kindness. They escaped into the soft summer evening and Chanteclair led her to a small inn. Seated at last in a cozy chamber, he sipped his wine and leaned back in his chair. “You must not allow Colombe to make you unhappy,” he said. “She is an extraordinarily unpleasant woman and not worth your tears.” He laughed at the look of surprise on Ninon’s face. “There is not a one of us who finds any merit in her—a bitch she was born, a bitch she will always be!” He took a large chunk of meat pie and shoveled it into his mouth with the end of his knife.
“But you keep her on.”
“Indeed, yes. To begin with, she’s a fine tragedienne. You have a skill for comedy that she cannot match, but her Miriamne makes grown men weep. And then, she is very beautiful…forgive me.”
“I am not consumed with jealousy. You may say it. She is beautiful.”
“Yes. A strolling company can never have enough beautiful actresses. And she can be charming when she chooses to be.”
Ninon smiled knowingly. “And accommodating?”
Chanteclair blushed. “She is…very hard to resist.” He refilled his wine cup and laughed. “Unless, of course, one is Marc-Antoine de Ville de La Motte!”
“I like him. The man behind the pompous splendor.”
Chanteclair’s warm brown eyes searched her face. “You have a good heart, Ninon Guillemot.”
“Is he truly nobility?”
“No. He likes to pretend so, despite Colombe’s mockery. But he was the son of a shopkeeper, who threw him out because of his ‘inclinations.’”
“Alas. How sad for him. But at least he can resist Colombe’s charms!”
He shrugged. “As can Valentin.”
She shook her head. “Valentin. A man of mystery. And yet he is not…?”
“A tapette, as Colombe calls him? An unnatural man? No. Perhaps that is why she dislikes him so. She scorns Marc-Antoine for his ways, but I think she hates Valentin because…you’ll pardon me if I speak frankly…because she cannot seduce him, as she has done to the rest of us.”
Ninon frowned. “Think you it is a religious vow?”
“Valentin’s celibacy? I think not. I have known him to seek out a whore from time to time. And rage for the next two weeks, as though he cursed his own weakness.”
“I do not like him or his rages.” She picked at her food, then looked reflectively at Chanteclair. “You never get angry, do you?”
“Why should I? Life is a game of chance. What will be, will be.”
“Mon Dieu!” she laughed. “You are more the gambler than Sébastien! But Valentin…unpleasant man…How did he come to the company? To be its head?”
“It was two years ago, or a little more. Ragotin was ill and wished to retire. I have been an actor most of my years, and glory in it. I should have been a draper like my father, otherwise. But I had no wish to head the company. And then Valentin appeared. He was a natural actor…and a leader of men. Ragotin was delighted to pass the mantle.”
“Where did he come from? What was his life?”
Chanteclair shrugged. “Qui sait? Who knows?”
“It hardly matters. He is a cruel man. Truly ‘heartless.’”
“He is a man in torment.”
“What care I? I cannot be concerned with his griefs. I do not like him. I scarcely tru
st him.”
Chanteclair smiled gently. “Or anyone?”
“Why should I?”
“Because you have a good heart, Ninon Guillemot. You are not as hard as you pretend. A good heart.” He took her hand gently between his own. “And a broken one?”
She pulled her hand away and busied herself with her food.
“I mind that Valentin called you mistress to a comte,” he said gently. “Froissart?” Still she said nothing. “What a strange creature you are. I’ve watched you change these past weeks. The modest young woman has come alive, n’est-ce pas? Have we taught you to laugh?”
She looked at him with grateful eyes. “A little,” she whispered.
“Yet always silent when your heart is touched. Will you tell ‘Grandmère’ someday why your eyes are so sad?”
She blushed, feeling flustered, aware suddenly that they were a man and a woman alone together, sensing his masculinity as she had not before.
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes searching, appraising. “Do you want me to pursue you?” he said at last, as though he had read the thought in her mind.
She shook her head. “No. No. And yet…” She took a long draft of wine, feeling foolish, uneasy, insecure. “That is to say…I would not welcome your attentions…anyone’s attentions, you understand…I mean no offense to you…and yet…”
A small smile twitched at his lips. “And yet…?”
“The…the women of the company do not want for attention.”
“True enough. Though I find Toinette too silly for my taste.”
“Am I not desirable?” she burst out, then blushed and turned away.
He began to laugh. “My dear Ninon, there is not a man in the whole company who is not panting for you, myself included. I warrant even Marc-Antoine has entertained an occasional thought!”
“I…I don’t understand!”
“You are the loveliest, freshest blossom that this jaded company has seen in many a day. I could love you myself, my sweet, and chase away the sadness from your beautiful eyes. But…”
“But…?”
“But we are forbidden. Because such entreaties would be unwelcome to the melancholy Ninon. Look not so surprised. You said as much yourself, n’est-ce pas? And so we have been forbidden.”
“Forbidden by whom?”
“By Valentin. The ‘heartless.’”
“Mother of God. I don’t believe you.”
“Whatever you may think, he is not a monster. He did not wish us to add to your grief by importuning you.”
“Why should he care? I cannot believe that—”
She was interrupted by a loud pounding on the door. “Chanteclair!” Valentin burst into the room, his face flushed from running. “Come quickly. Hortense, the little fool…”
“Nom de Dieu! What is it?”
Valentin stopped to catch his breath. “Do you remember the bailiff Sébastien gambled with?”
“Mon Dieu! The one who swore to kill him? Sébastien wasn’t fool enough to gamble with him again! Was he?”
“No. He was very discreet. A simple game of rouge et noir, an out-of-the-way tavern, a small group of men—what harm? But one of them is the son of the bailiff.”
“Sweet Madonna!” exclaimed Ninon. “Does Sébastien know?”
Valentin shook his head. “No. The bailiff is a nobleman of some importance in Auxerre—his son’s title is different from his own. But several of the men, leaving the tavern, met Toinette and Hortense, and happened to mention the relationship between son and father.” Impatiently Valentin indicated the door. “Pay your bill for supper and come with me as we talk. Ninon as well. We might have need of you.”
They hurried out of the inn and followed a road that led to the outskirts of Auxerre. “Where are we going?” asked Chanteclair.
“To save Sébastien, if we can. Hortense is so blinded by anger and malice that she has gone to fetch the bailiff. Toinette could not stop her, and came to tell me. We must get Sébastien out of the tavern.” Abruptly Valentin turned off the road onto a small path that wound between dark trees. Before them was an old tavern set on a rise, its peaked roof making it seem all the higher.
They hurried into the common room, ignoring the few carousers who sat about with beakers of ale drinking one another’s health, and raced up the long staircase. The first room was empty. In the second room they found only two men, Sébastien and the bailiff’s son, who, having sent the rest of the players home as losers, were congratulating each other on their good fortune and pocketing their winnings.
“Monsieur,” Valentin said quickly. “Your father is on his way here.”
The young man shrugged. “And so?”
Valentin pointed a finger at Sébastien, his voice tense with anger. “My good young sir, did you know that this is the man he has sworn to kill, if ever he found him at cards?”
Sébastien’s face went white. “My God! The bailiff’s son?”
“Forgive me,” the young man stammered. “I…I did not know!”
“Get out!” barked Valentin. “Get you home as fast as ever you can!”
“Too late!” cried Chanteclair, who had been listening at the door.
Sébastien ran to the window and opened the casement. He looked down and groaned. “It’s too high. If either of us goes out this way, there will be broken bones.”
“If you stay,” muttered Valentin, “there will be broken heads.”
Below, they could hear Hortense’s voice, fawning over the bailiff. “Come this way, monsieur, if you will. You shall not be disappointed, I promise you.”
“Humph!” he growled, moving slowly into the common room with the aid of a large, gnarled cane. “You say my son is here? And with that rogue?” He put his hand on the banister and winced in pain. “Damn this gout! I’ll kill the plaguey rascal!”
“Oh, no, monsieur,” purred Hortense. “Why stain your hands with the blood of one so lowly? A sound thrashing with your cane will teach the devil a lesson.”
“Yes. Yes. Magot! Saint-Jacques!” he called to his men who were waiting in obedience at the door. “Come! Follow me.” With a great deal of grumbling and groaning, he made his way up the stairs, followed by Hortense and his two men-at-arms. “Damned thief! Filthy mountebank! I shall make him wish he had not been born!” At the top of the stairs he lifted his cane and pointed to the door. “Open it,” he ordered his men, “and be prepared to arrest the knave as I direct!”
Valentin looked up from the table where he was sitting, his eyes wide with surprise. He nodded politely to the bailiff and slapped a card down on the table in front of Chanteclair. “Welcome, monsieur,” he drawled. “Will you join my friend and me for a hand or two of piquet?”
“By my faith!” roared the bailiff, looking at Hortense. “What is this?”
“The other room, monsieur! Try the other room.” There was an edge of panic in Hortense’s voice.
The bailiff clumped across the room and threw open the door to the chamber beyond. Ninon, sitting on the young man’s lap, gave a little gasp and took his hand off her bosom. The bailiff harrumphed loudly. “Nom de Dieu! I had not meant…charming young thing…forgive my intrusion.” He glowered at Hortense.
“Your pardon, my lord,” she said weakly. “It would seem I was misinformed.”
“By my faith, young woman, I do not enjoy being pulled from my hearth of a night to go chasing phantoms! You tell me I shall find a gambling villain. I find only my son engaged in an amour.” He glanced about the sparsely furnished room. “I do not see the rascal here. Now, if you don’t mind, I shall go back to my hearth!” He turned to his son, nodding his approval. “I shall see you at home, sirrah, when you have—ahem—concluded your business.”
“No,” pouted Ninon, jumping up from the young man’s lap. “You may go home now. You are a charming fellow, but if you must be followed about by your father, I shall have nothing more to do with you.”
The young man protested halfheartedly, then followed his
father down the stairs and out of the tavern. Bewildered, Hortense stared at the three of them, her quizzical frown going from Valentin to Ninon to Chanteclair. Without a word the two men rushed to the window and hauled up Sébastien, who had been hanging desperately to the sill on the outside of the tavern. He scrambled into the room, breathing heavily and rubbing his sore arms. “I could not have lasted another moment,” he gasped. Hortense smiled uneasily at him. Ignoring her, he looked at Valentin. The two men nodded politely to each other, then Valentin took Ninon by the arm and ushered her out of the room. Chanteclair followed, closing the door behind him and leaning against the doorframe. Valentin stared out the window at the dark night.
There was the noise of brief scuffling from the room beyond, then the sharp sound of flesh striking flesh, followed by a shriek from Hortense. There was another slap, and again Hortense cried out. Horrified, Ninon turned to the door. Chanteclair grinned, but barred her way. She crossed to Valentin at the window. “How can you let him?” she cried, her voice shaking with outrage.
“Leave them alone,” he growled. “He is her husband.”
It took her a moment to recover from her surprise. “Why should that matter?” she said at last.
“She endangered his life. And put the whole company at risk.” He paused for a moment to listen to the sounds from the other room, which had continued unabated: each time a sharp smack followed by a yelp or shriek from Hortense. “And all for malice. By God, had he not done it, I’d have done it myself!”
She sneered. “Do you take pleasure in playing the brute? What if she had been a man?”
“I should have drubbed him soundly with these two fists.”
She curled her lip, a look of contempt on her face.
“Dammit!” he burst out. “There are ten people in this company. And I am responsible for their lives! That man was the bailiff—the justice in this town. He might have found cause to clap the lot of us in prison! And all for Hortense’s malice.” His eyes narrowed threateningly. “Make no mistake about it, my charming Ninon. If ever you willfully endanger this troupe, I shall not hesitate to fold back your skirts and turn your pretty little bottom as pink as a field of clover!”
Dreams So Fleeting Page 15