Dreams So Fleeting

by Sylvia Halliday

  He laughed at that. “And so we are! But at least we don’t pretend to piety, as others do.” He hesitated, looking almost embarrassed, and fished in the pocket of his breeches. “I…I had bought you a little bauble some days ago. I had meant to present it after the performance tonight, but…” He held out a small package to her, his eyes cast down, unable to look at her.

  It was too intimate a moment for him to endure. She could only save him by making a joke. “But you preferred my performance of last night?” she said lightly, and was pleased to see the relief that washed over his face. She opened the packet, exclaiming in delight at the earrings within, crafted of polished coral beads, a treasure from the New World that was more valued than diamonds in fashionable society. She jumped up from her chair and hurried around to kiss him ardently, touched by his unexpected show of kindness.

  “Grandmère” cackled behind them. “Shall I go away, children, and return when you have quite finished your silly business?”

  “Chanteclair, you ass,” said Valentin good-naturedly, “sit you down and eat your breakfast.”

  Chanteclair reached for a slab of bread, his face wreathed in a great smile. “In truth, I am famished!”

  “Too much toil with your blond last night?”

  “Valentin!” chided Ninon, returning to her seat.

  Chanteclair took a long swig of wine. “No. As a matter of fact I…ahem…had another profession besides lover last night!”

  “It must have brought you much satisfaction. I can scarce remember your grinning like such a great looby this early in the morning.”

  “Indeed it did! Great satisfaction.”

  “Well? Must we play ‘Questions and Commands’ with you? Or will you tell of your own free will?”

  “If I must.” Chanteclair sighed, though the look on his face made it clear he would not have been stilled by Armageddon. “To begin, I should explain to Ninon about Sébastien. He was, before he joined our band of strollers, an operator, a mountebank, a sometime player who made his living by selling nostrums and cures, illustrating the evils of disease with little playlets that he and Hortense performed. He was a successful operator, I am given to believe, until the wife of a fusilier to the intendant of Limousin Province—thinking that if one draft of his potion would make her beautiful then two would make her irresistible—nearly died.”

  “Great heaven,” murmured Ninon.

  “Yes. Be that as it may, Sébastien has kept his trunk of remedies, as against his possible falling-out with our company.”

  “What has this to do with your idiotic smile this morning?” Valentin said impatiently. “Did you find an aphrodisiac among his nostrums?”

  “Au contraire, my friend. You might say I…that is, we—Joseph, Sébastien, and I—found a few lust quenchers amongst his miraculous cures.”

  “And what was your other profession? Panderer?”

  Chanteclair thought about it for a moment. “Doctor…and actor.”

  “All three of you?”

  “All three of us. Fortunately, our sweet ‘Zhamie’ has no knowledge of the Italian theater. We played that old chestnut The Clever Doctor by Bartoli.”

  “Good God! When?”

  “At dawn.”

  “Sweet Jesu! ’Tis like pulling teeth! Tell your story before I beat it out of you!”

  “Well then…know you that Jamie, unable to lure the baron’s daughter into bed last night, was temporarily without a beneficiary of his rather excessive charms. He drank heavily and went to sleep betimes, managing only to get as far as removing his doublet and shoes and stockings. It must have been on to two or three in the morning that Joseph and I, happening at the same time to weary of our labors, came out here to the sitting room for a little wine to quench our heat.” Chanteclair leaned back in his chair and scratched his chin. “It seems rather odd that Sébastien, who had spent a solitary evening, was here satisfying the same thirst, but that’s neither here nor there. One thing led to another—self-righteousness thrives and flowers in the middle of the night—and our plan was hatched. Sébastien fetched out various medicines and pills and cures from his trunk, and we set to work.”

  “Playing The Clever Doctor.”

  “Yes. But first it was necessary to create the malady. Sébastien has a most remarkable ointment which, when put on the skin, presently begins to raise little welts that grow anon to large, itching welts! Thanks to Jamie’s overindulgence at the punchbowl, he did not feel the gentle brush strokes, and we were able to paint every bit of flesh that was not covered—face and neck, hands and feet, his stockingless legs, and even a large patch of chest where his shirt had fallen open. We waited until the itching had begun to disturb his sleep, and then we raised the curtain.”

  Valentin began to laugh. “What was the list in the play? La gale—scabies, la téigne—ringworm…I’ve forgotten the rest.”

  “No matter. We began with la gale. Poor Jamie awoke itching, to find the three of us shaking our heads in despair over his spotted body. We did the whole scene, just as it is written. Mon Dieu, what a gullible fool he is! We moved on to la téigne, then rougeole, measles, and finally vérole, the pox! We quite convinced him if one disease did not kill him, the others would. When at last he was babbling in terror, we held out a crumb of hope. He must put himself in our hands, and trust to our knowledge of these matters. If treated in time, the maladies might be driven out. In order to keep him from contaminating the rest of the household, we told him, we proposed to effect his cure in the great park, near the river. We hurried him thence, by the light of the dawn, which revealed to him the size and extent of his welts, and only increased his willingness to trust us.”

  Ninon smothered a giggle. “I’m not sure I want to hear the whole story.”

  “Oh, but you must! It gets better. We began with an ingestion of mercury. Even he knew it’s an honest cure for the pox. He sweated violently, flushed, turned pale, and then began to vomit. While this is adoing, we are consulting.”

  “Sweet Jesu,” gasped Valentin. “Act two.”

  “Yes. The scene that begins: ‘I fear the man is near to bursting!’ And the good doctor fetches his clyster.”

  “You didn’t!” said Ninon.

  “Indeed we did. We bent him over a fallen log, pulled down his breeches, and administered to his inward parts. When the poor devil had been thoroughly purged at both ends, we stripped him naked and threw him into the river, claiming still to see lingering traces of the disease. The river, we said, would leach out the poisons. We kept him there until he was blue from the cold, and then hauled him out, shivering. By this time the effects of the ointment were beginning to wear off.”

  “Then you were not able to play act three.”

  “Oh yes. There were still enough spots remaining to finish the play. We must drive out the last of the evil humors, we said, and rouse his sluggish blood. We went on a hunt for lime trees—assuring him in all solemnity that lime twigs were the only effective remedy—thrashed him soundly with bundles of the branches, and pronounced him cured. For which he could not express enough gratitude!”

  “Oh, you villains,” said Ninon, hardly able to control her laughter.

  “Yes,” said Chanteclair grimly. “And never was a man more deserving of such villainy.” He stretched and yawned, putting down his empty cup. “And now, if you’ll forgive me…I have not slept all night. I trust you will not rehearse today, Val.”

  “Only a little, perhaps, before our performance. Monsieur de Brinon has asked us to begin at eight of the clock. He has, I think, planned on illuminations and a light repast at midnight.” Valentin laughed. “And I doubt if Jamie will wish to rehearse.”

  “Well, then, I’m off to find my rest, joining my medical colleagues, who are already sleeping soundly.” Chanteclair nodded in satisfaction and left them.

  He had barely gone out one door when Reynolds tottered in through another, moving unsteadily to the table. He sank down into a chair and, hands shaking, poured out a bi
t of milk into a small bowl, lifting it to his lips and sipping tentatively at the liquid. He gulped once or twice, seeming to assess its progress to his stomach, then looked up and smiled thinly at them.

  “Jamie,” said Ninon, her voice soft with sympathy, “you look ghastly.”

  “I’m a fortunate man,” he said.

  “Fortunate? Wherefore?”

  He had the face of a martyr. “I was near to death last night, but thanks be to God…” He crossed himself piously.

  “Yes?”

  “I am free of the terrible diseases that assailed me.”

  Valentin laughed sharply. “One hopes that the only disease you ever suffered from has been cured.”

  Reynolds drew himself up. “I like not your tone, sir! What disease is that? I am in no mood for joking. I have endured purges and beatings to be free of my maladies. What disease do you speak of?”

  Valentin stood up and held out his hand to Ninon, guiding her to the door that led to the stairway and the sunny day beyond. “Pernicious lechery, monsieur,” he said. “Pernicious lechery.” And left a bewildered Reynolds to ponder and doubt.

  They performed well that evening. Jamie, in a gray wig, acquitted himself well enough in Gaston’s roles, though he was uncharacteristically subdued and humble before the members of the troupe. Hortense, pride in hand, made overtures to Sébastien between the acts, and as they waited in the wings to go on; by the time they had finished Roger et Bradamante and were starting the farce, it was clear he would forgive her. Colombe was not at her best. Looking extraordinarily beautiful, she was nonetheless distracted from her parts by her admirers who whispered and waved throughout the evening.

  But Ninon, glowing in her armor, had never acted more fervently. There was much weeping and sighing among both the men and the women. And when she appeared as the pert maid in the farce, the spectators were charmed.

  At the end, Valentin (though with great reluctance) delivered an epilogue heavily larded with effusive tributes to Monsieur and Madame de Brinon and their son and heir, managing to mention every distinguished branch of their family tree. Chanteclair, who had written the shameless flummery, grinned at Ninon in satisfaction as the Marquis de Brinon stepped up upon the stage and presented Valentin with a fat purse for a tip. He returned Valentin’s compliments and praised the company’s skill, inviting them to join him and his guests for supper and the illuminations as soon as they had changed out of their costumes and removed their makeup.

  Ninon had only to slip into her velvet gown and pat at her curls; Valentin, with half a pound of white lead on his face (and a purse of coins to be counted with Chanteclair), urged her to go on to the grande salle, where he would join her. Hurrying along the passageway, she was surprised when the Marquis de Brinon stepped out of the shadows.

  “Madame Guillemot,” he said.

  She curtsied. “Monsieur le Marquis.”

  He cleared his throat. “I did not wish to offend Madame Linard and the others by telling you before the whole company how charming you were, how sparkling your performance.”

  “That was kind of you. We actresses…alas!…are jealous creatures.”

  “I cannot believe that you are jealous. But then, you have no need to be. When you are upon the stage, you eclipse all the rest! Your beauty sets my heart to pounding in my breast, and I am transported.”

  “Monsieur!” She laughed brightly. “I have not been so flattered in many an age. You will quite turn my head!”

  “I’m not a young gallant at the Louvre Palace,” he burst out, “wooing a silly courtesan with words! I desire you!”

  She fell back a step, hand to her bosom. What could she possibly say to him? She had had admirers before: she had managed to flatter them and stay out of their beds at the same time. But never one so blunt in his words, never one whose disfavor at this moment could mean their ruin. She decided that honesty was the best defense.

  “I’m touched and moved beyond measure,” she said gently. “But you would not want me. My heart is long since given.” Oh, Philippe. Dearest Philippe.

  He frowned, his glance wavering in indecision. He could force the girl, he knew. Seduce her with his wealth. A hollow seduction. His shoulders sagged in disappointment. “He is a fortunate young man, your Monsieur Valentin.”

  “No. You are fortunate. You have a lovely wife who has presented you with a son, and you have a home, a title, a place where you belong. You need not be a gypsy, wandering about the countryside, searching for tranquillity and ease. You have it here.”

  “Take this,” he said. He reached for her hand and slipped a gold and ruby bracelet over her slim wrist.

  “Sweet Madonna, I cannot!”

  “Please. ’Tis not a bribe, a payment for expected favors. ’Tis a gift, merely, for a charming young woman who touched my heart for a little.” He smiled as she reluctantly returned the bracelet to her wrist. “Will you dance with me tonight?”

  “No.” Her voice was tender with pity. “When I’ve gone, you’ll laugh at your foolish infatuation, and smile at your dear wife—and wonder what you ever saw in that silly actress.”

  He lifted her fingers and kissed her hand. “You should have been born to nobility. Wear my bracelet, at least.” Smiling, he offered her his arm and escorted her up a broad staircase to the grande salle. It glittered with the glow of a thousand candles, their flickering light dancing on fine crystal goblets and silver platters piled high with all manner of delectable foods and exotic dishes. The assembled guests fell to with a will, and none more so than the actors, who knew that they would not soon again encounter such a feast on the hard road they traveled. Smiling with delight, Ninon pointed to one dish and then another, urging Valentin to try the artichokes, Marc-Antoine to compare this wine to that, Chanteclair to sample the spit-roasted songbirds and sugar cakes.

  All hugs and kisses and tender sighs, Sébastien and Hortense came late to the party, and spent more time holding hands than eating. But by Hortense’s reluctance to sit down all evening, Ninon suspected she had paid for her temporary infidelity with more than just remorse.

  At last Monsieur de Brinon announced that—if his guests would be so kind as to follow him into the park—there would be illuminations and fireworks that had been brought straight from Paris to celebrate this happy event. The garden was like a wonderland. Small candles set in the grass lined the gravel paths that wound in among the trees, and every pond was afloat with lights set into wooden holders carved to resemble water lilies. The trees themselves were hung with candle-filled paper lanterns of orange and yellow and green, so the groves seemed like magical orchards of exotic fruit. Beyond a large reflecting pool, Catherine wheels had been set up, giant pinwheels that spun wildly, their spiral arms shooting off streamers of fire, the whole dazzling display mirrored in the still water. With a great explosion, the sky was filled with rockets of all colors, bursting like giant blossoms against the velvet of the night.

  Ninon gasped with delight and clutched Valentin’s arm, smiling up at him. By the light of the fireworks, she could see the crease in his brow.

  “By the by,” he said, when there was a lull in the rocket bursts, “I meant to ask you. Where did you get the bracelet?”

  “From Monsieur de Brinon.”

  “You will please to give it back.”

  “Indeed I shall not.”

  His hand tightened on her elbow. Without a word he steered her away from the guests to a small stand of trees at some distance from the fireworks.

  “You’re hurting my arm, Valentin. Let me go!” Angrily she shook free of his grasp.

  “You will give back the bracelet!”

  “Damn you! And I say I shall not!”

  “You’re an obstinate woman! Must I take it from you and return it myself?”

  “And you’re a pigheaded fool! Firstly, it would be madness to insult Monsieur le Marquis. His kindness could turn to malevolence anytime he chose, and we would be grateful to leave here with just the clothes on ou
r backs. I wonder you have survived this long if you cannot tell the difference between us and the nobility. They have every right, and we have none! Sweet Madonna, I could tell you stories…” She sighed, remembering the rise and fall of her own and her mother’s fortunes, dependent on the whims of the aristocracy. “And then, we can sell the bracelet as soon as we leave here. With winter coming on, there will be hard times for us. Money is scarce, people are reluctant to go out-of-doors—even to see a play—and if the winter snows trap us in one village, how shall we live? Oh, Valentin, how can you be so blind?”

  “I like it not,” he growled. “That man fawning over you while you smile at him! I wanted to break his head when he danced with you the other night.”

  “Why such a to-do? There have been other admirers who fawned. I have smiled falsely many a time, and will do so again—aye, and dance too, if I must.”

  “But no one has given you a gift ere now.” His eyes glittered in the light of a rocket. “Did you prefer his gift to mine?”

  “Don’t be an ass, Valentin.”

  “Have you promised him favors for his gift?”

  “I cannot believe what I am hearing!”

  “Have you?” His hands gripped her tightly, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her shoulders.

  “Would you care to guard the door of our bedchamber tonight, to see that he does not enter?”

  “I know what I’d like to do! I’d like to beat you to keep you from dancing from man to man! First Jamie, and now the marquis!”

  She drew herself up coldly. “I don’t remember that fidelity was part of our agreement! I agreed to share your bed. I did not give you sole claim to me.”

  “Whore!”

  “So be it!” she spat. “You think it every moment! Then say it aloud if you wish. If it helps you to feel superior to a woman, say it and be damned!” She broke free of his hands and turned toward the château. Then she stopped and looked at him over her shoulder, her voice heavy with malice. “You had best stay on your side of the bed tonight. And do not sleep too soundly, lest you miss this whore’s goings and comings in the night!” She tossed her curls in anger and strode away into the darkness, while behind her the sky exploded with brilliant color.