Dreams So Fleeting

by Sylvia Halliday

  While Valentin went on with his fencing lesson, and the other actors rehearsed their lines and business, Ninon bent again to her sewing. She would be glad to leave Bourges. They had feasted well on Saint Martin’s Day, and the visitors to the town were beginning to disperse; there was no reason to remain much longer. And the sooner she could get away from Garouffière, the happier she would be. She did not like feeling uneasy each time she was alone in a room or the garden of the inn. He was a lecherous man. A dangerous man. She looked up from her work. The Marquis de Garouffière was coming out of the inn toward them, sniffing daintily at a lace handkerchief.

  “Upon my word,” he said, addressing himself to Valentin. “You fence as well. I had seen you upon the stage, monsieur. I thought you were only good for attracting the sighs of the women—and marrying the prettiest of the lot.”

  Valentin parried Joseph’s thrust, then turned to Garouffière and bowed. “No. As you can see, we must also be adept at turning aside the treacherous attack.”

  “And defending what is yours?”

  “If need be.”

  “But this is just a boy,” said Garouffière, indicating Joseph with an airy wave of his fingers. “Can you draw your sword against a man?”

  “If there is a man to be found,” snapped Valentin.

  Garouffière stiffened, then allowed his mouth to curve upward in an ugly smile. “Come. What say you, monsieur, to a match? The training of a gentleman as against the training of an actor, a wandering rogue.”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  “Not with that stage sword, of course. I prefer the heft of a true rapier.”

  “I am agreeable.”

  Ninon motioned Sébastien to her side. “Nom de Dieu!” she whispered. “Stop them!”

  “I cannot! Valentin is set upon his course. And they mean only to test each other’s skills.”

  Ninon bit her lip in dismay. She was not so sure. And if they were serious, nothing good could come of it. Valentin wounded—or worse. Or Garouffière wounded, and the whole company thrown into prison. Nervously she pressed her hands together as the two men saluted each other and began.

  The marquis attacked first. Valentin turned aside his passes with ease, his rapier point deflecting a thrust that was aimed for his breast. He feinted once or twice, to gauge Garouffière’s reflexes, then leaped forward, his blade flashing. Taken by surprise, the marquis fell back a step, then closed with him, their blades crossing together up to the quillons. Valentin smiled. It would not be too difficult to disarm this popinjay. He prepared to disengage. At that moment Garouffière lifted his knee and thrust it into Valentin’s groin.

  Ninon gasped as Valentin doubled up in pain, and forced herself to stay where she was. She could not shame him by interfering.

  “Come, gentlemen!” Sébastien tried to laugh. “This is a trial of fencing skills. No more.”

  Valentin straightened up, struggling to recover himself. He took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his face. His eyes were burning. “Let it be what it is,” he growled. “With no pretense. Monsieur?” His jaw set in anger, he attacked Garouffière, who sought to defend himself against a blade that seemed to be everywhere at once. In less than a minute, the marquis’s rapier was sent flying, and he found himself with his back to a tree and Valentin’s point against his throat.

  Valentin smiled and bowed, lowering his rapier to the man’s groin. “I could return the favor, you know. If I thought there was anything there to skewer. Will you agree you were outmatched by this rogue?”

  “Pox take you. I’ll see you hang!”

  “For shame, René! You lost the match fairly.”

  They turned to see the speaker, a tall man who lolled in the doorway of the inn. It was clear by the fineness of his clothes that he was a gentleman, but with none of the flamboyance and gaudy show of Garouffière. He moved easily across the lawn and bowed to Valentin. “You must forgive my hot-headed friend, monsieur. He forgets himself. And you are a superb fencer. One can see it in a moment. I have the honor, I believe, of addressing Monsieur Sanscoeur of the Peerless Theatre?”

  “Indeed, monsieur. And you?”

  “Your fellow guest at La Grasse Nourrice. I regret we have not met until now. But…” he shrugged, “my business has kept me elsewhere. I am Charles, Duc de Boisrobert.” He turned to Garouffière. “Now, René, I suggest you shake Monsieur Sanscoeur’s hand and make your peace with him.”

  The marquis frowned. “But…”

  Cold blue eyes bored into Garouffière. “I will not have this fine company as an enemy because of your excessive pride.”

  Garouffière nodded in agreement. “So be it,” he said, and held out his hand to Valentin.

  “Now,” said Boisrobert, “I should like to meet your company, Monsieur Sanscoeur. I saw you upon the stage the other day and found your performance as a troupe to be quite remarkable. Seldom can a company boast so many fine actors and beauteous actresses.”

  Introductions were made all around, and the duc was unfailingly courteous to each of the players, recalling a clever lazzo Sébastien had done, complimenting Colombe on her playing of the tragic heroine, and envying Valentin for the freshness and beauty of his wife, Ninon.

  Recalling the hour, Valentin cut short the pleasantries, so that the company might go in to dinner before the afternoon’s performance. He slipped his arm about Ninon’s waist (to the consternation of Garouffière, who was still having difficulty hiding his animosity), and prepared to join the others.

  “A moment,” said Boisrobert. “The innkeeper tells me you are off for Sancerre the day after tomorrow. My company and I travel in that direction. I have armed men with me. They are fine protection from brigands and highwaymen. Would you permit us to accompany you?”

  “That is most kind of you. You have business in Sancerre?”

  “Yes. Garouffière and I are to do a bit of hunting. What say you?”

  Valentin hesitated. “We have a heavy wagon, a team of oxen. And we ride double. We can only slow your own journey. Thank you, Monsieur le Duc, but…”

  “You cannot think to refuse me. We’re in no hurry.” Boisrobert laughed. “I rather suspect our host would not welcome our company too soon. And I myself look forward to a verse or two, well declaimed, as we ride along. Well?”

  Valentin nodded in agreement and ushered Ninon into the inn. “I like it not,” he muttered when they were alone in the vestibule. “That treacherous Garouffière…”

  “I agree,” said Ninon. “But what are we to do? We can scarcely insult Boisrobert by refusing. And it will be safer, with his men-at-arms.” She grinned up at him, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “Is it that you have just now realized that I must remain your wife so long as we are in Garouffière’s company?”

  “You devil,” he said. “If ever I had entertained thoughts of marriage, I…” He looked up. A young man in livery stood before them. “Are you seeking the duc?” he asked.

  The servant tugged at the curl on his forehead. “No, monsieur. I seek a lady.” He looked down at the letter in his hand. “Mademoiselle…Guillemot,” he read.

  “I am she,” said Ninon, taking the letter as he offered it. Valentin peered over her shoulder. Her hand began to shake when she examined the seal. The Froissart crest. Philippe. She clutched the letter to her bosom, unable to think.

  “Is an answer expected?” Valentin growled to the lackey.

  “No, monsieur.”

  “Then be off with you.” Valentin threw him a coin and watched, his face creased in a frown, as Ninon tore open the letter. She read it through, her expression inscrutable, then folded it carefully and tucked it into her bodice.

  “If we don’t have dinner soon,” she said, “we shan’t be able to eat before the performance.” She swept past him into the common room of the inn, where the other players were already putting away a huge meal.

  She was surprised that she was capable of eating, that her appetite was not impaired—nor her skill
s upon the stage. She acted superbly, though she seemed to watch herself from afar, as in a dream. And when they returned to the inn for supper she was hungry again, and ate, and talked, and laughed—as though she were still alive.

  She urged Valentin to go to bed without her. She was not tired, she said, and would come along later. She sat in the common room, huddled close to the fire, and pulled out Philippe’s letter. Boisrobert’s servants snored on nearby benches, and the men-at-arms, bedded down on straw in the corner of the room, turned and prodded one another in their sleep. One of them stood up for a moment, looking challengingly at her before moving quickly to a cabinet where the maid had left a half-larded piece of beef. He wrapped it in a napkin and tucked it into the breast of his doublet, then returned to his straw bed beside his fellows. She shrugged her shoulders and turned away from him. She had known what it was to be hungry. What did she care if he stole? She unfolded Philippe’s letter.

  My dearest Ninon,

  You cannot imagine the grief I suffered when I discovered you were gone. I heaped curses upon you, and sent my men out to search for you. I dreamed of dragging you back, of reviling you for the misery you had caused me, of bending you to my will, whether you would or no. I confess it now to you, my love, with shame in my heart. You had hurt my pride. You had thwarted my lustful passions. And it was lust. Forgive me, my sweet. It was desire I felt, that night in the summerhouse.

  Then you were gone. I found myself recalling your sweetness, the habit you had of looking up at me as you read aloud to the boys, your shy silences. Oh, little bird. I knew then that I loved you with a love I had not thought ever to feel. My days were filled with longing, to have you by my side, to tell you of my love, to open my heart to you.

  At last my men came and told me they had learned of your whereabouts. They said you were a great actress upon the stage. I near flew to your side at that moment. My horse was saddled. My heart beat in expectation.

  But I could not come to you, for I knew in that moment that I could bring you naught but grief. Henriette will never relinquish the marriage. I could offer you only my heart and my love. It is not enough for you, my dearest Ninon. And Henriette’s malice would turn it to dust.

  And so I release you. Find a man who will love you, little bird. Who will marry you, and give you children, and the life you deserve.

  I wish you well. May God protect you.

  Forever,

  Philippe

  She threw the letter into the fire and watched it burn, and with it the last of her dreams. She crept quietly into her room, grateful that Valentin was asleep. She blew out the single candle he had left, and curled up on her side of the bed.

  And then the tears began. Great sobs that she muffled in her pillow, while her body shook with grief and she clutched her arms to her breast to still her tremors. She choked and gasped, swallowing the sounds of her misery. Valentin would never know. No one would ever know. That her life was over, her heart was dead.

  They set out the following morning for Sancerre, in the company of Monsieur le Duc de Boisrobert and his party. There was no love lost between Valentin and Garouffière, of course, but the marquis made an effort to be courteous, if not pleasant. They stayed at a country inn the first night. On the second night, arriving at Angillon, a large town some ten leagues from Sancerre, they were persuaded by the town council to stay for a few days and present a play or two. It seemed foolish to refuse: the town was willing to guarantee a large sum of money. The players urged Boisrobert to continue his journey without them, which he would willingly have done, had not one of his manservants taken a sudden fever which necessitated a stopover in the town. As they had in Bourges, they shared the inn at Angillon.

  Ninon sighed and finished the last of her supper wine. They would be leaving in the morning. Their presentation had gone well, and they had been amply paid, but the performance had taken place in a barn, under the most primitive conditions, and the whole company was exhausted and fretful. They ate largely in silence, sitting around the table in the women’s chamber. Hortense ate hardly at all, preferring to lose herself in the wine and mutter darkly about Sébastien. He had gone directly from the performance to the local tripot, whether to gamble or to whore she knew not; but she cursed him soundly for both weaknesses.

  “Valentin. Name of God. I can scarce believe it!” A gasping Sébastien stood at the door, his clothes askew, as though he had dressed hurriedly.

  Hortense looked up from her wine. “Did the slut throw you out so early?”

  “I have no time for quarrels. All of you. Listen to what I heard.” Sébastien threw himself in a chair and poured some wine, while the rest of the company gathered around the table.

  “What is it?”

  “To begin, I was with a whore tonight.” He held up a warning hand. “Hortense, hold your tongue. In the course of things, she began to tell me of a certain gentleman she had entertained last night. He was very drunk…and very talkative. It did not take me long to realize she spoke of Garouffière.”

  “That traitorous devil,” muttered Valentin.

  Sébastien laughed bitterly. “Au contraire. Hardly a traitor. A loyal subject to the king. And one of Cardinal Mazarin’s spies!”

  “Mon Dieu!”

  “And Boisrobert?”

  “The same. In truth, he is Garouffière’s superior.”

  “Why are they here?”

  Sébastien sighed. “They are searching for plotters against the crown. There are still some nobles who secretly long for the return of the Fronde movement, and would do anything to remove that despicable Italian cardinal from the side of the king.”

  “Why should that concern us?” asked Valentin.

  “Because it is presumed that a strolling company, going from town to town, has ample opportunity to serve as a conduit for messages and plots.”

  “But how foolish!” said Ninon.

  Sébastien shook his head. “According to Garouffière, a letter was passed at Bourges. From a known traitor.”

  Joseph had gone white. “That’s why Boisrobert and his men are traveling with us. Why Garouffière made his peace with Val!”

  “Well, we have nothing to fear,” said Hortense.

  “We do,” Joseph groaned. “I was given a letter…at Bourges. I was well paid. The nobleman said it was a love letter.”

  “Sweet Jesu, why didn’t you tell us?” said Valentin.

  “It hardly seemed worth your notice.”

  Ninon frowned at Sébastien. “But if they know that Joseph has the letter, why don’t they arrest him? And the lord at Bourges?”

  “They are waiting for the letter to be delivered. They suspect a nobleman in Sancerre, but they want to be sure. And have the letter for evidence. Then they intend to arrest the lords from Bourges and Sancerre…and the Peerless Theatre Company! The whore, of course, didn’t know I was an actor when she told me all this.”

  Marc-Antoine breathed a sigh of relief. “Then the difficulty is no more. Destroy the letter, Joseph.”

  “I cannot. I passed it on to a messenger only this evening.”

  “Oh, God! Where is he?”

  “Somewhere in the town, resting. I know not where. I only know he leaves for Sancerre before dawn tomorrow.”

  “’Tis a simple matter, then,” said Chanteclair. “We shall waylay the messenger and steal the letter.”

  “Wait,” said Sébastien. “According to Garouffière, they mean to bribe the messenger, to see that the noble who receives the letter does not destroy it.”

  “And even if they did not bribe him,” said Valentin, “Boisrobert would know who attacked him. Our guilt would be verified in his eyes.”

  “There must be another way.”

  “I like it not,” said Jamie nervously. “I don’t fancy spending my days in a French prison!”

  Chanteclair laughed in mockery. “Why is it always so, that the larger the man, the greater his capacity for cowardice?”

  “Nom de Dieu,” said Valen
tin, as Jamie rose in his chair, his face twisted with anger. “This is no time for a quarrel! We must do something, and do it tonight, else we are all doomed!”

  “Can one of us not seduce the messenger?” asked Colombe.

  “Where? Joseph doesn’t know where he is staying. He would have to be seduced on the road to Sancerre.”

  “But that’s ridiculous! The man would hardly tarry in the woods with an important letter to deliver!”

  Ninon had been sitting quietly, deep in thought. Now she looked up at Joseph. “Tell me, what did the letter look like?”

  “An ordinary letter. Folded twice. And with a seal.”

  “Crested?”

  “No. Plain.”

  Ninon nodded in satisfaction. “Easy enough to duplicate. Where did he put it?”

  “In a pouch slung diagonally across his chest.”

  “He could not lose it by accident, then. Hortense,” Ninon put a gentle hand on the woman’s arm, “forgive me if I ask this of you. I know that Sébastien was an operator. But…I have seen at fairs, many a time…the mountebank’s lady was not only a fine actress but a pickpocket as well. Forgive me if I err, but…”

  Hortense blushed. “’Tis an art not unknown to me.”

  “How fast could you exchange letters if I could get him off his horse in the woods?”

  “One embrace and the job would be done.”

  “Good!”

  “But how do you propose to do it?” said Valentin.

  “Look you. Boisrobert will not leave tomorrow until we do, n’est-ce pas?”

  “True enough. He has kept close since Bourges. Probably since the day the letter passed to Joseph. I suspect his man never was ill. Merely a ruse to stay here until we were ready to continue our journey.”

  “I agree,” said Ninon. “He would then notice if most of the company were missing, particularly the men. But if it’s only Hortense and me…”