She swallowed hard to still her trembling, seeing clearly by his eyes that it was no idle threat; then she took a deep breath and faced him defiantly. “And who punishes you when you are reckless and foolish?”
Caught off guard, he flinched as though she had struck him, and turned away to the window. “God,” he said, his voice an agonized croak. Taken aback by his sudden change of mood, she reached out and put her hand on his sleeve, sensing his pain in the tone of his voice, the droop of his shoulders. He shook off her fingers and turned, the actor’s mask in position, the sardonic smile pasted on. He laughed mockingly. “And then Chanteclair and Gaston have been known to break a few chairs over my head!”
They played well the first week in Auxerre. Ninon, heartened by Chanteclair, recaptured some of her old zest on the stage, and Valentin—perhaps to atone for his coldheartedness in the matter of Hortense—was almost kind. Hortense seemed more ashamed than angry at what had happened, going out of her way to defer to Sébastien when there was a bit of stage business that they disputed. For his part, Sébastien announced that he had decided to swear off gambling for a while, which pleased his wife. Until, with twinkling eyes, he added that, in any event, his hand was still too sore to deal the cards, at which point Hortense cursed at him and flounced away.
But the second week, the weather turned stiflingly hot. They played with sweat running down their faces and streaking their makeup, with the smell of hot bodies packed into the small theater. The audiences grew restless, and booed and hissed every presentation, until the company felt it could do nothing right. Changing their usual arrangements, they performed at night, but it was scarcely cooler, and the smoke and the stink of the extra tallow candles that were necessary only added to their discomfort.
The night of their last performance, Colombe suddenly dropped her book and candle and clutched at her belly in terror. By the time the play was over she was moaning and begging to be carried back to her room at the inn. Through the night she thrashed about on her bed—her linens growing quite black from the color she used on her hair—and pleaded for a pillow impregnated with a narcotic; at dawn the midwife was sent for, and the child—a healthy girl—was delivered at eight.
When Ninon, exhausted from the long night’s vigil, came out of Colombe’s bedchamber and announced the news to the waiting company, the men cheered and congratulated one another on their possible fatherhood.
Colombe having been made more comfortable, the men crooped into her bedchamber to wish her well and view the child. She had contrived to rouge her cheeks and lips and out on fresh linen, and Hortense had combed her hair. She received them like a queen.
“You may all kiss me,” she said. Each man in his turn sent over her to kiss her lips; Marc-Antoine, captivated by the tiny babe that lay on the pillow beside her, beamed in approval and kissed Colombe sweetly on the cheek.
“What of you, Pierre,” she said archly to Marc-Antoine’s protégé. “Will you not give me a kiss?”
Marc-Antoine looked distressed. “No…Colombe…he is just a lad…don’t…”
She sneered. “I shall not corrupt him…any more than you have done!” She held out her arms seductively. “Come, Pierre.”
Marc-Antoine’s face was twisted with anguish as Pierre hesitantly leaned down to kiss Colombe. She smiled at the boy; then, darting a malicious glance at Marc-Antoine, she took Pierre’s hand and placed it on her breast. He turned around and looked at Marc-Antoine, defiance written in his set jaw and eyes that were strangely old; then he turned back to Colombe and kissed her as hard as he could.
Chanteclair muttered under his breath and covered his eyes, ashamed to be witness to such cruelty.
Colombe smiled smugly, clearly enjoying her day. “Now, Val. You’re the only one who hasn’t kissed me!”
Valentin shrugged. “Since I’m not one of your legion of lovers, I can scarcely claim the child as mine. Why should I kiss you?”
“Dear sweet Val. You are always so very charming. But the closest I’ve ever come to Marc-Antoine was at the supper table, and he kissed me! Perhaps you’re afraid, sweetling!”
He stared at her, his face a mask of indifference, then sat on the edge of the bed and let his lips touch hers for one brief instant. In that moment she grabbed his black hair and pulled his mouth back down to hers, straining against him with all the passion in her. He struggled and broke away, jumping up from the bed to storm to the door.
“Damn you!” she shrieked to his retreating back. “Cursed eunuch! You shall not be my child’s godfather!”
In the end, it was decided that Hortense should stand godmother to the child, and, by a process of elimination, Marc-Antoine the godfather, since a possible sire could not have the honor, and Colombe would have nothing to do with Valentin. They managed to find a curé who was willing to get permission of the bishop to have the baptism take place in the local church. “Child of musicians,” the certificate read, and it cost them a great deal of money, particularly to the bishop, who harbored suspicions about these vagabonds who had no true home. Marc-Antoine beamed with pride at his godchild (Marie-Anne, Colombe had named her), filled with a sense of responsibility and tenderness, a side of his personality that no one had seen before.
At supper that night, Ninon announced that she would leave the company as soon as Colombe could return to the stage.
“You cannot think to go,” growled Valentin. “There is room for both of you in the troupe. You’re the best soubrette we have had! Colombe shall return to the inamorata roles. But you cannot think to go!”
“What will you do if you leave us?” asked Chanteclair gently.
She shook her head. “I shall find something…a new life…”
“You have a life here,” said Marc-Antoine. “Stay.”
She hesitated, seeing the resentful look on Colombe’s face, then nodded in agreement. After all, why not? What else was there for her to do? She had a place here, and the company (except Colombe) wanted her; she would be a fool to go. She herself held no quarrel with Colombe; with a little effort they might be friends. She nodded again.
They signed an official contract with her that very night, making her a full shareholder in the company for the term of a year; then they celebrated the baptism and Ninon’s staying by getting very drunk.
A week later, on a sultry afternoon, Ninon heard Marie-Anne crying and rushed into Colombe’s chamber to tend the child. Cooing softly, she picked up the baby, and turned to see Colombe in the ruelle—the alcove to one side of the bed—lacing herself into a tight bodice.
“Your child wants her dinner, I think,” Ninon said gently.
Colombe smoothed her gown, admiring her slim shape in a mirror on the wall. “Let the brat wait. If we were not leaving Auxerre next week, I should put her out to nurse.”
“If you cared so little, why did you carry her?”
Colombe shrugged. “By the time I knew of her in my womb, it was too late to do anything, unless I wished to put my own life at risk. You do not like me,” she said, as Ninon turned away from her, rocking the baby in her arms. “No matter. I shall give you less cause in the weeks to come.”
“I bear you no ill will, Colombe.”
Colombe’s voice was hard and ugly. “But I do not like you. I give you fair warning. I shall win back all the parts that Valentin gave to you. And when he writes a new play, it will be for me. To carry me to Paris in triumph!”
“We shall see what we shall see,” Ninon said mildly.
“Little fool! Do you think you can stop me by capturing Val’s fancy?”
“Nom de Dieu! Why should I want such a thing?”
Colombe’s voice had begun to rise shrilly. “I am not blind! I see how you look at him, your eyes lusting for him, your body trembling for his touch!”
Ninon fell back in stunned silence, clutching the child to her bosom.
“Look not so amazed, you slut,” Colombe spat. “I am not fooled. Your face gives you away. You want him as much as I do
! But you haven’t a chance.”
“Nor has any one of us!” snapped Ninon, her patience stretched thin.
Colombe smiled slyly. “No one has ever really tried. Not even me. I waited for him to make his overtures. But now, willy-nilly, I intend to have him. And you, you wretched creature, you will do naught save stand by in helpless fury—and envy me!”
Chapter Seven
Ninon pushed at the curls on her forehead, smoothing them away from her damp skin. Mon Dieu, but it was hot! And her ankle had begun to bother her again. They had left Auxerre on foot, there being not a single horse to be had. Somewhere between here and Troyes, God willing, there might be horses to rent. Colombe, taking her ease in the wagon with her baby, had complained the whole morning about the heat and discomfort, until there was not a player plodding along on foot who would not cheerfully have strangled her.
Ninon sighed and looked at the road ahead. It stretched into the distance, bare and unshaded under the hot sun, then rose sharply to a steep hill. It had rained all last night, and here and there were still puddles, their vapors adding to the steamy day. She looked about at her fellow strollers, their faces tight with varying degrees of misery. Gaston’s broken arm was healing well, but it was clear from the way he supported it with his other hand, massaging it from time to time, that the humid day had made it ache. Hortense had eaten well in Auxerre; now the added flesh on her already generous body made her puff as she walked. She had tucked her skirt and petticoat into her waistband so that they reached only to her knees, and rolled her cotton stockings down around her ankles, but still she stopped now and again to fan her bare legs with her skirt hem.
Marc-Antoine looked the most woebegone, though his griefs, Ninon knew, were more of the heart than of the flesh. Pierre, less and less the innocent lad he had seemed at first, had stayed out all night, returning to the inn at dawn as the rain had stopped. Marc-Antoine had chided him gently, but in the end had given him a new pair of boots he had bought for himself. And still the boy marched along, sulky and disagreeable, defying all of Marc-Antoine’s efforts to cheer him.
Ninon sighed again, feeling her ankle begin to throb. She had twisted it some leagues back, just past Saint Florentin. God willing, they would stop to rest soon, but she did not want to ask Valentin. He had mocked her in the morning, calling her soft, pampered—because she had insisted on wearing a hat to protect her fair complexion. Damn the man! Must everything be a challenge to him?
“Why do you limp?” he growled, coming up beside her.
“I do not limp.”
“And I say you do! Have you hurt your foot?”
“’Tis nothing. I turned my ankle a little. That’s all.”
“Sweet Jesu!” he cursed. “And kept silent! Well, you shall ride in the wagon.”
“So you may make sport of me? Thank you, no.”
His eyes glowed like black coals. “Shall you ride willingly? Or unwillingly?” He stepped to the moving wagon and pulled down a length of rope. “Well?” He pointed to the new chair, perched atop several large trunks. “You shall ride enthroned.”
She wavered, seeing the look in his eyes. She had no wish to be trussed to the chair. “Very well,” she conceded. “But only until we pass that stretch of steep road.” He nodded and went forward to have Chanteclair stop the team.
With the help of the men, Ninon mounted the wagon and seated herself on the new throne. Colombe, reclining with her infant, smiled unpleasantly. They set out once again, climbing the slope until they had reached the summit of the hill. Ninon found it a chancy ride; the path had become quite rutted and the chair bobbled and rattled on its perch. The embankment dropped sharply away on one side of the road. It gave her a feeling of vertigo just to look down from her height at the jumble of soft shale and boulders that fell away to a small stream far below. But at least her ankle would have a rest for a little while.
Up ahead was a large puddle. Unwilling to wade through it or get themselves splashed, the men stepped back from the wagon and whistled the oxen through, meaning to skirt the water when the wagon had passed. But the puddle camouflaged a treacherous rut; without warning the oxen stumbled, and one of the animals fell to its knees. The wagon tipped crazily before its front wheels lurched into the rut, spilling out Ninon and the throne and tumbling them down the side of the mountain. Her hat flew off and spun away to the stream. She felt herself rolling, head over heels, then sliding on the soft stones, until at last she came to rest on a clump of soft grass. Her body ached all over, and her left leg, from thigh to ankle, felt as though it were on fire. Valentin scrambled down the steep incline, his eyes dark with concern as he bent over her.
“I’m fine,” she gasped. “Truly. Let me rest a little. Only see to Colombe and Marie-Anne!”
In the tilted wagon, Colombe, buried under boxes and rolls of scenery, was screaming like a madwoman; beside her the baby wailed in misery. At Valentin’s reassuring wave, the rest of the company, concerned at first with Ninon, turned their attention to Colombe and the precariously balanced wagon. If they were not careful, Colombe and the child and the wagon and all their worldly goods would soon follow Ninon down the side of the hill. Carefully they unpacked the wagon and lifted out Colombe and Marie-Anne, while Chanteclair waded into the puddle up to his knees and tried to ease the oxen out of the rut. Unable to do much because of his arm, Gaston moved down to the stream to mourn his new throne, now splintered beyond repair.
Valentin knelt beside Ninon. “Can you walk, or have you twisted your ankle further?”
What was it about the man’s tone of voice that always angered her? “I shall be fine,” she snapped. “I do not need your help.” She wiggled her foot in the air. “You see, I can move it.”
“Let me see.” Roughly he grabbed her leg, his long fingers probing the bones at her ankle. His hand on her shin burned like a searing flame through the fabric of her skirt and stocking. She clenched her teeth tightly to keep from crying out. “What is it?” he barked.
“Nothing.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then tossed back her skirt to her garter. “Merde!” he swore, seeing the drops of blood on her torn stocking. Despite her cries of protest, he pushed up the skirt to her thigh, then tore off her garter and pulled down her stocking, revealing the tortured flesh, scraped and bleeding from the long slide through the shale. He frowned. “What manner of woman are you?”
“Leave me in peace! I keep my own counsel.”
“No, damn you! Not when you’re a member of this company, you don’t! Where else are you hurt?”
“Nowhere else. Just my leg,” she lied, dropping her eyes to avoid his glance.
“By God, if need be I’ll strip you naked to find out! Where else?”
She sighed in resignation. “I think I wrenched my back and shoulder. That’s all. I swear it.”
“Show me.”
Reluctantly she loosed the drawstring on her chemise and turned away from him. He pulled the garment down in the back and examined her carefully, his fingers pressing gently on the muscles, and moving quickly to another spot each time she flinched.
“There are no scratches,” he said at last, “but I’ll wager you’ll be stiff and sore for many a day. Come.” He lifted her easily in his arms and carried her up the hill. “Hortense will have clean linens for that leg.”
By the time the wagon had been unloaded, the animals and cart pulled free of the rut, and the goods returned to their places, night was beginning to fall. They saw nothing ahead but more treacherous mountains; it would be madness to travel in the dark. By the last light they made their way down into the valley, and were delighted to find the ruins of an old farmhouse, parts of the roof caved in, but the soft dirt floor smooth and dry enough to sleep on. Because it was still so hot, they built a small fire only to see by, while they supped on cold meat pastries and fresh water from the stream that flowed nearby. As the moon rose, its clear light shining through the broken roof and dappling the earth with patches of si
lver, the last embers of the fire died. Stretched out on their cloaks, the members of the Peerless Theatre Company rubbed their eyes and yawned and fell asleep one by one.
Only Ninon tossed and turned for hours, suffocating from the heat, aching in every muscle. Her leg did not trouble her too much: Hortense had bound it carefully, smoothing on a salve that drew the sting from the raw flesh. But her shoulder and back throbbed, making rest impossible. She sat up at last, seeing the sleeping bodies on either side of her, and rubbed at her neck to ease the tightness. A nightingale sang in the soft night air. She imagined it to be two or three by now; if she was lucky, she might manage to sleep for a few hours.
There was a sudden movement beside her. Startled, she nearly cried out. Valentin, bending over her, put a silencing finger to his lips. Gathering her in his arms, he carried her out of the farmhouse and down to the bank of the stream, where a large tree bent its branches to the water. He set her down on the grass, then sat down beside her, his back against the trunk of the tree. A small breeze blew across the water and fanned her face, soothing her burning cheeks. How sweet the air was, after the sweltering farmhouse.
Without warning, Valentin reached out and pulled her to him, twisting her around and burying her face against his hard chest. She grunted in surprise and tried to struggle out of his arms, her fists pushing at his breast. “Keep still!” he hissed. His hands moved across her back, strong and sure, finding the knots in her muscles, massaging the ache away with fingers that pressed deep, touching the pain and soothing it all at the same time. She moaned in pleasure and relaxed against him, trusting herself to his sure hands. She felt herself begin to drift into the sleep that had eluded her for hours, her eyes heavy, body floating—every nerve focused on the warmth of his fingers, the gentleness of his touch.
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