Dreams So Fleeting

by Sylvia Halliday

  “I like it not,” grumbled Valentin.

  “You never do. But you know as well as I it must be done—if we are to survive.” Valentin swore under his breath. Chanteclair chuckled. “Put as good a face on it as possible, Val. Béjart tells me the marquis has his own theater in his château. That means far less work for us. And scenemen who have done the job before. I should miss Gaston more if we arrived at Vézelay and Joseph and I had to begin our careers as décorateurs with such an important commission.”

  “Joseph is useless today,” said Valentin. “Guiding the team as though he were in a trance. I can scarcely fathom why.”

  “I wonder you have not guessed it, mon ami,” said Chanteclair. “Look you.” He pointed to where Toinette rode with James Reynolds, sitting in front of him on his horse as they moved through patches of sunlight on the road. Chanteclair shook his head. “I do not like that Englishman. There will be mischief ere he is done.”

  “Yes,” agreed Ninon. “See how she giggles and hangs on his every word.”

  “Name of God!” Valentin exclaimed. “One would think Toinette was a sweet virgin, to listen to you two! She has been wooed before!”

  “Yes,” said Chanteclair. “By half a dozen country bumpkins and provincial nobles…and the men of this troupe, in the spirit of affection and camaraderie. But never by an accomplished rake. He had no qualms about moving into Joseph’s province. And when he’s had enough of her, he’ll have no qualms about breaking the girl’s heart.”

  “Pah! You make too much of it. Women are no fools when it comes to men. Reynolds should guard his own heart!”

  Ninon stiffened at the sudden anger in his voice. After their night of passion, she had almost begun to forget his feelings toward women, had almost convinced herself that with kindness she could change his ways. God save her, she would try not to forget again. “Then show a little compassion for your own sex, at the very least,” she said coldly, “and save a crumb of pity for poor Joseph.”

  Chanteclair glanced from one tight face to another, cleared his throat, and allowed his gaze to stray upward to the bower of trees overhead, their bright green streaked with the crimson and gold of autumn. “Pray God Molière’s letter earns us success,” he said at last.

  “If not,” said Valentin, “we have enough money to go on to Nevers. ’Tis four months since we played there. A fine tennis court, good audiences. Ninon’s debut and her triumph.” He turned his head, glancing back over his shoulder at her. “But this time, Madame Queen, one trusts you will not forget your lines!” He smiled, his good humor returning.

  “Ha! Insignificant peasant! This time in Nevers I shall seek out an inn that is worthy of my exalted station as prima donna. You, of course, will be expected to sleep in the barn!”

  They traveled at a leisurely pace, moving through countryside golden with ripened wheat, or bare fields where the already-harvested grain stood in sheaves—fat sentries along the stone walls and fences. They followed the paths of man-made canals, lined by long avenues of trees and towpaths for the horses, and waved to the boats that passed on their way loaded with produce and hogs and wine, the last shipments to the big cities before the cold of winter made the waterways impassable.

  The nights were beginning to turn cool, presaging an early fall. They sought out inns where a column of smoke in the distance indicated a warm fire, and retired early to huddle with their bed partners of the moment. They stopped an itinerant peddler in a small village and bought out his meager stock of flannel shirts and chemises, to be stored away until the first frosty morning.

  Marc-Antoine and Sébastien were still cold to each other (chillier than the mist-filled dawnings), and spoke only when they had to, both nursing their grievances—the one for the abuse of his amour Pierre, the other for the the theft of a song. Colombe’s baby had become colicky, and her unhappy wailing disturbed many a night’s sleep, defying everyone’s best efforts to comfort her, and causing Marc-Antoine much grief and pain at the distress of his godchild.

  Reynolds had worked hard to ingratiate himself with the troupe, regaling them in the evenings with jolly stories, flattering the women, deferring to the men. He seemed eager to study and rehearse any role Valentin assigned to him, no matter how lowly, though he was not a very accomplished actor. And he was totally incapable of improvising, having no familiarity whatever with the Italian commedia. But he had a good voice, and a fine ear for mimicry, even making a joke of the way the women pronounced his name. “Zhamie,” he would laugh, his lips pouting in imitation, “Zhamie!” stressing the soft J of the French. And Toinette would smile, her eyes shining in adoration, and take him off to bed with her. The company found him charming. Except, of course, the poor hapless Joseph. And Ninon and Chanteclair would exchange knowing glances, wondering when the man’s mask of bonhomie would slip.

  Ninon enjoyed the nighttimes most. Valentin, with a great show of yawning and stretching, would excuse himself early, pulling her along with him. He had denied himself the company of a woman for such a very long time; now he brought an exuberance, a joyousness to the bedchamber that Ninon found wonderful and touching. He was boyish and playful on some nights, making her laugh even as he made love to her. Sometimes he would tease her, his hands and lips rousing her body until she writhed in torment and pulled him down to her, her fingers tangled in his hair, her hips thrusting to meet his. At times he would be angry, hot, passionate, taking her with an intensity that left her breathless. And sometimes, his eyes misty and faraway in the light of the dim candle, he would love her gently, until she thought she could see in his face the man he had been, before he donned the name and demeanor of Sanscoeur, the heartless one.

  She had not thought a man’s body could bring her such pleasure. Would it have been so with Philippe? she wondered, and cursed herself for having denied him.

  They arrived at last at the château of the Marquis de Brinon, a sprawling estate just outside Vézelay. They were received warmly, the marquis being delighted to have a strolling troupe for his festivities, particularly one recommended by the celebrated Monsieur Molière. Would they play for him Roger and Bradamante? A charming pastoral, perhaps? A farce or two that he would name? If they did not have the books, he himself would provide them—and the scribe to make copies for all the players. They would have eight days to rehearse before the presentations, during which time he invited them to consider themselves guests in his château (though their quarters were little better than the servants’), and to enjoy the dances and balls he had arranged to while away the long evenings. Valentin, still uneasy about the boy Pierre, took the occasion to pull the lad aside, out of Marc-Antoine’s hearing, and warn him that if there was any thieving, he would pay for it with his hide, and not even Ninon could save him.

  Colombe was in her glory. The marquis had several brothers and cousins who had come to visit; they vied with one another to woo her, bringing her gifts and reciting poetry, praising her beauty to the skies. More wonderful still was the news that the baby boy—whose birth had occasioned all these festivities—was only a little thing, and barely able to deplete the milk of the nurses who had been hired to suckle him. They were happy to feed Marie-Anne when Colombe was too busy to be bothered.

  Madame de Brinon had taken a fancy to Valentin. She found a thousand excuses to hurry to their quarters, her hair freshly coiffed, her cheeks rouged. Were the beds quite comfortable? Did Monsieur Sanscoeur require a valet? Would the company—and Monsieur Sanscoeur, of course—join her and her guests at supper in the grande salle? After two days of this, Valentin began to smile tightly, his mouth a hard line, his fists clenching and unclenching with the effort at restraint. Like a man besieged by a monster, thought Ninon, feeling a spark of pity for him. He could not bear to be loved. No. He could not bear even to be admired, pursued, or sought by a woman if he saw more in her eyes than just an animal need. God save me, she thought, from ever loving him, else he would destroy me.

  She smiled warmly and slipped her arm thr
ough his. “A thousand thanks, Madame la Marquise. Val and I…” she contrived to look embarrassed, though she was not sure she could manage a blush, “…that is to say, Monsieur Sanscoeur and I…are quite content with our accommodations. You have been more than generous.” A shy laugh. “Too generous. Three coverlets, mon Dieu! I found myself turning back my side of the bed last night. It was too much. Did you find it so, Val?” Her eyes were warm and adoring.

  The marquise drew herself up stiffly. “If there should be anything further you need, you must speak to a maidservant.” She nodded her head and retreated in haste.

  Ninon dimpled up at Valentin. “She will not pursue you again, I think. You see how useful I am to you?”

  He grinned, his eyes twinkling wickedly. “Even out of bed.”

  After that, their hostess turned her attentions elsewhere, though Ninon made a point of clinging to Valentin whenever they were in company (just for insurance), earning for herself an unexpected bonus. The male guests at the château reluctantly kept their distance from her, contenting themselves with longing looks and discreet sighs.

  Despite the lengthening nights and the leaves that turned color and fell silently, the days became warm, a last dance with summer before the chill north winds should howl. They took to rehearsing out-of-doors in the great park that adjoined the château, practicing their scenes in a secluded garden next to the river Cure, where they might find a degree of privacy from the intruding guests.

  When he was not in a scene, Valentin paced about watching Reynolds, assessing his performance, his assimilation into the troupe. “No, Jamie,” he said at last. “I care not what you have done before. You must not intone the Alexandrine verses in a singsong voice. Run one verse into another, with a naturalness and flow, so it may seem prose. This stopping at the end of each line, at each caesura, is an old convention, and one that, I trust, is dying out.”

  “Of course, Valentin. I thank you. I should never have noted it myself. And you are indeed wise. I mark how the verses flow from you so naturally that, having heard them a hundred times before, I am still moved to weep.”

  Valentin was clearly pleased.

  “I thank you! Oh, and one other thing…”

  “You have only to name it, Val.”

  “When you move across the stage…in that last scene…you are to wait for Toinette to hand you your sword. Had you forgot?”

  “An oversight, Val. Mea culpa. Toinette seemed…ahem…ill disposed to hand it to me. But I shall not forget the next time. I promise you.”

  Valentin’s brow darkened. “What do you mean, ‘ill disposed’? Toinette? Are you, or are you not, to hand Jamie the sword?”

  Toinette looked flustered. “I…that is…I did not think James would take it from me…he looked…oh!” She burst into tears and ran to hide herself behind a small hedge.

  “Toinette!” said Valentin, his voice rising.

  “Let her go, mon ami,” said Chanteclair, stepping up to Sanscoeur. “We have been at this for hours. I, for one, am starving! Can you not dispatch Pierre to the château to have them bring us some dinner here in the garden?”

  There were murmurs of agreement from the others, and Pierre was soon sent on his way. While Valentin discussed a point of business with Sébastien, Chanteclair spread his cloak upon the ground and made room for Ninon to sit beside him. He frowned. “Did you notice? Toinette called him ‘James.’ No more the sweet ‘Zhamie’?”

  “He’s a devil. She was in tears this morning. He was very charming, I understand, but he was through with her. I know not what he said, but it must have been a skillful plot he wove. She believes that she is to blame.”

  “Damn! And how is Joseph to fight him? Were I Valentin, with his height and skills, I would hesitate to challenge that giant, Reynolds.”

  Ninon shook her head. “On what grounds can he be challenged? He didn’t rape the girl, force her against her will. She’ll get no sympathy from the others. What was it Valentin said? She has been wooed before.” She indicated Joseph, who had seated himself on a bench with Marc-Antoine, and was now engaged in a lively conversation, though his eyes strayed repeatedly to where Toinette still wept. “Sweet Madonna! I’d like to take him by the collar and march him over to dry Toinette’s tears!”

  Chanteclair laughed. “I thought, with Valentin as a lover, you had learned more about a man’s pride than that! Give poor Joseph a few days to pull himself together. In his present angry state, he would be less than gentle to Toinette.”

  Ninon eyed him curiously. It was the first time he had spoken openly of her and Valentin. She felt a momentary pang of guilt. “What could be keeping our dinner?” she said quickly.

  He looked at her, his soft brown eyes tinged with regret. “Of course I mind,” he said softly, answering the question she had not the courage to ask. “But we have a long road before us. Many days, many plays, many towns. Qui sait? Who knows?”

  She put her hand on his. “Will you take it for an insult if I say that I am grateful to have you as a friend?”

  He stirred uncomfortably, then looked up to watch the three serving maids who were coming across the grass, bearing large platters of food. “Mon Dieu, but that blond’s a handsome wench.” He rose to his feet. “You must forgive me, sweet Ninon, if I leave your company.”

  “Will you abandon me?” she asked with mock indignation.

  “If I can’t have you, I must find my pleasures where I may! Get that great oaf Valentin to dine with you. He is…Merde!” he swore.

  “What is it?”

  Chanteclair inclined his head in the direction of a small grove of trees into which Reynolds was just vanishing, a large plate of food in one hand, a smiling Hortense clinging to the other. “If it’s the last thing I do,” he muttered, “I’ll see that lecher paid in full for his mischief!”

  Brinon gave a ball that night. The actors, dressed in the gayest clothes they could dredge up from their trunks, made up in enthusiasm and beauty what they lacked in style and richness. The women were glorious. Even the normally plain Hortense managed to sparkle, her eyes shining each time Jamie bent down to whisper in her ear. Joseph and Sébastien and Chanteclair were fine-looking men, in the full bloom of manhood, and with all the grace acquired from years on the stage; Jamie and Valentin were quite the tallest and handsomest men in the room. Marc-Antoine cut a flamboyant figure; he had elected to dress in a costume from the days of King Henry IV. It was a felicitous choice. The padded doublet tended to disguise his rather ample girth, while the tight trunk-hose accented legs that were surprisingly well turned for one of his size. He wore a starched lace ruff about his neck and a braid-encrusted hat on his head, a small round headpiece that resembled nothing so much as a butter pot set upside down. A small cape was set dashingly across one shoulder, and a gilt ceremonial sword hung at his side.

  He was far better-looking, thought Ninon, than half the nobility in the galerie, many of whom had adopted the latest fashion, the one that Philippe had favored—wide, ribbon-swagged petticoat breeches and high-heeled shoes. It had looked foppish, even on her beloved Philippe, she thought, turning to admire Valentin beside her. His doublet was simple and unadorned, reaching just to his waist, with long, narrowish sleeves cuffed back. His cambric shirt was full, but not cut in so exaggerated a manner that it ballooned foolishly out from under his doublet at waist and cuffs. His wrist and neck lace was restrained, a simple scallop on plain linen bands. His knee-length breeches, though trimmed with a row of ribbon loops at the bottom, were cut straight, not extravagantly gathered and full. And his shoes were low-heeled, square-toed—sturdy and sensible. Ninon was struck by the contrast between him and the nobles in the room. He was natural and masculine. No heavy perfume, no mincing walk, no effeminate airs. It was the way she preferred to remember Philippe. Not as he had been that last night at Marival, the artificial dandy, but as the soldier, the hero, the Philippe who had come riding up to Baugin’s inn on that long-ago spring evening.

  She took pleas
ure in dancing with Valentin at the ball. He moved gracefully, guiding her about the floor through the patterns of the various dances—courantes and sarabandes and gigues. It excited her just to be in his arms. He seemed to share her mood, refusing to give her up to any man who offered to partner her, only reluctantly allowing her a stately pavane with their host, the Marquis de Brinon. If she didn’t know Valentin better, she thought ruefully, she would almost think he was jealous.

  He left her only once in the course of the evening. Hortense had been completely monopolized by Jamie. To retaliate, Sébastien had gotten quite drunk and gone off with some of the gentlemen to gamble in a private room; losing heavily, he had become rowdy and truculent. Only Valentin’s intercession saved him from a horsewhipping at the hands of the vicomte he had insulted, for the gentleman refused to lower himself by dueling with a vagabond. With many apologies for their drunken comrade (which seemed to appease the vicomte as well as the Marquis de Brinon), the actors bundled Sébastien off to his room.

  They danced until well past midnight. By the time they made their way to their chambers, Ninon was intoxicated—with the wine, with the joy of dancing, with the feeling of Valentin’s strong arms about her waist. She pulled off her red velvet gown with impatient hands, breathing a sigh of relief to be released from the boned and confining bodice, and left her clothes in a heap upon the floor. Stripped naked, she danced about the room while Valentin sat on the bed to remove his shoes and stockings, watching her with amusement. In a leisurely manner he untied his falling band—the separate lace-trimmed collar—and pulled off his cuffs, carefully putting them away in their own pasteboard bandbox so they would not crease. He stood up and shrugged out of his doublet, brushing away a few bits of lint before folding the garment across the back of a chair.