Dreams So Fleeting

by Sylvia Halliday

  Marc-Antoine brushed away a tear. “I have missed our duets, my friend,” he choked, and clasped the proffered hand.

  “But how did this happen?” asked Valentin. “We heard no sound from your room.”

  Marc-Antoine laughed sadly. “Was ever a greater fool than I? Colombe was right. I am useless. I had not the sense to be grateful that he was gone, but must go running out into the rain to beg him to return. He acquitted himself well with his fists…” He gasped in pain and clutched at his side. “His shoes did even better work.”

  Toinette began to weep openly, sniffling and wiping at her face. “I’ll see if the landlord has stronger spirits to drink,” she said.

  “What can be keeping the surgeon?” Chanteclair peered out the window at the black night.

  Valentin pounded his fist on the table. “I want to go after the bastard!”

  Marc-Antoine shook his head. “No. He will be hiding in the village until we go. He has friends here. I know not who, but they will protect him.”

  Sébastien looked at Val. “Why can’t we go to the provost and have him search the village until Pierre is found?”

  “Because we are nothing in the eyes of the law,” said Ninon simply. “It’s not as though a nobleman had been robbed and assaulted.”

  “Indeed,” said Chanteclair, turning from the window. “I am minded of an actress I knew once. Her husband had been killed in a brawl. They knew who did the murder. At the inquest, the coroner asked if she would have him issue a warrant to take up the murderer. She wished to see justice done, of course, but she had not enough money to prosecute the case, so she declined to have the coroner issue his warrant.” He looked up in relief as the door opened. “At last. Here’s the surgeon.”

  It took several hours for the surgeon’s work to be done. He stitched up the cut on Marc-Antoine’s face, bound up his ribs, several of which seemed broken, and bled him at the site of the more serious bruises, to relieve the pressure. One hand had been stomped on, but, although there were cuts on the knuckles, no bones were broken. He gave Marc-Antoine a narcotic to make him sleep, collected his fee from the grateful players, and went his way.

  It was decided that Marc-Antoine should not be moved from the room. Valentin would sleep with him, and a cot was brought in for Ninon. Between the two of them, he would be constantly tended, lest he take a fever from his wounds.

  Ninon sighed. “You sleep first, Valentin,” she said. “I’ll sit and watch him.”

  “No. I’m not tired.”

  “Nor am I.” She sat down on Val’s lap, resting her head on his shoulder. “Poor Marc-Antoine.”

  He laughed ruefully. “You were the one who trusted that little devil.”

  “I didn’t trust him. I trust no one. But Marc-Antoine loved him. Foolishly, to be sure, but…”

  “The poets who write of the joy of love have never known love.” He stared with desolate eyes into the fire, his face ravaged by some terrible grief.

  Ninon exhausted herself during the following week, tending to Marc-Antoine, and Colombe’s baby as well, since Marc-Antoine had long since taken on the chore of nursemaid. Hortense helped, but Toinette was useless, unable to watch Marc-Antoine’s pain or hear Marie-Anne cry.

  At last Marc-Antoine was well enough to return to his own room, and Ninon and Val could share their bed again. Ninon felt a certain anxiety as the company bade them good night and left them alone. Valentin had been strangely moody all week, watching her with Marc-Antoine, with the baby. At first she had blamed his strangeness on their enforced celibacy—but now she was not so sure.

  He was a thoughtful lover this night, determined—it seemed—to bring her to climax long before he himself was satisfied. And at the very moment of his own satisfaction, he withdrew, spilling his seed harmlessly on the bed between her legs. She thought at first it might have been an accident, and said nothing. But the following night he made love to her in the same way, concerned with her pleasure before his own. This time, suspecting his design, she was ready for him. She waited until his thrusts became hard and rapid, and she knew he would withdraw in a moment.

  “No!” she cried, wrapping her legs around him so he could not break away.

  He gasped in surprise, unable to hold back; his body shuddered again and again with the force of his passion, and then was stilled. “Damn you!” he panted at last. “Why did you do that?”

  “Why did you do what you did last night? And would have again, had I not prevented it.”

  “I had my reasons.”

  “No! ’Twas not part of our agreement that you should deny yourself.”

  “And if something should happen?”

  “What will be, will be. You are late coming to the thought, Monsieur Heartless. A pang of conscience, mayhap?”

  He sat up and glared at her. “Only a sudden awareness of my own folly.”

  “I shall inform you if there is anything you must know,” she said sharply.

  “So be it!” He pulled her to him and crushed her mouth with his, and this time when he made love to her there was no holding back.

  Afterward, nestled in the crook of his arm while he slept soundly, she fought back her tears. He had not even considered the possibility of a child until he had watched her with Marie-Anne. And then the thought had obviously been so abhorrent to him that he was willing to diminish his own pleasure to avoid that eventuality. The child as accomplice of hated woman. She was glad now she had not told him what she had known for a week now. Best to wait until her belly had grown to a size she could not deny to him. The child would not be born until the beginning of summer, by her reckoning. There would be time enough to tell him, and face his displeasure and rage.

  She slept poorly, angry with him, with her own cowardice in keeping silent, with the thoughts that churned in her brain. Somewhere along the way she had lost the path of her life, the orderly dreams of her childhood. Even in the dark days with Baugin she had kept her own vision of the future—the Prince Charming, the home, the family, the love. Now she was a leaf adrift, wondering where the current would take her.

  At first light she slipped out of bed and dressed quietly, wrapping a warm shawl about her shoulders. The day was crisp and cold, the grass behind the inn white with light frost. She hauled up a bucket of water from the well and washed her face, drying herself quickly with her petticoat. Taking the dipper from its hook, she ladled out a bit of the water to drink, then emptied the rest of the bucket onto the grass and lowered it back into the well. In the stableyard a horse nickered. She sat on the edge of the well, gazing into its depths as though she would find answers there.

  There was a crackling laugh behind her. “’Tis not a wishing well, you silly child!” said “Grandmère’s” voice.

  She smiled without turning. “I shouldn’t know what to wish for, if it were, Grandmère.”

  “You might wish for a little less pride and unpleasantness from Valentin, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Indeed. He has not lost his dislike of womankind. It’s very hard to stay with him sometimes.”

  “But you are not womankind—you’re Ninon!”

  She turned to him, her face twisted with dismay. “It would be nice to know, sometimes, if he liked Ninon!”

  “Are you happy?” he said in his own voice, the brown eyes warm with concern.

  “Dear Chanteclair,” she said, pressing his fingers with her own. “I stopped asking for happiness when I was still a child.” She smiled ruefully. “But…he’s a comfort, in his way.”

  “As are you to him.”

  “No. Say rather ‘convenience.’ I’m his unpaid whore, that’s all.”

  “If it was convenience he had wanted, he could have found it long since with Colombe. Or any of the dozens of women who sighed for him. And you see his moods. He is not nearly so morose as he was.”

  “Ha! A man who has denied himself for…what was it? Two years?”

  “Two and a half, with only an occasional woman.”

  “W
ell then. A man like that…why shouldn’t his mood be brighter now?”

  Chanteclair shook his head. “You did not see him when he came to the company. For a time I feared he would do himself harm. I think you have reached a part of him no one else has.”

  She frowned. What did she care? She had her own griefs. She didn’t want to know, didn’t want to care about that difficult man. They had an agreement. Bed partners. Damn the man, that’s all he was to her—she wished to be no more than that to him. She stirred uncomfortably, disliking Chanteclair’s searching gaze, then laughed, her voice harsh and brittle in the still morning air. “I saved a kitten from drowning once. And Pierre from a beating. It seems to be in my nature to succor the needy. If I become a saint, will Valentin be my first miracle? My first Lazarus, raised from the dead?” She turned to the inn, leaving a surprised Chanteclair to shake his head in disbelief.

  November the eleventh was Saint Martin’s Day. One of the patron saints of France, he had been the bishop of Tours more than a thousand years before. One of his legends had it that, bothered by a goose, he had killed it and had it cooked for his dinner. He had choked on it and died, and it had become the custom throughout the land to eat goose as a sacrifice to Saint Martin each year on his day. For peasants who had not seen meat on their tables for months, it was a day of gorging, of feasting until they could not eat another mouthful. They might starve by January or February if the winter was severe and they had not enough money or foodstuffs to see them through to spring planting, but they took their pleasures where they might, trusting in the will of God. And if the Church sanctioned a feast for Saint Martin, they were willing to mortgage their futures.

  The rich bourgeoisie and the nobility saw Saint Martin’s fête as an occasion for rejoicing, before the abstemious weeks of Advent ushered in the season of the Christ child. There was much gaiety, visits between old friends, reunions of distant relatives.

  And the merrymaking was never better than in the cities. The Peerless Theatre Company, remembering the hospitality and friendliness of Bourges in the summertime, determined to spend the weeks before and after Saint Martin’s Day in that fine old city. After their stay, they would move on to Cosnes by way of Sancerre; Joseph had an uncle at Cosnes who would be willing to be their host during Advent, which was celebrated like another Lent. There were too many fast days and days of abstinence during Advent for them to have much success as players, but at least they would not be paying for their own board until after Christmas.

  Bourges was an ancient city, partly surrounded by a thick wall surmounted with imposing towers, the whole enclosing a city of meandering streets that led to a magnificent cathedral. Larger, they said, even than the great Notre Dame de Paris.

  They reached their inn as night was falling. La Grasse Nourrice, The Fat Nurse, was attested to by the carving over the main door, a robust woman with large, naked breasts. They had stayed there before and found the food good and the beds clean; they looked forward to dining on a fat goose on Saint Martin’s Day.

  But the inn was very crowded because of the influx of visitors to the town; only Valentin and Ninon were able to share their usual room. For the rest, the women were in one room with Marie-Anne, and the five men, distributed among two beds and a small cot, had another room. Colombe, having grown quite attached to Jamie, complained bitterly, but there was nothing to be done. The rest of the inn had been usurped by two noblemen, a marquis and a duc, half a dozen of their men-at-arms, and two servants.

  The troupe quickly obtained the necessary permits and contracted for the theater for several weeks, playing on the best days, Tuesdays, Fridays, and Sundays. It was a large and airy building, with a roomy parterre and a double gallery; if they could fill it at every performance, they would have fat purses to see them through the lean months. Even the weather was in their favor, a sudden warm spell so typical for November that the people called it “Saint Martin’s Summer.”

  Their audiences were boisterous but friendly. There was not an afternoon that a score of rendezvous were not arranged among the spectators—a few harmless flirtations, a surreptitious meeting or two. And one day the actors were treated to a cat fight, with shrieks and pulling of hair and torn gowns, as two women in the second gallery fought over the same seat. The actors were encouraged to come down from the stage after each performance to mingle with the audience in the pit and the galleries. Ninon was not sure which she preferred. The men in the crowded pit—soldiers, bourgeoisie, lesser nobility—were more unruly, but treated the actresses with a certain deferential respect; the haughty gentlemen in the galleries were not as apt to pinch a bottom in the jostling throng, but Ninon found their suggestions and invitations—clothed in flowery language—to be lewd and offensive.

  After a particularly coarse remark from a fat cavalier in the gallery, she had had enough. She pushed her way to the staircase that would lead her down to the edge of the parterre and thence to the stage. She would wait in the changing room until the house had cleared a little. She had barely started down the staircase, however, when her way was blocked by an extravagantly dressed nobleman, all ribbons and laces, from the frill of lace on his sugarloaf hat, to the ribbon loops and cocardes that trimmed the sides and hems of his full breeches, to the lace boot hose that spilled out over the tops of his bucket boots.

  “Upon my word,” he said, sniffing delicately at the silver filigree ball that hung at his waist. These musk balls were much in favor because of the everpresent danger of plague; filled with myrrh, cloves, cinnamon, and other essences, they were thought to ward off disease, or, at the very least, the smell of one’s fellows. “Upon my word,” he said again, “if you are not the sweetest morsel I have beheld all day! I saw you upon the stage and thought your beauty was paint.” His eyes lingered at her full bosom. “Is the rest of you as genuine as your face?”

  “I am as honest as God will allow, monsieur. May I pass?”

  He took another step toward her. “’Tis a toll gate, I fear. You cannot pass without paying the tariff.”

  “Which is…?”

  “A kiss, mayhap. A caress of your white bosom. Your soft hand upon the fount of my power.”

  “You ask much, monsieur.” Ninon glanced quickly about the theater, hoping to find a champion among her male comrades who might come to her aid. Valentin was surrounded by fawning women who clutched at his sleeves and gazed adoringly into his dark eyes. Chanteclair had found a pretty young noblewoman in the upper gallery, and was talking with great animation while she blushed and giggled and hid her face with her fan. Joseph seemed deep in conversation with an elderly gentleman, and the rest of the men were not to be found. She glanced behind her. Already the top of the staircase was crowded with coxcombs and rake-hells; it would be more dangerous to run that gauntlet than to try to reach the bottom of the stairs. She dimpled winningly at her tormentor. “Will a smile satisfy you, monsieur?”

  “No,” he said, and took another step up toward her.

  She took a deep breath. There was no sense in fencing with this dandified rogue. He meant to take what he could. She drew herself up, playing the queen, and extended her hand. “I give you leave to kiss my fingertips. Anything more and I shall scream and accuse you of all manner of foul and unnatural behavior. I suspect that there are at least a dozen gallants here who would willingly defend me.”

  “Ma foi!” He burst into laughter. “But you’re a devilish wench! Very well. I’ll be content with my kiss.” He brought her fingers to his lips. “Are you staying in Bourges?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I take you to supper?”

  “Not tonight, alas.”

  “Tomorrow?” he asked. She shrugged her shoulders in helpless indecision (a trick she had found handy with her admirers—they could not accuse her of refusing, but they could not claim that she had agreed either). “Where are you staying?” he asked.

  She hesitated. “Hôtel de la Grasse Nourrice,” she said at last.

  “But so am I! I
knew there were actors as guests, but the only woman I saw was the plain one.”

  Ninon smiled. “And you are one of the gentlemen who have taken the best rooms? The ones the maids say sleep all day and whore all night?”

  “You have a cruel tongue,” he said, laughing. He swept off his fancy hat and bowed elaborately to her. “René, Marquis de Garouffière. Your humble servant.”

  She curtsied as well as she was able on the narrow staircase. “Madame Ninon Guillemot. Now, if you please, monsieur, may I pass?”

  He stepped aside. “We shall meet again, ma belle, at The Fat Nurse. I promise you that. In the dark of night, perhaps.”

  “Take care, monsieur. I sleep with a sturdy weapon in the bed next to me.”

  “And what is that, madame?”

  She smiled sweetly. “My husband.” She swept past him and hurried to find Valentin, if only to warn him that he must call her wife so long as Monsieur de Garouffière stayed at the inn.

  “No, no, Joseph, you are still too awkward. I have seen you dance the galop with more grace.” Valentin tucked his tin sword under his arm and rolled up his sleeves, then turned again to Joseph. “Now. En garde. And remember to move lightly as we fence.”

  Joseph squinted up at the morning sun, then moved around on the grass so the sun would be shining in Valentin’s eyes. “I shall never be as good as you, Val,” he grumbled.

  Sébastien laughed. “You’re not supposed to kill him, mon Dieu! Just so you look well matched upon the stage.”

  Ninon looked up from her sewing and giggled. They were all assembled in the garden of the inn. All except Chanteclair, who was busy in pursuit of the young lady he had met at the theater some days before. Ninon was mending a bit of Valentin’s costume before the day’s performance. “Yes, Joseph. Don’t kill him,” she said. “I would not be widowed so soon!”

  There was general laughter at this, all the company (save the dour Valentin, of course) having found Ninon’s deception of Monsieur de Garouffière a source of merriment. As for the marquis—despite Ninon’s supposed wedded state, he had stalked her with such persistence since their first meeting that it was all she could do to keep Valentin from flying into a rage and attacking the man.