“Yes!” said Ninon. “Behold the fog, how it swirls and mists about us.”
Sébastien nodded in agreement, and even Toinette managed to improvise a line about the fog. The spectators relaxed and leaned back on their benches. There was even a smattering of applause for the novel stage effect, and whisperings about the cleverness of a troupe that could so naturally simulate fog. They managed to get through the rest of the play quickly, taking one brief bow before turning their attention to the ruined back-cloths, for more than one had caught fire. Several were destroyed beyond repair, and new ones would have to be bought and painted afresh; the rest could be salvaged with a little patching and repainting. And Sébastien’s theorbo was charred and blackened.
“How the devil did this happen?” Valentin angrily tore off his purple wig and slammed it to the stage.
“Your pardon, monsieur,” said one of the scenemen. “I thought I saw the lad…he had a candle…”
Valentin let out a roar and turned on Pierre, who backed up in terror and tried to hide behind Marc-Antoine. In a moment he had the boy by the scruff of the neck, the small body bent over his outstretched knee. “Gaston, hand me that stick!” he bellowed.
“No!” Marc-Antoine’s face was twisted in distress. He looked for pity to his comrades, who shuffled their feet and turned away.
Sweet Madonna, thought Ninon, are they all afraid of Sanscoeur? “You shall not,” she said boldly, “until we hear the boy tell of it! Let him go!”
They glared at each other for long moments, then Valentin released the boy, who immediately threw himself on his knees and began to weep. “I…I didn’t mean…I was playing with the candle…I never thought…Please…Madame…don’t let him beat me!”
“I believe the lad, Valentin.”
“Well, I do not. He has been naught but trouble since the day he came.”
Ninon glanced at Marc-Antoine’s unhappy face, then turned back to Valentin. “Does your mistrust of the world include children as well? You remind me of a man I knew…one Baugin by name. You remember I spoke of him once, n’est-ce pas?”
Valentin winced at that. “Take the little devil away, Marc-Antoine, and see that he keeps out of mischief henceforth!”
Marc-Antoine grasped Ninon’s hand and pressed her fingers to his lips. “You are truly a princess, ma chère.”
She smiled and sighed. A tired princess. Exhausted from the strains of the day. She climbed wearily out of her costume, then sat at supper picking at her food, aware that Valentin eyed her strangely from the other end of the table, but too tired to care. And when they walked back from the tavern to their rented house in the woods, she stayed apart from them, wanting nothing so much as solitude. She prayed that Hortense was sleeping in Sébastien’s bed tonight.
She placed the single candle on the table by the bed and turned down the bedding, stripping off her gown and petticoats and laying them across a chair. She removed her shoes and stockings and set them neatly down. Then she unpinned her hair and shook the curls free, running her fingers through the ringlets. It did not feel so hot tonight; her chemise did not cling damply to her body as it had done for days. God willing, it would be cooler on the morrow. The door opened behind her and closed softly.
“Hortense,” she said, turning around. “I…” She shook her head. Valentin leaned against the door, his eyes glinting in the light of the candle. “No,” she whispered. “No…no…You shall not…”
He reached for her and swept her into his arms, crushing her mouth with his, while she struggled fiercely against him, more fiercely against the ache, the need for him that filled her. With a cry, she pushed him away and leaned against the wall, gasping for breath.
“Why do you fight me?” He stripped off his shirt and moved, bare-chested, to stand before her, his hands reaching for the drawstring of her chemise. “I could break you in half, if I chose.” He loosed the neckline and slipped the garment down over her hips to the floor, then curved his hands around her breasts, his gentle fingers teasing them to hard points. She drew a sharp breath, feeling her body begin to tremble.
With a last effort at reason, at common sense, she wrenched away from the hands that threatened to vanquish her resolve. Drawing back, she slapped his face as hard as she could, and was pleased to see that her blow had drawn blood.
He felt for the cut on his lips with the tip of his tongue, then laughed softly and held out his bare arms; she saw the long red marks of her nails that had dug deep. “Scratches this morning, blows tonight,” he said. “And still your eyes shine with passion. ’Tis your pride that rebels, not your body.”
“Damn you!” she shrieked. She reached for her shoes and flung them at him, narrowly missing his head.
“Damn you,” he growled, angry now. “Let us have no more of pride!” His long arms shot out, grabbing her by the hair and pulling her savagely toward him. He bent her back on his arm, his mouth grinding on hers, his kiss hot and demanding. She felt her insides turn to liquid fire; her breasts strained eagerly against his bare chest. It was as though what happened between their two bodies had no part of her heart, her mind. There was only the hunger that took away all reason. She threw her arms around his neck, clutching fiercely at him, returning his kisses with all the passion in her, until kisses were no longer enough.
Like one in a dream, she pulled him to the bed and sat down, her hands working at the fly buttons of his breeches, her impatience beyond containing. He slipped out of his breeches and leaned over to kiss her, his hands stroking her breasts; but she pushed aside his fingers and pulled him down to the bed with her, needing to feel again the thrill that had stirred her before. It was all unreal, a dream. She leaned back on the pillow and closed her eyes, feeling his strong hands parting her thighs, his muscular body lowering to hers. Then she gasped as he thrust into her, a sharp, hard thrust that dispelled the dream. Her eyes flew open, seeing the handsome face above her, tense with passion. That hateful man. And she was letting him do this to her! I must be losing my reason, she thought.
Marshaling all her strength, she waited until his driving thrusts had slackened, then she pushed against him with all her might. “Get off me, pig!” she spat.
He leaned back on his heels, panting. “By God, Ninon, I’ve beaten women for less than that!”
She flinched at the fury in his eyes and tried to scramble away, making for the far side of the bed, but he grabbed her from behind, holding her tightly about the waist. “Let me go! What are you doing?” she squealed.
“You damned tease!” he growled. He jerked her roughly to her hands and knees, then knelt behind her; his strong hands about her waist kept her from turning or sitting up. When she started to protest, he pushed her face down into the pillow, one hand pressing between her shoulder blades. She wriggled in desperation, her fists pounding the bed in helpless panic, convinced that he would beat her, now that he had her in this vulnerable position. “Don’t worry,” he said grimly, as though reading her mind. “You’re just going to finish what you started.”
He mounted her from behind; when he entered her she cried aloud, the exquisiteness of the sensation sending shock waves through her body. He slammed into her again and again, while her hips writhed against him and she clutched at the pillow, gasping in ecstasy. Her every muscle strained to enclose him, envelop him, until his thrusts were met by shuddering spasms of her own. He drew a harsh breath through his teeth and relaxed, then withdrew and rolled away from her. Drained, her passion spent, she let her hips sink to the bed and, still quivering violently, waited for him to leave. Instead, he pulled up the sheet, reached out with his hand, and snuffed the candle.
Oh, God, she thought, burying her face in the pillow, he means to spend the night. She lay there trembling, unable to think clearly, her whole body tingling and alive from the sensations he had aroused. She hated him. No. Perhaps she hated herself, her betraying body. Or perhaps it was only her pride, as he had said. She sighed, still feeling his mouth on hers, his possession of
her body. Her pride had lost the battle this night! She sighed again. He was breathing deeply beside her. The sleep of the just? she thought bitterly. He stirred in his sleep, his hand reaching out to rest on her bare hip. In spite of all that had happened, it felt strangely comforting. With another sigh, she moved closer to him, pulling his limp arm around her waist, and drifted off to sleep.
She woke to the first twittering of the birds. The room was dim: sunrise was still an hour or two away. She breathed deeply and rolled over onto her back. Valentin was leaning on one elbow, smiling down at her.
“Good morrow,” he said softly.
“You’re a villain.”
He laughed. “Nonetheless, this villain intends to kiss you.”
I defy you, she thought grimly. This time she would remember her pride! She kept her lips tight-clamped as he bent over her, yielding nothing to his soft mouth. He looked at her quizzically, one black eyebrow arched in surprise, then tried again. She held her mouth, her body, rigid, denying him—and herself.
“My God, what a stubborn creature you are! I wonder the hairs on Philippe’s head did not turn gray, loving you!” He began almost idly to run his finger across her breast, circling the rosy tip, then moved on to stroke her flat belly. She steeled herself against his touch, the hands that roused her beyond endurance. His fingers drifted down to her thighs, gliding up and down on the smooth flesh, but moving ever more inexorably to the soft grotto that throbbed now with passion, beyond control of her willing it or no. When he touched her there, probing gently, she felt her body catch fire. When he stopped, she wanted to cry. He leaned over her, frowning. “Well?” he said. She expected triumph in his voice, that he had revealed her weakness to her once again; instead she was surprised to hear the edge of fear, as though he was afraid that she would reject him, as she had tried to do before.
His eyes bored into her, waiting for an answer. Surrendering her pride at last, she pulled his mouth down to hers, tasting the pleasures of his soft kisses. He made love to her gently, holding her in his arms, loving her with a tenderness that was as sweet and satisfying as had been the hot passions of the night before.
When at last his body had stilled, she held tightly to him, unwilling to let him go, enjoying the feel of him within her, the deep contentment that filled her. She sighed and closed her eyes again.
He kissed her softly. “Sweet Jesu, that mouth…” he nipped at her lower lip, “…that pouting mouth…Your words can be hard and cruel, but that fragile rose of a mouth …Mon Dieu! I knew I would have it someday.”
Her eyes flew open, flashing with sudden anger. “You arrogant…Oh!” She pushed him off her and tried to sit up, but he pressed her down again, pinning her hands beside her head. “Let me go!” she hissed. “I knew you could not forbear from crowing your triumph! You arrogant dog!”
“What arrogance? You knew it too! From the very first. Flesh speaks to flesh, and pays reason no mind. From the very first—in the stable. Your thoughts were on your precious Philippe, but it was not anger—nor Philippe—that made you tremble when I kissed you.”
She was near tears, burning with humiliation, struggling helplessly against him. “You villain, you animal…I despise you…arrogant, disagreeable, hateful…”
“Yes, I know,” he said quietly. “And I have learned—to my sorrow—that a woman is Satan’s creature, not to be trusted or believed, not to…” He sighed heavily. “But my body hungers for yours, despite everything.” He kissed her rigid lips, then deepened his kiss until she relented, her mouth responding to his. “Why deny Nature her power over us?” He smiled and kissed her again. “If it’s any comfort to you, I envied Philippe his privileges from the moment I first saw you in the stable.”
He sat up in bed and glanced around the room, which was beginning now to grow light. “Come. What say you to a swim before the others get up?”
She nodded. Quickly they threw on their clothes and hurried to the stream, shedding their garments once again to plunge into the water. Ninon found herself laughing like a child, her senses alive with the crystal water, the pink dawn rising over a distant hill, the contentment of her body. At last, exhausted, they scrambled out of the stream. Valentin pulled on his breeches and lay down on a patch of grass; Ninon, too lazy even to dress, lay across his chest and draped her chemise over her naked body.
“Today is our last performance,” he said, “and then we move on.”
“I shall be sorry to leave Troyes.”
“There’s always another town,” he said. “You said that once yourself.”
“Where shall we go?”
“South, I should guess. Gaston will not be coming with us.”
“I did not know!”
“He did not wish the others to know until we set out tomorrow. But he has cousins…family…just beyond Troyes. He designs to spend his remaining years there, and they are willing to take him in.”
“But wherefore?” she asked.
“He is no longer young. And then, his arm troubles him greatly. It has not healed well from the break.”
“Alas. I shall miss him.”
“As shall I.” He fell silent for a moment, then sat up, pushing her gently from him. “There is something we must speak of now.”
She slipped her chemise over her head and sat close to him, her hand on his. “So solemn? Well?”
“I…that is…’tis the matter of where we shall sleep in the next town…and the next.” He reddened slightly. “I…I had forgot what pleasure a woman’s body could bring.”
She looked down at a patch of grass. “Even a woman who loves another?”
“More especially a woman who loves another. Your heart is given to Philippe. I have no heart to give. We are well matched. But we find pleasure in each other. I shall not pretend—though, forgive me, I think your dear Philippe did—that I want more from you than the enjoyment of your body. But I challenge you to tell me that Philippe could rouse your senses more than I have. Shall we share a bed henceforth?”
“I…I know not. Who can say…tomorrow, the next day…can we not wait to see what will be?”
His brow darkened. “No. I dislike feeling that I am the brute, raping you each time I invade your bed. If your mind is not as willing as your body, tell me, and I’ll sleep alone, and bother you no more. But if you are agreed, I don’t expect to be teased—or denied when it suits your fancy. And no false pride. I will not have you play the violated maiden, cursing me while your body welcomes mine! Those are my terms. Are you agreed?”
She hesitated. How different he was from Philippe, negotiating his terms like a general, with no attempt to play the cajoling lover. There would be no soft romance if she shared his bed—true enough. She was not fool enough to think that he had lost his hatred of women. But she had little trust in men. And he was not promising her love, only the pleasures of his bed. Considerable pleasures, she had to admit. Flesh speaks to flesh, he had said. With no thought to reason. It was so. She had wanted him all along, she knew that now; best to be honest with herself and admit she still wanted him.
“Agreed,” she said at last, then held up a warning finger. “But in return, I expect to see you smile from time to time. Take another role besides that of disagreeable tyrant. Agreed?”
He stared at her in amazement, his face softening. “There are times, Ninon Guillemot, when I think I shall rue the day you came into my life!”
She poked his bare chest with her forefinger. “Agreed?”
He smiled and pulled her mouth to his. “Agreed,” he said, and kissed her.
“Whore!” Colombe glared at Ninon, her mouth set in a hard line. They were standing on the stage with Marc-Antoine, waiting for Gaston, the Prologue, to finish his speech and open the curtain. It was the first word Colombe had spoken to Ninon all day. She had watched with envious eyes as Valentin had stayed close to Ninon in the tiring-room, smiling far more than was his wont, putting a casual hand about the girl’s waist. She cursed herself, her misshapen vicomte
who had kept her away from Valentin these past two weeks. But for the ugly little hunchback, she might have been the one to break Val’s stubborn celibacy and earn a place in his bed.
Marc-Antoine cackled with delight. “You must call her foolish whore, Colombe. For poor Ninon will not expect to find half a dozen crowns on her pillow in the morning!”
“Pox-ridden tapette,” she hissed. “Small wonder your family threw you out!”
“Stop it! Both of you!” Ninon’s eyes flashed.
“And you, you slut!” Colombe’s voice was sharp with malevolence. “Stealing Val from me. You shall pay, I promise you!”
“Then steal him back, if you want him,” said Ninon coldly. “If you can. But I trust you do not mean to exact your revenge upon the stage. You are too soft of body to risk it. I have spent a deal of my life chopping wood and spading gardens and plucking pigeons. I should find it a simple matter to pluck those mock-ebony curls from your head!”
Colombe’s jaw dropped open in astonishment, while Marc-Antoine doubled up with laughter. Ninon turned away from them both and composed herself for the performance, confident that Colombe’s basic cowardice would keep her from retaliating.
They played a pastoral first, a romantic piece that ended with an unexpected kiss that Valentin delivered to Ninon upon the stage, much to the delight of the spectators. By the time they began to play their second presentation of the afternoon, an improvised farce in the Italian fashion, the whole company had caught fire from Valentin’s lighthearted manner, playing with a zest and a humor that kept the audience crowing with laughter.
Ninon and Joseph, perched on tall ladders behind two set pieces of scenery that represented houses with upstairs windows, leaned out and called to Valentin below. He staggered drunkenly about on the stage, falling into one wall and then another, torn between the two “women”—for Joseph, in a yellow wig, and heavily rouged, pretended to be a female, squeaking out his lines in falsetto. All the while Valentin precariously balanced a tray of tarts on one hand, promising them first to Ninon and then to the “lady” Joseph. Chanteclair, the knave, did a cartwheel onto the stage and announced to the audience (slyly twirling the mustaches on his mask) that he would soon make short work of the tarts for himself. He offered his services to Valentin, and climbed upon his shoulders to be carried unsteadily from one window to the other, pretending to pass on to the women each tart as it was handed up to him, but actually eating it himself. The scene ended with the outraged Valentin trying to dislodge Chanteclair from his perch on his shoulders, while Ninon and Joseph, deprived of their tarts, pelted the shaky two-man tower with puffs of cotton. Filled with high spirits, the actors were laughing so hard themselves that they could scarcely continue with the play.
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