Dreams So Fleeting

by Sylvia Halliday

  “Oh,” she murmured, her voice muffled against him. “I thought I should never sleep tonight!”

  His voice rumbled in his chest beneath her head. “If you had stayed at Marival, you would be in a soft bed now, instead of sleeping on the ground.”

  She moved against him, melting under his hands, her thoughts beginning to wander. “I have had my share of griefs. I slept on a hard floor many a night—and was grateful for it.”

  “What? You?”

  She laughed sleepily. “You and Colombe and the others—how spoiled you are. I could tell you a tale or two.” She drew in a ragged breath, half-transported in her sleepy state to a long-ago time, a terrible time. “…Of fingers that bleed from the cold…and still the wood must be chopped…and hunger that twists at your bowels, filling the days with despair…the nights with torment…and a beating whenever it suited Baugin…Oh, how my bones would ache!”

  “Baugin?”

  “My stepfather,” she sighed.

  “Mon Dieu,” he said softly, the soothing fingers stilled for a moment. He held her more tightly against his breast, then continued the rhythmic massaging of her back. “But surely not at Marival…?”

  “No.” Her voice was high and sweet and faraway, like that of a little child on the edge of sleep. “No, not at Marival…ah, your hands…how good that feels…not at Marival…” She was drifting now, teetering on the brink of oblivion.

  “But how did you escape your torments?”

  “Philippe,” she whispered. “Philippe. He saved me. I think I should have died else…I shall love him…forever…Philippe…” With a soft sigh, she nestled closer in his arms and found oblivion.

  She woke at dawn to the chirping of birds in the tree high above her. She was lying cradled in Valentin’s arms. He slept, his back still against the tree trunk, his head drooped forward to his chest. She lay quietly, unwilling to disturb him, unwilling (if she admitted it to herself) to move from the comforting warmth of his arms. She lay quietly and examined his face.

  It was strange, seeing him thus, his features soft with sleep, the angry lines smoothed away by the forgetfulness of slumber. She had thought him a man in his thirties, his hard face carved by time; now she was not so sure. Philippe—her beloved Philippe—was only twenty-nine. It seemed to her that Valentin might even be younger. He was really extraordinarily handsome, seen thus objectively without the intrusion of his abrasive manner. His jaw was long and square, the cleft in his chin a sensual delight, seeming to invite the touch of exploring fingers. She found herself wondering what Philippe’s chin would be like, clean-shaven. His eyelashes, sweeping the sun-browned cheekbones, were black and curled, almost too beautiful for a man. His nose was long and straight and flared at the nostrils. The face of an actor. The face of a proud stallion.

  And his mouth. Wide and firm, set in a stubborn line even in sleep. But his lips were soft. How pleasant it would be, she thought idly, to be kissed by those soft lips. Mon Dieu! What was she thinking of? Colombe had spoken of it: the way she looked at Valentin, wanting him. Sweet Madonna, could it be so?

  She frowned and examined his sleeping face more closely. Perhaps it was so after all, and Colombe, in her jealousy, had seen it. Certain it was that she did not like the man; just as certainly she found him attractive, his physical presence disturbing her in an odd way. Perhaps she had misjudged him. He had been kind last night, kind and gentle. And his face in repose was so sad, so vulnerable.

  And his mouth. She sighed softly. She did not like him, of course. Still…it would be nice to be kissed by that mouth, to feel a shiver down her spine as his lips took hers. She suddenly remembered his kiss in the stable at Marival. She had not let herself think of it, all these weeks, but now…Without her willing it, her heart began to pound wildly, her bosom heaving. She must be mad…she must be mad…

  He opened his eyes and looked down at her. Deep brown eyes, almost black. Soft and melting, as innocent and trusting as the dawn. Was that the part of him she had sensed last night, when she had poured out her heart to him, telling him things she had shared with no one, not even Philippe? She felt an unexpected surge of tenderness.

  His eyes searched her face. “Did you sleep well?” The voice was soft with concern, but his gaze focused on her full lips.

  “Yes. I thank you.” She smiled gently. Perhaps he would kiss her.

  She could almost see the grating drop before his eyes. Iron bars. To keep her out. To keep himself safe. “Well, I did not,” he growled, pushing her off his lap.

  She struggled to sit upright. “I wonder you trouble yourself on my behalf!”

  “The company has need of you. Of what value is a leading lady who cannot move upon the stage?”

  She shook her head, unwilling to take his cruelty at face value. “Come now,” she chided. “Does your own kindness shame you, that you must feign a cold heart?”

  He laughed harshly, his devil’s face mocking her. “Are you such a fool you cannot see what is real and true? We are all selfish, we men, however much we hide it. Your pardon. Excluding, of course, your…stepfather, was it? An honest man, no doubt. He wasted no effort on pretense, I should guess.”

  She put her hand to her mouth, feeling the hot flush of humiliation, silently cursing her candor of last night.

  “But we are all selfish,” he repeated. “We do what we do—in seeming kindness—for our own selfish reasons. And hope that a woman like you will credit the kindness and be blind to the selfishness.”

  “Not all men!”

  “Ah, yes. I forget what a romantic idiot you are in the matter of Froissart. With you, a man need not even study the art of seduction. You said he rescued you. What in God’s name do you think he rescued you for? The gift of your virginal body, I would guess, from what I heard that day at Marival!”

  “May you rot in Hell,” she said bitterly, jumping to her feet. “You poison the very air I must breathe.” She turned toward the farmhouse, trying not to limp, though her leg throbbed with pain. Would she never learn to hide her heart from a man, to trust no one with her dreams and secrets? Despite her anger, she felt herself fighting back tears as she made her painful way to the farmhouse door. Chanteclair was there, his sympathetic eyes going from her face to Valentin—still sitting under the tree—then back again.

  “He’s a fool,” he said gently.

  “No.” She sniffled and rubbed her fingers across her eyes, brushing away the tears. “I’m the fool. To seek a spark of warmth where there is none!”

  “Are you coming to supper, Colombe?” Valentin poked his head in at the changing-room door. “Gaston says The Cock serves a fine roast turkey.”

  About to pin up her black hair, Colombe put down her comb and turned to Valentin. “Have they all gone on, then?” she asked.

  “Indeed, yes. Will you join us?”

  “Come and help me first. My hair is tangled woefully, and I cannot reach the spot.” She handed him the comb, sat down on a small bench, and presented her back.

  “Sweet Jesu, but this is not my art,” he said, reluctantly pulling the comb through her long tresses.

  “But it is not difficult, is it?” Her voice was playful.

  He laughed. “No. It is not difficult. Nor is it very tangled!”

  “Don’t stop. Is it such a terrible thing to indulge me for a little?”

  “’Tis beautiful hair,” he conceded, wielding the comb with gentle hands.

  “Was I good this afternoon?”

  “You were sans pareil, without equal,” he said. “The good citizens of Bouilly will not soon again see a Queen Esther of such heroic dimensions.”

  She sniffed. “It was too good a representation for such a wretched town.”

  “Consider it a rehearsal for Troyes. God willing, we can stay a month there. Or more.”

  She took the comb from him and piled her curls on top of her head, twisting about to smile archly at him. “Are you sorry you gave Esther back to me?”

  “Why should I
be? You play tragedy superbly.”

  “That foolish jade, Ninon! Her Esther was an abomination!”

  “Her Esther was good,” he growled. “Not as good as yours, but good! And her comedy eclipses yours every time she is on the stage!”

  “Oh, Valentin,” she said quickly. “Please to forgive me. ’Tis only my way. Actresses are always jealous of one another, though they be sisters off the stage—even as Ninon and I are. You are right. She plays farce very well indeed.” She shook her hair free again and stood up, taking him by the hands. “But I have been practicing a little dance for one of the musical interludes. Sébastien said he would play the music for me. Mayhap instead I shall ask Ninon—the dear lass is so skilled with a guitar. Would that please you?”

  He smiled. “Anything that cements the friendship of my two leading ladies pleases me. There is no joy in listening to cats fight!”

  “Poor Valentin! How we women try you! But let me show you the dance that I have been rehearsing.” She pulled out an elbow chair and pushed him into it. “Sit you here.” When he was comfortably settled in the chair, she began to dance slowly around him, humming softly in accompaniment. It was a tantalizing dance, and she did it well, swaying in front of him, her long black hair loose and flowing. He leaned back and smiled, his eyes raking her lithe form.

  She was wearing only her chemise and petticoat. Now, still keeping time to her own music, she loosed her petticoat and stepped out of it, then lowered the neckline of her chemise to the tips of her breasts.

  Valentin frowned. “Colombe…”

  “Hist! The dance is not finished!” She turned away from him and pulled her chemise off her shoulders, sliding it seductively down the length of her body and over her generous hips to fall at the floor. She pivoted slowly, taking her own pleasure in a body she knew was ripe and firm, showing no ravages of its recent childbearing.

  “Name of God, Colombe,” he said. “Stop.”

  “Don’t you like my dance?” she whispered. She put her hands over her head and began to sing again, her body writhing sensuously before him. “It was meant for you alone.”

  “Sweet Jesu…” he choked, half-rising from his chair.

  “No!” She threw herself to her knees before him, pushing him back onto the chair. Twining her bare arms about his waist, she began to kiss his thighs, his belly, his loins. “I love you!” she cried.

  “This is madness,” he said, struggling to loose her arms.

  She looked up at him with tormented eyes. “Am I too old? Too plain?”

  “No. Colombe…I beg you…”

  She began to weep. “I would die for you. From the first moment you came to the company…I would not sleep with Ragotin after you came. I could not bear it. And I waited for you, and hoped and prayed…Oh, Valentin…I cannot live without you any longer…” Sobbing, she buried her face in his lap, her shoulders shaking in misery.

  “Mother of God,” he said, touching her head tenderly. “Don’t do this, Colombe. I beg you. I am not the man for you.”

  “Why? Why?” She lifted her tearstained face to search his, seeing only pity where she longed to find passion. With a shriek she leaped to her feet and swung at him with a tight-clenched fist. “Damn you! Filthy dung-heap! Pox-ridden excuse for a man! You impotent bastard…”

  He held her off as best he could, but his silence seemed only to inflame her fury, and she went for him again and again, her nails like claws, her voice harsh and ugly, spewing foul curses.

  Standing outside the open door, Ninon clapped a hand over her mouth, feeling that she would vomit. She had not meant to intrude; she had returned to the changing room only to fetch a lace fichu. Silently she turned and hurried back down the stairs to the door of the jeu de paume. She could not bear to witness Colombe’s degradation. No woman, not even Colombe, deserved to be humiliated thus. She was a beautiful woman, with a beautiful body, lush and full. What was the matter with Valentin? His pity was aroused, that was plain.

  But not his manhood. What was the matter with him?

  She glanced up at the evening sky. The moon would set early tonight. With a sigh, she hurried down the street to the sign of The Cock and the warm cheerfulness of her comrades.

  She found a small group gathered for supper. Gaston was already beginning his third glass of wine, and Sébastien and Hortense, the only other players sitting around the table, had begun their nightly quarrel, this time disputing the merits of turkey over pigeon. If Sébastien did not storm off in anger and find a game of rouge et noir, they would eventually end up in bed together. Ninon found it amusing, the way their passion survived their quarrels, though it created difficulties for her. She never knew when Hortense—with whom she was accustomed to sharing a bed when they traveled—would suddenly announce that the arrangements had been changed for the evening, sending Ninon off to crowd in with Toinette and Colombe. (If Toinette was not sleeping with Joseph!) And if Hortense decided to spend the night in Sébastien’s bed, Ninon was left alone in the large bed, forced to share it with a stranger if the inn had last-minute female guests. All in all, Ninon preferred it if the various couplings took place in the daytime, or in a secluded barn or hayrick.

  From what she could gather, this seemed to be where Joseph and Toinette were this evening, off in some cozy spot enjoying each other’s company. Marc-Antoine and his lad were, as usual, seeking more exotic companionship, and Chanteclair had gone on ahead to Troyes to arrange for their performances and to see if he could manage a commission or two among the gentry.

  Ninon took her place at the table, picking at the food when it was brought, still disturbed by the ugly scene she had witnessed. She would have welcomed Chanteclair and his counsel tonight.

  The door opened and Valentin strode in, mumbling a greeting before sitting down to eat. There was a long scratch on his cheek; he kept it turned away from his fellows as much as possible, his darting eyes almost defying any one of them to pass a remark.

  But Gaston, well into his cups, would not be deterred. “Upon my word, Valentin,” he sniggered, “she must have been a tiger!”

  Valentin gave him a withering look, but said nothing.

  “For my part,” said Sébastien, “I should welcome a few scratches like that. ’Tis a sign to the world that a man’s a lusty lover, to bear such a trophy!”

  “Indeed?” said Hortense. “I must remember that the next time I am vexed with you!”

  “Then remember Auxerre as well, my love. If you scratch me in passion, I will be delighted. But if you attack me in anger, I shall answer in kind—and with a little extra for good measure! I wonder I do not dust your backside more often, madame, to keep your disposition sweet!”

  “Plague take you,” she snapped. “You get no more than you deserve, with your gambling and whoring and…”

  “Is it possible to eat supper without listening to you two?” Valentin said wearily. He cut a slice from the roast turkey on the table, placing it on a slab of bread and spreading it generously with mustard.

  Gaston chuckled. “Gave you an appetite, eh? Your wench?”

  “Once for all…” began Valentin, then stopped as Colombe sailed into the room, chin held high and proud. She sat down at the end of the table, ignoring Valentin, and immediately began to eat. He lowered his eyes to his plate, hoping to avoid a scene.

  They were all silent for some time, each with his own thoughts, anxious to be done, and quit of one another for the night. Gaston poured himself another cup of wine. “Look, Colombe,” he cackled finally, unable to let the subject rest. “Have you seen Valentin’s badge of honor? Some wench has put her mark upon Sanscoeur at last!”

  “Don’t be a drunken fool, Gaston,” she sneered. Her eyes, filled with hatred, bored into Valentin’s bent head. “No doubt he passed a sharp branch. Valentin would not run afoul of a woman. By my faith, that great looby would run away from a woman as soon as look at her! Is it not so, sweetling?”

  He shrugged and applied himself to his food.

>   Colombe smiled. “You know, most men come into the world with three things—their wits, their honor, their shittlecock. It would seem that Dame Nature has shortchanged Valentin.”

  Ninon held her breath, half-expecting the explosion. She was astonished at Valentin’s forbearance in the face of Colombe’s malice and insults.

  “Come, Val,” said Colombe, “was it a branch that marred your pretty face?”

  Ninon saw the challenge in her eyes, saw Valentin glance at Colombe and read it there as well. How reckless of Colombe, she thought, to give him the opportunity to speak up and humiliate her further. A misogynist like that would scarcely spare her feelings.

  Valentin stood up from the table and went to the fireplace, taking down a pipe and filling and lighting it. He turned at last, his eyes sweeping Colombe with gentle understanding. “Yes, Colombe,” he said quietly. “It was a branch.”

  Colombe opened her mouth to reply, thought better of it, and kept silent. Quickly she finished her supper and rose from the table. “Gaston, will you see me to the inn?” Without waiting for his answer, she opened the door. There on the threshold stood Marc-Antoine, looking haggard, his face drawn, the flesh seeming almost to sag in misery on his corpulent body. “La! Valentin!” she said brightly. “Your fellow tapette awaits you! Dear, sweet Marc-Antoine. Are you weary at last of children? You must seek your warmth of Valentin tonight.”

  “Be still, Colombe,” said Ninon, hurrying forward to Marc-Antoine. She put a soft hand on his arm. “Come and sit down. Have a cup of wine. Have you supped?”

  He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and sniffed delicately at it, the old Marc-Antoine returned for a moment. “Exquisitely. We frequent only the finest places. But I shall condescend to take some wine.” He smiled sadly, the brave mask vanishing. “And a little cheer.”

  “You look like the devil, mon ami,” said Valentin gently.

  Marc-Antoine rubbed his eyes. “The devil has fewer burdens.”