Dreams So Fleeting

by Sylvia Halliday

  “Why do you not give him up?”

  “Yes. ’Tis reasonable.” Marc-Antoine laughed softly. “But what was it Pascal said? ‘The heart has its reasons, that reason knows not of.’ I need fifteen crowns.” At Valentin’s quizzical look he shrugged his shoulders. “He…has a fondness for fine things.”

  Colombe’s shrill voice cut like a knife. “Fifteen crowns? He sells his body dear, doesn’t he? Can you not find a cheaper whore?” Marc-Antoine winced.

  Valentin shot Colombe an angry look, then fumbled in his pocket and drew out some coins, pressing them into Marc-Antoine’s hand. “Here. You can pay me back in Troyes. Or whenever you can.”

  Marc-Antoine nodded in gratitude and shuffled to the door; then, turning, he struck a pose of bravado and thumped grandly at his chest. “Like brave Aeneas,” he intoned dramatically, “I go where duty summons me!”

  Colombe snickered. “You useless tapette. Run to your whore Pierre. Buy his love. And if he does not wear out your poor prickle, you can pay back Valentin in services!” She laughed in malicious pleasure as Marc-Antoine reddened and fled into the night.

  Without a word, Valentin stalked to the table. Picking up a pitcher of wine, he dumped its contents onto Colombe’s head. She shrieked hysterically, surveying her ruined gown, sobbing and cursing him all in the same breath. At last Sébastien and Hortense, taking pity on her, led her back to the inn. “Here,” said Valentin to Gaston, slapping a purse of coins on the table, “tell the tavernkeeper I’ll pay for the extra wine.” He turned to Ninon. “Are you returning to the inn? I’ll walk along with you.”

  “I can find my way.”

  “Nonsense. The night is dark. And the inn is far.”

  “Very well.” They set out together in silence. Ninon found her thoughts whirling in confusion. What manner of man was this, striding so purposefully beside her in the dark night? A paradox. Capable of cruelty, she knew—his words and actions had hurt her many a time. But how to explain the tenderness? He might have mocked Colombe for her confession of love; he should have mocked Colombe—it was in his nature to despise a woman’s love. Yet, he had spared her feelings.

  Still, he might have done much more. He might have kissed her, petted her, eased her love-torn heart, without returning her love. If he were capable of it. Yet, he was unfailingly kind to Marc-Antoine. Ah Dieu! Ninon’s brain teemed. Despite Chanteclair’s assurances, could he be what Colombe accused him of? And why should she care?

  They had reached their lodgings. From behind the candlelit windows of the inn, they could hear Colombe’s voice, still raised in shrill protest. Valentin mounted the stile set into the stone fence that surrounded the inn, and stepped down to the other side.

  “Give me your hand,” he said. “’Tis dark.”

  She slipped her fingers into his and climbed the stile. But the top step was worn, the wood rubbed smooth from numberless crossings; her foot slid out beneath her and she pitched headlong into his arms. He held her tightly for a moment, steadying her against his chest, before setting her gently on her feet. She murmured her thanks and continued on to the inn. But her heart raced within her breast and she trembled. He could not be unmanly when the feel of his arms around her gave her a thrill that took her breath away! And if he was, what manner of woman was she?

  What folly to torment herself thus! Why should she care about him one way or another? Sweet Madonna, why should she care?

  “Well, Chanteclair, what think you?” Ninon pirouetted about in the large changing room, doing a little step in front of Chanteclair. Her left leg, from toe to hip, was covered with a tight stocking in a brilliant shade of orange; her right leg was similarly clad in pink. Her modesty was preserved only by short, full breeches of gold brocade that just reached to her hips: the colorful trunk hose were joined only at the waist. The short doublet she wore was also of gold brocade, with an orange capelet; the pageboy’s cap, into which her hair had been tucked, was crowned with a pink feather.

  Chanteclair smoothed a last bit of white lead onto his face, picked up a black crayon, and outlined his lips. He put down his mirror and surveyed Ninon. “Only a fool would take you for a lad!”

  “But how the audience enjoys being fooled.”

  “Yes. I’m glad Valentin decided we should play The Generous Lover. ’Tis a good role for you.”

  She laughed. “Because of my wit?”

  He leered, his eyes caressing her slender legs, long and shapely in their hose. “Yes. Certainly. Your…wit!” He put a little rouge on a fingertip and dabbed it on his lower lip. He glanced up again from his mirror. “Ah, Val. What think you of Ninon in her new costume?”

  Valentin allowed his eyes to flick quickly over Ninon’s body before coming to rest on her face. He grunted a halfhearted approval. “Do you know your part?”

  “I forget at my peril that you are the author.”

  “And most particular,” he snapped.

  Damn him and his disagreeable ways, she thought. She smiled coyly. “But do you think my legs are fine enough for trunk hose?”

  “They’ll do.”

  “No, no. You must look carefully. What think you of my knees? My calves? My thighs? Surely my thighs are too thin.”

  “I said they’ll do!” he growled.

  “But in the back as well? Wait. Let me turn about for you. There now.” She smiled and pivoted again to him, seeing the fury in his eyes, the way his jaw had begun to work. “Perhaps I need padding under my trunk hose. Give me your hand. Here. Just here. You see?” Her eyes were wide with innocence as she placed his hand on the inner edge of her thigh.

  He withdrew his fingers as though her touch burned him. “Only know your lines,” he said through clenched teeth. “You can play the whore after the performance is done!” He turned on his heel and strode away.

  Chanteclair burst into laughter. “Mon Dieu! If you teased me that way, I should have you bedded in a trice!”

  She shrugged. “I do it for a game. I know how he hates it. He behaves as though every woman—by virtue of her womanliness—is an evil seductress. What sport it is to play the part and watch him writhe!”

  Chanteclair finished his makeup, put on a large and oversized hat, and stood up. “I wonder how the house is today?”

  They had been in Troyes for several weeks now. The theater was a large one, and equipped with the most up-to-date machinery, which had allowed them to expand their repertoire. They had made a success almost every night. The audiences had begun to thin out now, but only because it would soon be time for the grape harvest, and the local vignerons and vineyard-owning nobility had less time for the theater. As soon as the grapes were in, and the wine fermenting merrily in its vats, they could look forward to renewed acclaim, and audiences eager to spend their money. For the next few weeks they would play only two or three days a week.

  “I wonder if Colombe’s vicomte is here today,” said Ninon.

  “Has he missed a performance since we arrived?”

  “I wish he wouldn’t sit upon the stage. He is vexingly rude, forever talking with his fellows and whispering to Colombe.”

  Chanteclair eyed Ninon appreciatively. “Take care you do not stand too near him today. I vow, in those trunk hose…” He reached out his hand to Ninon’s rump. She shrieked and turned to him, eyes wide with surprise. He grinned. “You see what I mean? ’Tis a temptation to a man!”

  They descended to the stage where the rest of the company were already assembled. Marc-Antoine, who was to play a Moorish prince, had darkened his face with burnt cork; Colombe, as the queen of Spain, had already begun to pace majestically about, taking on her character with each step. Ninon was always astonished at how a woman who could convey such royalty onstage could be so coarse and low when the curtain closed. Valentin, who, with Chanteclair, was to do the comic passages in what was basically a romance, had also whitened his face, but with flour. Each time Chanteclair slapped him in the course of the play it would send up little puffs of white powder, which alwa
ys convulsed the spectators.

  They took their places. Pierre, to be useful, had condescended to part the curtains, which he did with a flourish. Ninon groaned inwardly. There, facing them, his chair set squarely in the center of the stage, was the vicomte who had been Colombe’s persistent suitor since they had arrived in Troyes. He was an ugly little man, with a misshapen back, which Colombe never failed to mock when she spoke of him to the company. It did not, however, keep her from accepting gifts from him or allowing him to take her to supper after each performance. Now she smiled charmingly and blew him a kiss before reciting her first line. The vicomte waved back and moved his chair closer to the actors, earning the catcalls of the spectators in the pit whose line of vision he blocked. He had brought several of his friends with him to share the stage, and he spent much of the first scene loudly inviting his comrades to admire the beauty and grace of his mistress.

  The company was used to such barbarity, of course. It was almost the sign of a gentleman to see how much chaos he could cause in the theater, without actually interrupting the performance. If he could carry on an amour or make an assignation at the same time, all the better. By the time the second act had begun, one of the other gentlemen onstage had taken to whistling loudly each time Ninon appeared in her trunk hose. She was grateful for Chanteclair’s warning, managing to keep her distance from the fop.

  Colombe’s vicomte had begun to signal to her, making little movements in the air with his hands. From far back on the stage she frowned, not following his meaning. His hand blocking a side of his mouth, he whispered to her, his hissing drowned out by Marc-Antoine’s speech. Still uncomprehending, Colombe smiled thinly and moved closer to him, earning Valentin’s scowl. Again the vicomte whispered. Ninon answered Marc-Antoine, moving forward, as the play required, to take his cloak.

  The vicomte tried again, his voice louder now. One of his friends chuckled.

  “‘Kind master, good and true, your page salutes you,’” said Ninon, kneeling before Marc-Antoine.

  “‘Nay, rise, sirrah,’” said Marc-Antoine, “‘for I…’” He was interrupted once more by the vicomte, whose voice still did not carry much beyond Ninon.

  Colombe’s face was frozen in a smile. “What did you say?” she hissed through her teeth, trying to keep her lips from moving.

  Ninon had had enough. She marched to Colombe and planted herself before her, hands on hips. “Monsieur le Vicomte would make his applications to you,” she said loudly. “He beseeches you to spend the next two weeks as his guest at his château. Will you reward his presumption by saying yes?”

  Colombe fell back a step. “But…but…Marie-Anne…”

  Ninon turned to the vicomte. “She has a child. May the infant accompany her?”

  “Most willingly.”

  “Is the godfather agreed?” demanded Ninon.

  Marc-Antoine suppressed a giggle. “The godfather is agreed.”

  “Good! Now…” With an elaborate bow Ninon knelt before Marc-Antoine. ‘“Kind master, good and true…’” she began again, while the house burst into applause and complimented the vicomte on his choice, Colombe on her good fortune, and the pageboy on his matchmaking.

  When, at the end of the play, Ninon revealed her femininity, loosing her long curls to the astonished cries of “She’s a woman!” by the other characters (although of course the spectators had known it all along), there was not a man in the audience who would not have fallen at the feet of the adorable and witty Madame Guillemot. She had half a dozen invitations to supper, all of which she promised to weigh as she changed her clothes.

  She put on her blue gown and tied her lace fichu about her shoulders, then turned to the door. Valentin was there.

  “You were very clever today.”

  “I thought you might be angry. It was your play, after all. And the lines were…extempore, to say the least!”

  He smiled. “To say the least! But we shall be quit of Colombe’s company for two weeks, except on days we play!”

  She returned his smile. “A fitting exchange, n’est-ce pas? A ruined scene for two weeks of peace!”

  “Indeed.” His eyes were warm on her. “Will you come to supper?”

  “Alas. I have at least five suitors to placate tonight.”

  “Of course,” he said, suddenly cold. “I had forgot.” His eyes dropped to her bosom. “Is your gown low enough to suit you?”

  How dare he. “No,” she said brazenly, pulling off her fichu and tugging at the bodice of the dress until her breasts rose above the neckline in enticing curves.

  His mouth twitched in contempt. “Are you expecting Philippe for supper? Or have you become as undiscriminating as Colombe?”

  “My God,” she sneered. “Is that jealousy I hear? From you? You’re like a one-legged man who envies all those who can run!” Pushing past him, she hurried down the stairs and into the soft twilight.

  “Sweet Madonna, ’tis too hot to play today!” Ninon waded out of the stream and sat down on the grassy bank, drying her feet and slipping them, stockingless, into her shoes. She fanned her face with lazy fingers. Even stripped down to her coolest chemise and a single petticoat, she found the September morning oppressive. They had rented a sprawling cottage, well furnished, on the outskirts of Troyes. But even surrounded by trees and the cool stream near which they took their meals, they could not escape the heat.

  “We have no choice,” said Valentin. “The theater is contracted for, and Chanteclair has posted the handbills. And Gaston has already hired the scenemen to work the machinery.” He rolled back the full sleeves of his linen shirt and stretched out on the grass, munching an apple from the early dinner spread out on a cloth beside the stream. He glanced toward the water, where Joseph and Toinette frolicked in happy, naked abandon, then back to Ninon, who had not bothered to pull her petticoat down over her bare legs. “It did not take you long to learn our ways,” he said sourly. “Though you will have to go some to better our Colombe. I hear her vicomte gave her fifty livres last week!”

  “A hundred,” mumbled Gaston, drowsing beneath a nearby tree, its leaves tinged with the first colors of autumn. He burped in contentment and let his empty tankard drop from his fingers. “But at least he doesn’t come to the theater anymore.”

  “A hundred! Fancy that.” Valentin’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “How much have they offered you, Ninon, those panting fools who buzz around you?”

  “Go to the devil.”

  He sat up and grinned at her. “Enough to make you forget your Philippe? Your broken heart?”

  “If my heart is broken, it would not take money to heal it!”

  He clutched at his breast dramatically. “Ah yes! Tenderness. Kindness. Sensibility.”

  She looked up to where Chanteclair was just emerging from the house. “Friendship,” she said, and ran to meet him. “Good morrow,” she said, throwing her arms around him and kissing him warmly on the cheek. “You’ve slept late. Come and have some dinner.” She put his arm about her waist as they walked down to the stream together.

  Chanteclair sat on the grass while Ninon fussed over him, plying him with food and wine, playing the coquette. Valentin, gnawing on his apple core, watched in silence, his brows knit together in an angry frown. At last Chanteclair sighed and pushed away his plate. Valentin stood up and tossed the remains of his apple into the shallows of the stream.

  “It did not go well,” he said, his voice rumbling in his chest, “when we played Dom Japhet Tuesday last. I liked not the lazzo when I threw you down. It was clumsy. You did not fall easily. Shall we rehearse it again?”

  Chanteclair clutched at his belly. “Not now! I have just eaten.”

  “As have I.” Valentin’s eyes burned like black coals. “Now!”

  Chanteclair shrugged and stood up. The two men pretended to hail each other, shook hands, and then, as Chanteclair started to turn away, Valentin grabbed him by the elbow and flipped him to the ground. Chanteclair grunted loudly and sat up. “Have a ca
re, mon ami! You near broke my back!”

  “Shall we try it again?” growled Valentin.

  “If you must.” Again they grasped each other’s hands, but this time, as Chanteclair began to turn away, he swiveled back, lifted Valentin over his head, and tossed him into the stream. “Shall we try it that way, mon ami?” he laughed.

  Crowing with laughter, the players gathered about Valentin as he thrashed in the water and tried to stand up. Ninon giggled and threw her arms about Chanteclair’s neck. To her surprise, he crushed her in his embrace, his mouth hard on hers, his arms holding her fast. When at last he lifted his head, she gasped to see the passion in his eyes. “You may torment him as you wish,” he said softly, “but don’t use me as your instrument! First…well, I think you can guess the why. And then, he is my friend.”

  She felt her face go red with shame. “Forgive me. You have a right to be angry.”

  He laughed, the old Chanteclair returning. “Valentin needed cooling off. But you’re a good actress. I did think, just for a moment there…” He smiled regretfully and turned to the stream. “Give me your hand, Val.”

  Valentin scrambled out of the water, shaking his long black hair like a spaniel. He pulled off his shoes and stockings, and stripped off his shirt, wringing it over the stream. Though he shook Chanteclair’s hand in friendship, it was clear that the drenching had put him in a foul mood. He found cause to criticize Toinette for her last two performances, and even barked at Marc-Antoine for a line he had forgotten a week ago. He strode angrily about on the grass, barefoot, half-naked, his wet breeches clinging to him. In spite of herself, Ninon had to admire his body, hard-muscled and sleek, the thatch of black hair tight-matted on his broad chest.

  “Can we talk of something else besides performances?” said Gaston at last. “’Tis too hot to roast old mistakes.”

  “The matter of names,” said Chanteclair. “Before I have the next handbills printed. Toinette has decided she is to be la Gitane, the Gypsy.”

  “With that blond hair?” laughed Marc-Antoine.