At the end, when they had taken their final bows, Valentin, as the company’s Orator, stepped before the curtain to fulfill his function. He called for silence and addressed the audience, thanking the good people of Troyes for their attention and trade during all the many weeks that the company had been in their fair city. The Peerless Theatre Company, he announced, would be moving on, but he designed the kind folk to remember them fondly, and promised that when they should return—several months hence—it would be with even more delightful presentations. It was both a skillful farewell (to ensure their being able to leave the city with no difficulties from tradesmen or government officials) and a teaser to guarantee an enthusiastic welcome when they should return.
In a jolly mood, they trooped off to their favorite tavern for a farewell supper, Colombe flouncing along with her twisted vicomte in tow, as if to show Valentin that his affairs did not concern her. Valentin, brimming with good cheer, took the opportunity of every dim doorway along their route to pull Ninon aside and kiss her.
By the time they entered the common room of the tavern, Chanteclair was already there, drinking at the large table with a man they had not seen before in Troyes. A shortish man in his mid-thirties, with a head rather too large for his body, he was handsome in an earthy way, his features both coarse and fine. Wide-spaced, small eyes, a prominent nose that flared at the nostrils, thick lips in a broad mouth—altogether unremarkable features, until the man spoke and the face came alive, the deep creases in his leathery skin serving as exclamation points to his words. His hair and eyes were jet black, as was his small, trim mustache.
“Messieurs…mesdames…Valentin…” began Chanteclair, rising from his chair, “I should like you to meet a traveler on his way north to Rouen. Monsieur Jean-Baptiste Poquelin. Monsieur Valentin Sanscoeur, the head of our company.”
Valentin beamed and held out a hand to the stranger. “Monsieur Molière,” he said, calling the man by the name under which he appeared upon the stage. “’Tis a great honor.”
“No…no.” Molière rose, bowing to the ladies and motioning the company to be seated. “We are all fellow players. No more, no less.” He nodded as the introductions were made all around, then sat down again and poured himself another cup of wine, smiling graciously to Colombe, who had abandoned her vicomte to sit next to him.
“Fellow players! Mon Dieu.” Colombe giggled coquettishly. “Is there an actor in all of France who has not heard of you and your illustrious company? Your reputation—the work you have done in Lyon and the Languedoc—reaches even the small villages and jeux de paume in which our humble company plays!”
He laughed dryly. “My dear young woman, we have been on the road for twelve years now, building that reputation. If an actor has not learned his craft by then, he should give it up and seek another trade.”
“You make so little of it,” simpered Colombe.
Molière raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Little? Hardly. I spent half of ’forty-four in prison for debt, because of this calling.” He indicated his lined, tough skin, his hand making a dramatic gesture almost automatically. “My face is an old man’s face from all the years of paint—and grimacing to be seen by the paradis. It is scarcely a little matter.” He sighed. “It becomes a wearying life.”
Valentin had been quietly ordering supper for the company and their guest. Now he dismissed the servants and turned to Molière. “What brings you to Troyes? We had heard you were south, in Lyon.”
“Alas. Life is a cruel trickster, always ready with the unexpected cream tart for the face! I had thought our future was ensured. We have been, for some four years, under the protection of Monsieur de Conti. It was a fine life. A fat pension, coaches and men-at-arms at our beck as we traveled back and forth from Lyon to Pézenas—we played there for several seasons when the Estates of Languedoc were in session. As well as privately for Conti, of course. Our handbills read ‘The actors of Monsieur le Prince de Conti’s Company.’ But…” Molière sighed.
“But…?” prompted Chanteclair, helping himself to a roasted pigeon.
“Who would have thought a Bourbon prince, a man of dissolute tastes, would become a religieux? Conti has taken up the cause of Jansenism and the Port-Royal nuns. Not only has he renounced our company and withdrawn his support, but he has condemned our profession as ungodly and immoral. At the last session of the Languedoc Parlement in Béziers we were forced to toady to the delegates just to obtain permission to play.”
Valentin laughed ruefully. “And we bemoan the lack of a patron.”
“But you are very good. I saw you this afternoon. Very good indeed!”
“You see, Valentin?” said Colombe, viciously spearing a bit of meat with the tip of her knife.
Sanscoeur ignored her. “What shall you do now, Monsieur Molière?”
“Madeleine and I…that is to say, Madame Béjart, who has a fine head for business…” he smiled at Ninon, “and a crown of copper hair that flames almost as much as yours, Madame Guillemot…though, alas, no longer your fresh youth…Ahem. Where was I? A charming distraction. Ah yes. Madeleine and I have begun to think it is time to mount an assault on Paris. She is staying on at Nîmes for a spell to conclude a legal matter. The rest of the company travels with me to Rouen. We can rehearse, survey the Paris scene, make the necessary arrangements, play just enough so that word of our talent will reach the proper ears at court. And I have had some success with a few plays I penned. If the Muse favors me, I can prepare a new one for our Paris debut.”
Valentin pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, smiling. “I could wish that you would publish those you have written already. I heard only good reports of your Dépit Amoureux when you played it last year at Pézenas. I would dearly love to have access to the book for this company!”
“Don’t be a fool! Your company does the finest commedia al improviso I have seen in many a year! You need no book to win acclaim! I wonder you do not try Paris yourselves.”
“We are not ready,” Valentin said brusquely.
“Ah, but I think…”
“Really, Valentin, why are you so stubborn?” pouted Colombe.
“No!” Valentin’s voice was harsh and ugly. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence; then Molière turned smoothly to Colombe and offered her a sweetmeat from the platter before them.
“You played the pastoral superbly, Madame Linard,” he said to her.
She smiled coyly. “Think you so? Valentin says I am an even better tragedienne. Is it not so, Val?”
“True enough.”
“If…Monsieur Molière, you will not think me forward…but…if you have need of another actress in your company…I should be more than willing…I do not fear Paris, as does Monsieur Sanscoeur!”
Molière cleared his throat. “Ah, madame. There are, even now, three adorable actresses in our company—my dear Madeleine, Madame du Parc, and Madame de Brie. I have had…you’ll pardon me…a fondness for each of the fair creatures. My life can be most difficult when they choose to berate me, singly or ensemble! I scarce think I could manage another, particularly one as beautiful and charming as you, my dear Madame Linard.”
It was both a compliment and a rebuff, but Colombe beamed, hearing only the flattery. Marc-Antoine, with more malice, twinkled knowingly at Ninon.
“Mon Dieu, Jean-Baptiste. If we are to get an early start in the morning, you had best come away!” An enormously fat man stood in the doorway, beckoning to Molière.
Molière laughed. “Come in, René. Who is with you?”
The man moved aside, allowing two other men to crowd into the room. “Béjart and Reynolds. Come away, Jean-Baptiste. The women will not sleep until they know you are safe abed.”
Molière smiled ruefully at his friends and stood up. “Are they tender sisters? Or jealous minxes? But let me at least acquaint you with this fine band of strollers before we go. Joseph Béjart,” he said, indicating the smallest of his three companions. “Brother to Madeleine. René Berthe
lot,” a nod to the fat man, “or Gros-René, as he is known for obvious reasons, who acts under the name of du Parc and is married to one of our charming actresses. This one…” He clapped his hand to the shoulder of the third man, a blond giant who stood half a head taller than Valentin, “is not, strictly speaking, a member of our company, but he has played with us since we traveled up from Languedoc, having no other means of support. James Reynolds, late of the Phoenix Theatre of Drury Lane in London, until that Puritan devil Cromwell closed the English playhouses and burned them to the ground.”
There was the business of handshakes and introductions of the Peerless Theatre troupe; then Valentin called for another round of drinks.
“Tell me, Monsieur Reynolds,” he said at last to the Englishman, when they had settled down a bit, “is there no theater in England at all?”
“Certainly no public theater,” said Reynolds, his French only slightly tinged with the accents of his native land. “I have heard there are still some plays performed privately…and in secret. But I am no longer welcome in my homeland, having declared early for the martyred king, God rest his soul. I was in your beautiful capital of Paris for a time with His Majesty Charles the Second—alas in exile!—and his brother James, Duke of York. Your gracious King Louis was most hospitable to my noble sovereign and his brother.”
“They are, after all, first cousins,” said Chanteclair dryly. He frowned at Reynolds in disapproval. The man was altogether too unctuous for his taste.
“Yes. To be sure.” Reynolds smiled at Chanteclair, a radiant smile that was as false as it was expansive. “But your King Louis is fond of the theater, upon my word! I have suggested to Monsieur Molière,” he nodded condescendingly to Poquelin, “that he make an effort to catch the eye of the king, or his brother the Duc d’Orléans. They would be worthy patrons, you may be sure!”
“The king himself takes part in court spectacles, is it not so?” asked Ninon.
Reynolds allowed his bold gaze to linger on her bosom for a moment before he answered. “Yes. I remember…some three years agone…as attendant to my lord the Duke of York, I took part in a court ballet that Louis presented. Les Noces de Pelée Thétis…‘The Wedding of Peleus and Thetis,’ as we would call it…Your king appeared as Apollo. He seemed taken with the conceit of himself as the sun god.” There was an edge of disapproval in Reynolds’s voice.
“Yes,” said Molière. If he had heard the innuendo, he ignored it. “I remember in ’fifty-three the king appeared in The Ballet of the Night as the Sun, bringing life and light to the world.”
“May it be so,” Gaston muttered piously, and crossed himself.
“And York?” asked Valentin. “What did he represent in Louis’s ballet?”
Reynolds laughed. “He danced as a coral fisher, fishing for a crown! The court was much amused, I can tell you!”
Molière scratched his chin reflectively. “Tell me, Sanscoeur, could you use the services of Monsieur Reynolds? He has shown some reluctance to our Paris expedition, and had considered traveling to Italy. But it occurs to me you might have a use for him.”
“No,” said Chanteclair.
Valentin shook his head. “Perhaps. Gaston?” He nodded to the older man, waiting for him to speak.
Gaston stood up and allowed his eyes to travel around the table, silently recording his comrades’ beloved faces in his memory. He sighed with regret. “Yes,” he said at last. “I have decided to retire from this calling. I leave you in the morning.” There was a flurry of questions, protests, expressions of disbelief—and Hortense rushed forward to give Gaston a tearful kiss. But after a time the company was reconciled to Gaston’s leaving, and Monsieur Molière raised his glass in a toast to an actor who would, at least, have time to seek absolution of the Church and be buried in consecrated ground.
“But the matter of Monsieur Reynolds,” said Valentin at last. “Can he do the Pantalone roles?” He smiled sourly at Reynolds, who had long since found a place beside Toinette and was making her giggle and blush with his whispered asides, much to Joseph’s annoyance. “We do not need another Lover. If he can play old men, character roles, we might have a place for him.”
“I can assure you,” said Molière, “James is quite versatile.”
“Well then, James,” said Valentin. “The company must discuss it, of course, but I feel sure you can find a home with us. Not as a sharer, you understand. Perhaps a quarter of a share…or a salary. We shall discuss it and draw up a contract.”
“A moment.” Chanteclair leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as they scanned Reynolds. “Might one ask why you do not wish to go to Paris…James?”
Reynolds laughed heartily. “Please! You must call me Jamie, if we are to be friends! It is only that…I blush to tell it, ladies…I made a few enemies while I was in Paris last! An irate husband or two…you understand…’tis a man’s nature, after all.” It sounded more like a boast than a confession.
“My faith,” said Colombe, beginning to see in this handsome young giant a possible conquest. “What a thrilling life you must have led…Jamie. Irate husbands. Fancy that!” She turned to Valentin, the residual of bitterness in her honeyed words. “Tell me, dear Valentin, is that why you avoid Paris and the big cities?”
Chapter Nine
“Dammit, Joseph, have a care! You are not driving the king’s coach on a hunt at Versailles!” Valentin’s harsh voice cut through the morning mists and sent a flock of wild quail whirring up out of the grasses by the side of the road.
Joseph, perched on a plank thrown across the front of the wagon, glanced sullenly at Valentin and pulled on the ropes that controlled the team of oxen, slowing their pace. Valentin reined in his horse and guided it to one side of the narrow road, scowling as the wagon and the rest of the mounted actors passed by.
Seated behind him, her skirts drawn up so that she might ride astride, Ninon shook her head at his stiff back. “Have a little pity on the man,” she said gently. “If the wagon truly goes too fast, Colombe will be the first to scream her protest.”
“In the name of her child, of course…the hypocritical bitch,” growled Valentin.
“What has put you into such a mood today? We were all sorry to part with Gaston this morning. Chanteclair and Marc-Antoine wept. Only you find in it cause for one of your rages.”
“It is my way,” he snapped. “And Joseph is careless with the team. It is my way.”
Her arms had been around his waist. Now she slipped her hands up under his doublet to catch a fold of flesh at his sides. Smiling grimly, she pinched him with all her might. “You promised me you would not rage so. Have you forgot so soon?”
He twisted around in the saddle and looked at her, his eyebrows raised in astonishment and injured pride. “Sweet Jesu, woman, I shall not turn into a milksop on your behalf!”
“True,” she said dryly. “I know I should consider myself privileged. For you have unbent your stiff pride enough to allow a woman to ride with you, nom de Dieu.”
“You teasing devil,” he murmured, his mouth at last curving into a smile. “You shall be the death of me.”
“If I can tease you into laughter sometimes I will be content.” She leaned up to his shoulder to receive his awkward kiss.
Grinning, he turned around again and guided his horse back onto the road to pace beside Chanteclair, who rode alone. They moved along in companionable silence for some time, then Chanteclair turned to Valentin. “By the by, I assume you got the letter last night.” Valentin nodded and patted the inside pocket of his doublet.
“What letter?” asked Ninon.
“From Monsieur Molière.”
“After we left?” asked Ninon, remembering that the women had retired early, leaving the men alone for a last round of drinks. Chanteclair grunted. “But you did not tell me, Valentin,” said Ninon, then blushed furiously, remembering how she had waited for him in bed, filled with anticipation. And welcomed him joyously into her arms, opening wide to receive him. There had
been no thought of talk, all through the long night, as they had explored each other’s bodies, giving and taking back pleasure. “What was the letter?” she said quickly, to hide her embarrassment.
Chanteclair’s eyes were bland. If he had divined Ninon’s discomfort, he chose to ignore it. “Monsieur Molière was offered a commission before he came to Troyes. A…marquis, I think…was it not, Valentín? Yes. A marquis near Vézelay. Since Molière’s troupe was heading north, they could not oblige. Monsieur le Marquis is celebrating the birth of a son, after several daughters. He wishes to present to his wife his compliments and gratitude in the form of balls and fêtes…and plays. Monsieur Molière thinks that the Peerless Theatre Company would be to the marquis’s liking in his stead.”
“And he gave you a letter?” asked Ninon.
“Yes. An introduction to Monsieur le Marquis, extolling…pray God!…our skills and virtues.”
“It would be a fine commission to have,” said Valentin. “Seven hundred livres for two performances, with half to be given in advance.”
“And tips besides,” said Chanteclair, “if we’re clever. The marquis is well connected, I hear. If we can include the names of his relations in our prologues…or even in a bit of spoken dialogue or a dedication, he and his family would respond, in coin, to such flattery.”
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