Dreams So Fleeting

by Sylvia Halliday

  “What do you intend?”

  “In the morning, take breakfast with Boisrobert and Garouffière. Linger over your food. Tell stories, play cards, whatever you must. If they ask, you can say that Hortense and I are asleep.”

  “And where will you be?”

  “Hortense and I will be performing. At dawn.”

  Chanteclair laughed shortly. “You cannot mean to play The Clever Doctor, as we did with Jamie?”

  There was a low growl from Reynolds. Ninon put a quieting hand on his shoulder. “Hush, Jamie, ’tis long forgotten. No. We shall not play the doctor tomorrow. But what of Scévole?”

  “Scévole?” Valentin frowned. It was not a well-known play, having been published only recently. It dealt with a Roman hero, Gaius Mucius Scaevola, who, when captured by the enemy, had shown his disdain of torture by thrusting his right hand into a fire and keeping it there until it was consumed. He had, by this brave deed, won peace for Rome, and the nickname Scaevola—“Left-handed.”

  “Yes. Scévole,” said Ninon. Quickly she outlined her plan, while the company listened in rapt attention.

  “I like it not,” said Valentin. “’Tis too dangerous. Gaston always handled those appurtenances. That’s one of the reasons I haven’t wanted to play Scévole since he left.”

  “Can you think of a better plan? If not, put what we need on a horse tonight, while I compose a letter for the nobleman in Sancerre. Hortense and I shall ride out at midnight and wait on the road for the messenger.”

  Valentin nodded a reluctant agreement and turned to the players, his dark eyes lingering on Colombe and Reynolds. “Our lives and safety depend on the silence of everyone. Do you understand?”

  Jamie stirred uneasily. “God’s death! Don’t look at me! I have no love for the lot of you, but…”

  Chanteclair laughed, his voice filled with contempt. “But to save your skin, you’d cut out your own tongue!”

  Henri Targon fastened the fly buttons on his breeches, scratched at a stray flea under his shirt, and remounted his horse. He should never have had so much ale for breakfast. At this rate, he would have to stop every few leagues to relieve himself. And it was important to get the letter to Monsieur le Comte de St. Gregoire as soon as possible. Targon pushed aside the pouch slung across his shoulder to pat at the sack of coins under his doublet. He was a rich man. And would be richer before the day was through!

  And safer, God knows! All those years in the service of St. Gregoire, delivering and collecting letters. Riding to this town and the other, to meet with men he never knew, but recognized only by the blue book of poetry they read in whatever inn or rendezvous had been arranged. All those years. And, until that Duc de Boisrobert had told him, he never knew he was helping to betray his king. It made a man’s blood boil! Boisrobert might have arrested him, hanged him, even. Instead, Targon had fifty crowns in his pocket, with fifty more to be delivered when Boisrobert came for the letter.

  It would be a simple matter. St. Gregoire always received the messages in his cabinet, read them carefully, and cast them into the fire. If he was seated in a chair, as was his wont, he would crumple up the letter and ask Targon to burn it for him. There would be no difficulty in taking an old letter from St. Gregoire’s library before he went in to the cabinet. He would burn the old letter and save the new for Boisrobert. And devil take St. Gregoire for trying to make a traitor of him!

  Targon shivered. The damp mists rising in the woods shrouded the ground with a thick blanket that obscured the horse’s hooves, and the first light of dawn, streaking through the trees, only made the fog appear more dense. He slowed his horse so the animal would not stumble on unseen rocks, then froze in the saddle as a loud wailing sound came out of the mist. He reached for the knife in his belt and inched his mount forward, prepared to battle—or bolt—as need be.

  The road veered sharply. Just beyond the bend, he saw a small bonfire in the middle of the path; in front of it squatted a creature who appeared to be a woman. Her yellow hair was tangled wildly about her face, and she was covered in filthy rags. She rocked back and forth on her haunches, moaning and crying and pulling at her hair.

  Targon frowned. It could be a trap. Brigands had been known to use a decoy. And he had an important letter to deliver. And fifty crowns to safeguard. Whatever happened, he would not get down off his horse. He gathered the reins more tightly in his fist and glared down at the woman.

  “Get out of the road, hag!” he growled.

  She turned and looked at him wildly, one arm thrown up as if to shield herself from a blow. “You cannot harm me, devil!” she shrilled. “I defy you!”

  “I mean you no harm! Get out of my way.”

  She pointed an accusing finger. “You think I’ll tell you where he has gone! Never, you villain. Never!”

  “Merde!” he swore. “Will you get your stupid backside out of the road, woman?”

  Her voice rose to a shriek. “You cannot threaten me. I defy you and your tortures! Look! See you!” Jumping to her feet, she thrust her hand into the bonfire. He watched in horror as the flesh charred and the blood oozed from the raw wounds and sizzled as it hit the flames. She began to scream, a horrible sound that pierced his ears—but still she kept her hand in the fire.

  “My God!” he choked, and leaped from his horse to pull her away from the flames. At that very moment another hag emerged from the mists and threw her arms around him, sobbing with grief.

  “Leave her be, good sir! I beg you! She is mad. My sister is mad! She will do you harm. She has killed ere now. Get you on your horse and begone! I shall tend her. Begone! Begone!”

  Targon needed no more persuasion. In a minute he was in the saddle; in another minute, the sound of his horse’s hooves had been swallowed up by the mists.

  “Thanks be to God!” said Ninon, pulling the artificial arm from her hand and blowing on her fingers. “That was becoming very hot! Did you get the letter?”

  Hortense laughed and held up her trophy. “Do you want to read it?”

  “Not I! If it contains treason, it is better we not know it. Throw it on the flames.” When the letter had been consumed, they stamped out the fire and scattered the ashes, then pulled off their wigs and rags and changed into their own clothes. By the time they returned to the inn, emerging into the common room with much yawning and stretching, breakfast was over.

  “Slug-a-bed!” Valentin laughed, getting up from the table where he had been playing cards with Boisrobert. “I thought we would have to leave without you!” He put his arms around her and kissed her.

  She buried her face in his neck. “We left the horse at the end of the lane,” she whispered. “Joseph can fetch it when he gets the others.” She turned and curtsied politely to the noblemen. “Good morrow, messieurs! Have you left us any breakfast? I cannot speak for Hortense, but as for myself I am famished! Valentin, my sweet, I had the strangest dream!”

  They set out at last with Boisrobert’s party, reaching the outskirts of Sancerre early in the afternoon. There was a crossroads. Boisrobert pointed to one fork. “Our…hunting is in this direction.”

  Valentin urged his horse to the other road. “Then we leave you here. This is the road to Sancerre.”

  “Alas,” said the duc. “We are not to be parted as yet. You will notice that my men have drawn their pistols. I assure you, my fine companions, this is not a joke. I am empowered, by the authority given to me by the cardinal, to hold you as possible traitors to the crown.”

  “You’re mad!” said Valentin. “On what proofs?”

  “The proofs will not be long in coming. You will please to follow me. All of you.” He turned to one of his men-at-arms. “Arsène. You are to guard the strollers’ wagon while we pay a visit to our friend, Monsieur le Comte. The actress,” he indicated Colombe, “and her infant may stay here. Oh, and one more thing, Arsène. Search their belongings for political pamphlets. Mazarin has a particular interest in seeing that the nouvellistes—those journalists of the clandes
tine press—are eradicated.”

  Garouffière smiled at Valentin. “I pray Arsène finds something, monsieur. It would bring me great joy to see you imprisoned, flogged, exiled. And your charming wife would need protection to save her from the same fate.”

  “We are loyal subjects of His Majesty,” Ninon said coldly. “We have nothing to fear.”

  They rode in silence for the better part of an hour, the actors guarded by Boisrobert’s men, the noblemen following behind. When they reached a fine château nestled among the trees, the duc demanded to see Monsieur le Comte de St. Gregoire. The men-at-arms prodded the strollers up a marble staircase to the wide galerie where St. Gregoire received them all.

  “Will you explain the meaning of this, messieurs?” said St. Gregoire. “I scarcely think this is a friendly visit.”

  Boisrobert eyed him coldly. “You will please to send for Henri Targon.”

  The comte shrugged and clapped his hands, summoning a footman who was dispatched to find Targon.

  “While we wait, monsieur,” said Boisrobert, “I should like to ask a question or two. In the king’s name. Take care you do not add perjury to your other crimes. Now. You received a message this morning?”

  St. Gregoire hesitated. “I…yes. It was a private letter. I destroyed it.”

  “Sweet Jesu!” said Valentin angrily. “What has all this to do with us? You have carried us out of our way, searched our belongings, insulted us…and for what? That you may ask this man here about a letter?”

  Henri Targon stood in the doorway. If his father could see him now, he thought. Upholding the king, playing a major part in the downfall of traitors! He raised an arm dramatically and pointed to Joseph. “A letter which that man, messieurs, gave me only yesterday!”

  “My God, Joseph, is this so?” demanded Valentin.

  Joseph began to blubber. “I know not what was in the letter. It was sealed! A man gave it me…in Bourges…he accosted me in the theater…said that if I went to a certain tavern in Angillon…and sat with a book he gave me…a messenger would pick up the letter. He gave me two crowns. That’s all I know. I swear it, my lord!”

  Garouffière sneered. “Your pretended innocence will not save you…nor your fellow conspirators!”

  “We are here for justice, René,” said Boisrobert, “not vengeance. If these men are guilty, the courts will decide.” He turned to Targon. “Do you have the letter?”

  “I do, monsieur.”

  St. Gregoire looked startled. “What? Henri? Did I not give you the letter to burn? Have you been in my employ all these years to betray me?”

  “I do not serve traitors,” said Targon, drawing himself up with righteous anger. “I serve my king! The letter, monsieur.” He handed a crumpled piece of paper to Boisrobert.

  “I swear we are loyal!” cried Joseph.

  “We shall see.” Boisrobert unfolded the letter and smoothed it out. “‘I pray this message reaches you in time,’” he began, reading aloud. “‘We cannot see each other again. It becomes too dangerous.’”

  “It has always been too dangerous to plot against the king,” said Garouffière, obviously enjoying the expressions of fear on the faces of the actors.

  Boisrobert threw him an angry glance. “May I continue with the letter? ‘We shall have to find other means of communicating. I do not trust your messenger. And my…husband…grows suspicious. But oh, my dearest love…’” Boisrobert looked up in consternation. “What the devil is this?”

  “Go on with the letter,” said Garouffière.

  “I…I cannot! The damned thing is filled with sighs…and kisses…and protestations of undying love…”

  “And how is it signed?”

  Boisrobert looked pained. “‘Your sweet turtledove.’”

  Chanteclair began to chuckle. “For shame, Joseph. To be the instrument for an illicit romance!”

  St. Gregoire indicated the door, his mouth set in a hard line. “I trust, Monsieur le Duc, that you will not besmirch the lady’s honor further by demanding to know her name. As for you, Targon, you are quit of my service!”

  “Wait!” said Garouffière, unwilling to lose his quarry. “Is there any possibility the letter was replaced with another?”

  Targon shook his head. “Certainly not, monsieur! I rode straight from Angillon to Monsieur le Comte. And the letter never left my person.” He frowned, as though he was remembering something.

  “Mon Dieu!” said Ninon brightly. “The man thought he was on the king’s business! You cannot think to accuse him of carelessness. Not on the king’s business! Is it not so, Monsieur Targon?”

  Targon put the nagging thought behind him. “Indeed, madame, indeed.”

  “Now,” Valentin said coldly, “if you will allow us to proceed on our way…?”

  “With my apologies, monsieur,” said Boisrobert. “I cannot think how we could have erred so greatly, René.”

  “I can,” said Ninon, turning to Garouffière, her blue eyes like ice. “It was all because of a kiss you could not have!”

  Chapter Eleven

  January was bitterly cold, with a north wind that howled and piled the snow in drifts against the doorways and windowsills. They stayed in country inns, huddled around the fireplace, and counted out their meager coins, eating less grandly so they might stay an extra day, an extra week. When there seemed to be a break in the weather, they rented a few horses and moved on to the next town, playing in drafty barns and old theaters for as long as they could attract audiences.

  Jamie spoke longingly of Italy and its sunshine, and Colombe cursed Valentin for not having followed Monsieur Molière to Paris, and fame and fortune. Only the frequent appearances of “Grandmère” raised the spirits of the company when the evenings were cold and the wolves bayed loudly beyond the tavern windows.

  Marie-Anne began to cough and cry fitfully through the cold nights. Colombe swore she would give up the brat for foster care as soon as they had played in a village that paid well and she could afford a nurse.

  “Damn the lot of you,” she said one night, when Marc-Antoine had gone off for the fourth time to look in on the child. “You, Sébastien! Chanteclair…Joseph. You’re all responsible. She might be your child. I cannot see why you won’t pay to have her boarded out. The lot of you!”

  “Your mother’s heart touches me,” said Valentin. “She might be Gaston’s as well!”

  Colombe sneered. “That impotent old fool?”

  Chanteclair looked at her with disgust. “But if that ‘impotent old fool’ were here, I have no doubt you would ask him for money as well.”

  “Plague take you! I…” Colombe looked up at the doorway. “Marc-Antoine, you shittlebrain! What ails you?” Marc-Antoine stood on the threshold, his large body shaking uncontrollably, a torrent of tears pouring down his cheeks.

  “Sweet Madonna,” whispered Ninon, leaping to her feet. “Marie-Anne?”

  “She…she was so still…I thought she was s-s-sleeping…it was only a bit of a fever…such a little thing…” He sank to the floor, sobbing, as Ninon rushed to put her arms around him and Hortense went off to look at the child. Valentin poured a large cup of wine and brought it to the prostrate Marc-Antoine.

  Hortense returned to the room white-faced. She nodded. “’Tis true. The babe is dead.”

  Colombe began to wail and beat at her breast, accusing them all of caring more for Marc-Antoine’s feelings than her own. “Am I not the mother?” she shrieked. “And without a crown to bury the poor thing!” She swung around the room, pointing accusingly at the men. “You would not give a sol when your child was alive! Now you shall pay to bury her! Damn you all!” She refused to be comforted until they had reached into their pockets to find what money they could spare for poor Marie-Anne; only then did she allow Jamie to lead her, sobbing, to her room.

  In the morning, she was gone. With Jamie, her trunks and boxes of clothing, and Valentin’s sword. And the money they had given her for Marie-Anne. Still distraught, Marc-Ant
oine sold his only pair of boots to pay the local curé for the child’s funeral rites and burial in consecrated ground.

  “Good riddance to the bitch,” Valentin said bitterly. “She’ll drag Jamie to Paris with her, I have no doubt.”

  “Aye,” said Chanteclair. “Until she finds someone better. Or richer.”

  Toinette shook her yellow curls. “But Jamie can’t go to Paris!”

  “Wherefore not?”

  “Well…he told me it was not his fault, of course. But…he quarreled…an angry husband, he said. A madman.”

  “Alas! Poor Jamie,” said Chanteclair with mock sympathy.

  “What happened?”

  “I’m sure he was not to blame. He’s such a gentle man.”

  “Good God, Toinette!” said Hortense in exasperation. “After all this time, you can still speak well of the knave?”

  “What happened to the angry husband?” asked Valentin.

  “Jamie killed him. It was a fair fight, he said. A fair fight!”

  Chanteclair began to laugh. “No wonder Jamie was so fearful of Boisrobert, and arrest! Poor Colombe. The final irony. If she stays with Jamie, she’ll find herself in Italy, and farther away from Paris than ever!”

  Late in January they played at Montargis, north of Bourges, on the road to Paris. As usual, Valentin grumbled about being so close to the capital, but Chanteclair, who had gone ahead to arrange their performance, was strangely elated. Ninon found him copying love poems from a book—which he was at great pains to hide from her. And at their first performance at Montargis she thought she saw, in the gallery of the jeu de paume, the young noblewoman he had spoken to in the theater at Bourges.

  They performed with some difficulty. To begin with, they were now reduced to eight players—Val, Joseph, Sébastien, Marc-Antoine, and Chanteclair, and the three women, Ninon, Hortense, and Toinette. They were forced to eliminate a few plays from their repertoire, and double up on one or two parts in others, changing back and forth from one character’s costume to another. And they had not the money to hire competent scenemen, but contented themselves with vagrants who were only too happy to lend a hand for a crown or two.