Toinette pouted. “I like the name.”
“But your name is charming as it is,” said Sébastien. “Antoinette Vivoin. Antoinette Vivoin.” He rolled it on his tongue, smiling warmly at Toinette, until Hortense rapped him on the ear.
“Your name will be Merde,” Hortense puffed, “if you don’t put your eyes back in your head!”
Toinette sighed. “Very well. Do not change my name.”
“And what of you, Ninon? Have you thought of a different name?”
She shook her head. “No. I had forgot. Still…”
Valentin stood up and stretched, and grinned down at her, his eyes glittering with malice. “You could call yourself la Charolles, for Burgundy.”
“I was born in Champagne,” she snapped.
“But your heart is in Burgundy, n’est-ce pas?” he drawled. “With your…dommage!…I keep forgetting his name. You know, the one who called you ‘little bird’.”
She jumped to her feet, glaring at him. “Perhaps I should call myself Madame Dangereuse! For you had best beware!”
He smiled mockingly, the devil incarnate. “Will you fly into my nest, little bird?”
“Damn you!” she shrieked, hating him, hating his seductive body that seemed to promise a masculinity that was clearly lacking. “Chanteclair is the Crowing Rooster. I wonder you do not call yourself le Chapon, the Capon, sexless and impotent!”
With a roar, he leaped at her, his head held low like a charging bull. He caught her around the waist and tossed her over one shoulder, marching purposefully in the direction of the house. Head downward, she squirmed and wiggled, losing her shoes in the process, and cursed him with every name she could think of. Carrying her into one of the downstairs bedchambers, he kicked the door closed and set her down roughly.
“Now,” he said, breathing hard, “you demand proofs of manhood? You shall have them!” Swiftly he stepped out of his breeches and stood naked before her. She gulped and fell back a step, seeing his power, his virility, his swollen member poised and waiting. He laughed softly. “You see, I have the necessaries, lest you doubted. Have you the necessaries?”
“I curse you forever,” she whispered.
“Come now. Don’t be shy. Isn’t this what you’ve wanted? Prancing around like a mare in heat, shaking your pretty little rump at me, your breasts falling out of your gowns! Show me your legs now. Or do you only play the tease when it’s safe?”
“Damn you!” she cursed, feeling more anger than fear, and swung at him with all her might. He ducked her fist and grabbed for her petticoat, tearing it from her in one swift movement. She clawed at his hands as he reached for her chemise, raking raw paths across his forearms. With a wrench that sent the button spinning across the floor, he pulled apart the neckline of her chemise and pushed the garment down to her waist. She broke away and started to run, but he caught her and grabbed her from behind, slamming her naked back up against his chest. His hands slid around her waist to cup her heaving breasts.
His voice hissed in her ear. “Did he touch you like this, your Philippe?”
“Damn you, let me go!” She drew in a deep, gasping breath. “You’re just trying to frighten me.”
He laughed. “Maybe I am.”
She smiled to herself. It had been a bluff. “Then let me go. Please, Valentin. Let me go.”
His hands were suddenly soft on her breasts, fondling, caressing. “Do you want me to?” he whispered, kissing the back of her neck.
She sagged against him for a moment, feeling her knees go weak at his touch. I must be mad, she thought. “Damn your poxy hide!” she shrilled, and turned in his arms to scratch at him, then drew in her breath sharply at the expression on his face. She looked down at herself—naked save for the last bit of her chemise that still clung about her hips—then glanced back at him. If he had meant only to frighten her, his desire had carried him away long since. His eyes were dark and smoldering, filled with a hunger that made her tremble. “Oh God, no,” she whispered, and turned to flee, her anger dissolving in a wave of panic that swept over her. She had barely taken two steps before her ruined chemise—slipping down to her calves—tripped her; she fell forward onto her hands and knees.
Bending over her, Valentin scooped her up with one hand, his arm about her waist, and tossed her onto the bed, ripping away the shreds of her chemise. She scrambled to get away from him, but he grabbed her arm and leg and flipped her over onto her back. He pinned both her arms above her head with one hand; the other hand pressed against her bucking thighs. She gasped as his lips touched her breast, his gentle kiss sending tremors through her body; when his mouth moved downward, she sucked in her abdomen, transfixed by the throbbing, the wild tingling, that followed the path of his mouth. His lips traveled up again to her bosom, pressing and insistent, his strong teeth nibbling at her breasts, her soft neck, her earlobes; there was no pain, just a thrilling sensation, a feeling that every inch of her skin was alive to his roving mouth. By the time he moved upward to kiss her lips, she was trembling violently, her heart thudding within her breast. He still held her hands above her head, but it was no longer necessary—she had gone limp beneath him.
He raised his head, his black eyes sweeping her bosom, and smiled grimly. She followed his glance in horror to see that her own flesh had indicted her: her nipples were rosy and hard, betraying by their eager points what she would deny to herself. “If you would have me stop, say it now,” he challenged. She had no will to refuse. Even her silence betrayed her. He laughed softly; then his insolent mouth closed in triumph over her own.
He released her hands and moved on top of her; the feel of his body, strong and overpowering, the rough hairs of his chest scratching her breasts, his hard shaft pressing insistently on her thighs, nearly drove her mad. She could feel herself growing moist and eager for him. She clutched at his shoulders, her fingers kneading the firm smoothness of his flesh, and let her knees fall wide. Waiting, inviting. And when he entered her, penetrating easily, silkily, she felt only a momentary twinge—like the first shock of an icy stream on a hot day, before the senses surrender to pleasure. She was filled, surrounded with warmth, the soft glide of his manhood against the very core of her sending delicious spasms through her body. When he increased the intensity of his thrust, driving harder and deeper, she seemed to lose all sense of time, her head spinning crazily, her body floating somewhere in a world without end, a world of sensation she had never known before, a world of shooting stars behind her closed eyes. She heard a voice cry out in exquisite pleasure; as the stars faded and Valentin collapsed against her, she knew the voice had been her own.
Valentin sighed and rolled away from her. Exhausted, they lay on their backs, side by side, eyes closed. Ninon breathed deeply, trying to still her racing heart, feeling reality return. It was hot. She lifted a heavy hand and wiped the sweat from her face. Beyond the high windows, the birds still sang.
And then Toinette laughed. Just outside the door. A muffled laugh, followed by the sounds of whispering. Oh God! thought Ninon. They were listening. All of them. If they had heard nothing else, they had heard her passionate cry of surrender. Damn Valentin! Damn him! Damn him! With an angry groan she pulled the coverlet about her and turned away from him, dry-eyed, burning with humiliation, with the knowledge of her own weakness.
She stayed that way, curled up in a knot within the coverlet, eyes shut tight, until she had heard him dress again and leave the room, closing the door softly behind him. Then she pushed back the coverlet and got out of bed, surveying her torn clothing and wondering if she could get to her own bedchamber without further loss of her pride. She turned back to the bed and nearly cursed aloud. There was blood on the sheet. She would have to find a way, before she went off to the theater this afternoon, to take it down to the stream and wash out the telltale spots.
If there was anything worse than having Valentin think she was a whore, it was having him know for a certainty that she had been a virgin.
Chapter Ei
ght
“By all that’s holy, Hortense, I cannot walk in this!” hissed Ninon, standing up with some difficulty in a sea-green costume that clung tightly to her hips and legs, ending in a sweeping fishtail that hid the opening through which her feet emerged. “You see? It binds my ankles so tightly that I can do no more than hop!”
They were all in the large tiring-room of the theater at Troyes. Colombe, who had come in late from the vicomte’s château, hurriedly hooked up her bodice and sat down before a mirror to comb her hair. She smiled sourly at Ninon. “It was not too tight when Toinette wore it. Valentin!” she called. “What is to be done with this fat sow who cannot move?”
Several male heads appeared above the large screen that separated the women’s dressing area from the men’s. “Walk,” said Valentin, frowning at Ninon.
“I can’t!” she said. “Look.” She minced about in a small circle, barely able to keep from toppling. The men came around the screen and eyed her reflectively. She could have kissed every one of them—and Hortense and Toinette, too—in gratitude. Not a word had been said, not an eyebrow raised, over what had happened this morning; only Chanteclair seemed embarrassed, and Valentin was more sullen than usual, if that was possible.
Sébastien knelt at her feet. “We could cut a bit of the fabric, I suppose.”
“And ruin the costume?” growled Valentin. “No.”
“Wait a moment,” said Sébastien. “She doesn’t walk in it. She only sits on the rock. And when the wizard changes her into a princess, there’s plenty of time for her to return to the tiring-room. Let her be carried in the mermaid costume.”
Toinette giggled. “Let Valentin do it! He’s so strong and good at it.” Ninon blushed furiously as several of the men tried to hide their smiles.
“Is there a joke that I have missed?” asked Colombe.
“I’m not in the scene,” Chanteclair said quietly. “I can place Ninon on the rock and then return her here for the transformation.”
“But that is such a bother,” said Ninon, leaning over to tug at the fabric around her ankles. “Perhaps…”
“Don’t you want to be carried?” Toinette, twittering like a bird, was unwilling to let the joke die.
“What is this about?” demanded Colombe.
“Shut your mouth, Toinette!” snapped Marc-Antoine, his sympathetic eyes on Ninon.
Colombe drew herself up like a queen. “You lousy whoreson, I’m talking to Toinette. Go and play with your little boy!”
Marc-Antoine bowed elaborately. “Fair Colombe. I think, upon reflection, that I should like to tell you myself. It will give me great pleasure.” He took Colombe by the elbow and steered her to a corner of the room, whispering in her ear while she clutched at her bosom and turned pale. She marched to Valentin and slapped him as hard as she could.
He inclined his head in a little bow and turned to Ninon. “I shall carry you to the rock. Chanteclair can carry you back.”
“If you must,” she said coldly.
He smiled mockingly, his black eyes sweeping the curves of her body, his cheek still glowing red from the marks of Colombe’s fingers. “I must.”
He waited until the rest had left the tiring-room, pretending to adjust his costume, recombing his long purple wizard’s wig. Then he strode over to where Ninon sat waiting, and leaned down. “Put your arms around my neck.”
She gulped, imprisoned by those dark eyes, powerless to refuse. Almost against her will, her arms encircled his neck, feeling the strong muscles beneath her fingers. He swept her into his arms and lifted her from her chair, holding her close, his lips perilously near to hers. She held her breath, remembering again the feel of his body this morning, the taste of his kisses.
And then he began to laugh, his eyes glinting wickedly. “Does it not gall you,” he said softly, “to know there are things over which you have no control?”
“May you be damned!” she said.
His eyes flickered with sudden pain. “Long since,” he said bitterly. “Long since.” He turned and carried her to the door of the tiring-room, his body grown cold and rigid.
They descended to the stage, where there was a great flurry of activity. With all the machines and equipment at their disposal here in Troyes, they had attempted more and more elaborate productions, knowing how audiences loved to be dazzled by special effects. Today they were to do a magical piece with Valentin as a wizard who brings on storms and performs all kinds of magic, including transforming the mermaid Ninon into an alluring princess, to make mischief with the lovers until all comes right in the end. The scenemen who had been hired for the day were busy putting the painted waves in ranks upon the stage, each row controlled by a different lever; as the levers were moved independently, the waves would seem to roll. A large whale had been placed over an opening beneath the stage, where a stream of hot air from a fire, controlled by a worker below, would blow the paper streamers that simulated the whale’s emissions.
Gaston was hard at work setting up the cloud machine upon which Valentin would descend to the stage, seeing to the strength of the chains, the worthiness of the pulleys. Behind the painted clouds were more than a dozen candles, each backed by a piece of mirror for reflection, and fronted with small bottles filled with a green liquid. The clouds themselves were pierced so the lights would shine through; as Valentin descended from the heavens, he would seem to be surrounded by a green halo.
Even Marc-Antoine’s pageboy, Pierre, had been put to work. He was to be the thunder in the storm scene. Behind the back-curtains a ladder had been set up, against which leaned a long wooden trough with shallow ridges in it. At the proper moment, Pierre would climb the ladder with half a dozen cannon balls (borrowed from the local militia) and roll them down the trough. The lightning was even more ingenious. A plank had been cut in two along a jagged line. Behind it, another plank carried a row of candles backed by tinsel for added reflection. When the lightning was needed, two scenemen would quickly separate the jagged plank, then rejoin it. If the theater was dark enough, the effect would be realistic.
The first act went well. The storm raged, the wizard descended from his cloud, and the mermaid vanished in a flash of gunpowder and a puff of smoke. Ninon, carried quickly to the tiring-room by Chanteclair, wriggled out of her mermaid’s garb and put on her princess costume, an exotic thing of tinsel and gold braid that Gaston had dredged up from the bottom of one of the trunks. When she hurried back to the stage to appear in a sudden blinding light, the audience applauded wildly, captivated by the effects, the costumes, the beauty of the actress.
But as the act ended and they went forward to take their bows, the boy Pierre, anxious to recover a stray cannon ball, ran in front of Sébastien and almost tripped him. Sébastien cursed under his breath and cuffed the boy’s ear. Marc-Antoine could hardly contain his rage until their bows were done and they retreated backstage.
“You will not strike Pierre again,” he said, his jowls quivering.
“I’ll beat more than his ears if he gets in my way again,” said Sébastien. “I still say the imp stole a crown from me last week.”
Marc-Antoine drew himself up. “I shall not listen to such slander.” He put a protective arm around Pierre, who managed to look hurt.
“Name of God,” growled Valentin. “’Tis time for your musical interlude. Get you both before the audience.”
“No,” said Marc-Antoine sulkily. “I shall not sing with him.”
“Sweet Jesu!” Valentin put his hand to his head. “Then sing separately. But sing!”
“I shall go first.” Sébastien picked up his theorbo and went out to sing. His offering, delivered in a silverly tenor, earned him loud applause, which seemed only to add to Marc-Antoine’s petulance. When it was Marc-Antoine’s turn, he glared at Sébastien before going forth; then he began to sing, accompanying himself on his guitar.
“Do you hear what he is doing?” Sébastien was quivering with rage. “That’s my song. My song! What shall I sing next if he
steals my song?”
Valentin groaned. He turned to Gaston, still busy with the scenery. “As soon as the magic grotto is in place, we shall go on.” He frowned as Marc-Antoine finished his song and bowed off to applause. “Name of God, Marc-Antoine, will you make peace with Sébastien?”
Marc-Antoine sniffed. “I shall not ever sing with him again,” he said waspishly, “unless he asks Pierre’s forgiveness!”
Valentin cast his eyes heavenward. “God save me from lovers,” he muttered. Adjusting his wizard’s cloak, he moved quickly to stand in the grotto.
There were no mishaps during the second act, although Pierre skulked about backstage eyeing Sébastien with malevolence.
They were well into the third act when Ninon found her eyes beginning to water. She looked about the stage and caught Valentin’s worried glance. He too had noticed something. The smoke. Even with the added candles and the gunpowder they had used, there seemed to be a great deal of smoke onstage. In the middle of her speech, Colombe stopped and let out a muffled squeak, her eyes darting to the back-curtain. A tiny finger of smoke curled out from the bottom of it, and one of the scenemen whispered the dreaded word. Fire.
Novice though she was, Ninon knew the audience must not learn of the disaster, lest they panic. She smiled brightly to Colombe. “And so, madame…?” she prompted. Colombe was unable to go on, standing transfixed as she watched the scenemen’s frantic efforts in the wings. They hurriedly fetched buckets of sand to throw on the flames that had begun to curl at the sides of the back-cloth, out of view of the spectators. It was useless to depend on Colombe. Ninon turned to Valentin and the other characters on stage. “I feel sure that madame wished to say…” she began, praying she could remember enough of Colombe’s speech. She stumbled through it at last, sighing in relief as Sébastien picked up his lines and answered.
But what were they to do about the smoke? It was growing thicker—despite the scenemen’s success in putting out the fire—and the audience was beginning to murmur uneasily. Valentin raised his arms dramatically. “Do you see what have wrought?” he intoned. “A magic fog that will envelop you all and drive away your cares!”
Dreams So Fleeting Page 19