The jeu de paume at Montargis was old and in need of repair. The platform stage they built wobbled slightly on the warped floor, and the room was dim and badly vented. The more oil lamps and candles they needed for illumination, the more smoky became the stage, and the more unbearable the stench of the tallow. They eased it somewhat by using aromatic oils in the lamps, but by the end of each performance the company was gasping for fresh air, their eyes red and watery. They played mostly farces and pastorals. Though the audiences were more sophisticated this close to Paris, they found that laughter was all that kept everyone’s mind from the numbing cold.
It was a dim afternoon, the sky overcast and dull. They were playing the tart scene, with Ninon and Joseph on their ladders behind the upstairs windows. Valentin, staggering drunkenly below, was playing more broadly than usual, exaggerating his movements so he could be seen despite the heavy smoke. Pretending to stumble, he fell against the wall of Ninon’s “house”; the painted set piece, badly propped by an inexperienced sceneman, began to sway dangerously on the lopsided stage. Ninon felt it pushing against the ladder, and attempted to scramble down from her perch, while Valentin cried a warning below. But it was too late. With a crash, the scenery toppled backward, sending Ninon and the ladder flying to the stage. Stunned, she lay there for a moment, then smiled reassuringly to Valentin. She was just struggling to her feet when a searing pain tore through her. She felt as though her insides had given way. Dropping to her knees, she was horrified to see a great gout of blood staining her skirts, as waves of pain and nausea swept her. Her body shook all over and her teeth began to chatter, while she fought to keep the blackness from engulfing her. An ashen-faced Valentin shouted for the curtain to be closed, then wrapped her in a cloak and sped with her to the inn while Sébastien hurried to find a doctor or midwife.
He’s glad, she thought, seeing Valentin’s scowling face through the mists. He’s glad. He would not have welcomed the child. Ah Dieu! Was she always to be a fool, letting her heart trust and hope, only to be brought to despair? Despite herself, she had begun to care about him, had begun already to love the child that had been in her womb. Would she never learn? All was ashes. She lay back on the pillow as Valentin bent over her, and let herself drift into unconsciousness. It felt like death—freezing her brain, numbing her heart.
“Her name is Dorothé. She’s seventeen.” Chanteclair unrolled a back-cloth at the rear of the stage and indicated the painted scene to Valentin. “Do you want the castle of Jerusalem for tomorrow?”
“No. The paint is beginning to crack. Let’s have the streets of Seville instead. Does Dorothé have another name?”
“Des Loches.”
Valentin whistled through his teeth. “Nobility?”
Chanteclair smiled ruefully. “’Tis my misfortune.”
“And you met her in Bourges.”
“Yes. She was visiting a cousin for Saint Martin’s Fête.”
“And here in Montargis?”
“She has an aunt. But she has gone home now. Her father’s estates are near to Nemours.”
“And you love her, I suppose,” said Valentin.
“I had not thought it was possible. But…yes.”
“And so we have been dragged across half of France while you pursued your heart. Does she love you?”
“I think so. She has given me…proofs of her affection.”
“In bed?”
“Damn you, no! She is a woman of great virtue. But I think she loves me. Despite the difference in our stations. I hope to see her again at Nemours. I know you don’t like to be near to Paris…but I had thought, in the spring…”
“We shall speak of it when spring comes,” said Valentin, frowning.
Chanteclair laughed shortly. “What do you fear from Paris and the cities? Do you hide from a crime? A dead man, as Jamie did?” He had meant it as a joke, but the look on Valentin’s face gave him pause. Quickly he turned and rolled up the back-cloth. “At any rate, we cannot travel until Ninon is stronger.”
“True enough.” Valentin moved a chair on the stage, slamming it down angrily. “Damn the minx! It makes my blood boil to think she did not tell me of the child! I can only guess she said nothing because it was Froissart’s. At least she seems to be taking the loss well.”
Chanteclair shook his head. “Either you are blind, or you know little about her heart. ’Tis not natural, the way she has behaved these past weeks. Good God, man, she has not wept! Not a tear, not a drop. Even that cold bitch Colombe grieved a little at the loss of her child! I have not seen Ninon so sad-eyed and silent since first she came to us at Marival.”
Valentin rubbed at his eyes. “I must be a fool. I thought perhaps she did not care.”
“And she insists on leaving her sickbed and playing tomorrow?”
“And rehearsing today. But I have sent a chair to bring her here.”
In a while, the rest of the players began to drift into the jeu de paume, Ninon at the last, seated in a wicker chair that was attached to two long poles and carried by four men. She looked pale and drawn, still suffering the effects of the fever that had racked her after the miscarriage. She nodded to the others and they began the rehearsal. Though she knew her lines well, she played listlessly, her voice a soft monotone, her eyes lacking their usual sparkle.
Valentin watched her for a while, scowling, then planted himself before her, arms crossed against his chest. “Do you think to earn our sympathy by playing in so dispirited a fashion?”
She gasped as though he had struck her across the face. “Go to the devil,” she breathed.
“Sweet Jesu,” he sneered. “Women suffer miscarriages every day of the week! Is it in their natures to need pity?”
“Valentin, I must protest!” cried Marc-Antoine, rushing forward to put his arm around Ninon.
Sanscoeur pushed him roughly away. “Leave the foolish jade alone! She will have you running her errands next, if she can. There’s not a trick that’s unknown to a woman!”
Ninon turned away from him, feeling her facade, her carefully constructed wall, beginning to crumble. “I shall not rehearse today,” she said unsteadily.
“And when you make a fool of yourself upon the stage tomorrow, will you beg the audience to forgive your woman’s weakness? Mon Dieu! I shall have Joseph put on a gown and play your role! He cannot do it better, but at least he will not be dead upon the stage!”
She fled at that, seeking the sanctuary of the changing room. Valentin’s face was like stone; at the sound of muffled sobbing, he sagged against the chair, drained. He turned to Chanteclair. “Is that what was needed, my friend?”
“Fool! Do you want her to hate you? Go to her!”
He took the stairs two at a time, finding Ninon huddled on the floor in a corner of the room, her knees drawn up to her chest. He knelt beside her and pulled her into his embrace, holding her tightly as her body shook with grief and her tears drenched his shoulder. “Forgive me,” he said gently. “I could think of no other way.” Murmuring soothingly, he held her until she could cry no more. Then he wiped the tears from her face and gathered her into his arms, carrying her back to their room at the inn. He sat at the table with her, called for wine, and urged her to drink. His fingers played absently with his glass; he stirred in his chair, feeling awkward and foolish.
“Ninon…I…I have been thinking much of late…I have no wish to beget a bastard. A child without a father is a sorry thing.” He laughed bitterly. “Half a person. Like the wraiths we represent upon the stage. If…if you conceive again, you must tell me at once, and we shall be married.”
“For the sake of the child?”
“Yes.”
Ninon bit her lip and looked at him. Why not marry him, if it should come to that? He had not been dishonest about their relationship when first they had embarked on it; he was not dishonest now. For the sake of the child. That was all. She herself knew the griefs of a bastard birth—she would have married Mathieu Couteau to prevent the same thin
g. And in spite of Valentin’s gruff manner, there was a gentleness in him. However clumsily, he had made her cry on purpose, to ease the pain that had numbed her since the loss of the baby. Why not marry him, indeed? She would hold her heart more tightly, that was all, so life—and Valentin—could not hurt her.
“Well?” he said, then scowled as the servant girl came into the room. “We need no more wine,” he growled.
“No, monsieur. But a letter came for you this morning…” She held out the missive.
“Damn!” he cried. “Burn it!”
“But, monsieur…”
“Burn it, I say! And any other letter that might come for me!” She curtsied quickly and then fled. Valentin turned back to Ninon, his eyes like black coals. “Well?” he said again.
She hesitated, seeing the anger, the flash of hatred that glinted in his eyes.
“Before you agree to a marriage,” he said, “I would expect you to put aside all thoughts of your Philippe forevermore. I should not like to think that he could snap his fingers whenever he chose, and have you as his mistress. I may be a fool. I shall not be a cuckold. Nor would I welcome seeing him in your eyes.”
What was she thinking of? There it was, writ clear across his face. The old hatred. The old mistrust. He offered her nothing, save a name for a child that might be; he demanded all. Not only faithfulness and virtue, but an undivided heart. His alone. To be spurned and treated with contempt if he wished—but his alone. “It is best we not speak of marriage,” she said coldly. “I cannot promise I would not leave you if Philippe needed me.”
“Then I withdraw the offer.”
“I give you leave to do so.”
“So long as we understand each other.”
She sighed, feeling suddenly exhausted. “We always did,” she said. She stood up. “I am too weary to play tomorrow. You shall have to do without me.” She moved slowly to the bed and lay down, welcoming the sleep that followed.
“The armorer is down that street, Val.” Hortense licked the pastry cream from her fingers and pointed to a narrow lane. “The pâtissier says he is the finest in all of Montargis.”
Valentin nodded. “If he has a sword to suit me, it should not take all that long.”
Hortense smacked her lips, savoring the last of the confection. “May le bon Dieu bless the good people of Montargis, and their esteem for the theater! I have not had an extra crown for a sweet in months.”
“Nor I for a new rapier, plague take Jamie and his thievery! Have you more errands before we return to the others at the inn?”
“Toinette wanted a new petticoat, and Ninon’s shoes need a cobbler.”
Valentin frowned. “Show me.” He turned over the pair of shoes that Hortense handed him, swearing under his breath at the large holes, the cracked leather. “Has she no other pair?” Hortense shook her head. “Damn!” he muttered. “These can’t be mended properly. Why doesn’t she buy new?”
“She spent her money on a warm cloak instead.”
He shook out a handful of coins from a small pouch and counted them carefully. “I can buy her a new pair…But she is so distant of late, so strange. I scarce think she would accept them from me.”
“’Tis her birthday next week. Didn’t you know? She’ll be nineteen. You can give the shoes as a gift. But what will you do for a sword?”
He laughed ruefully. “I promise I shall kill no one this month! And if we play Sens at Carnival time, I shall have the means for several rapiers.”
Hortense put a soft hand on his arm. “You must not mind Ninon’s strangeness. She grieves for the child, that’s all. And ’tis a good thing. Her mood will pass in time.” She looked at him quizzically. “But I wonder you do not grieve.”
“Sweet Jesu, why should I? I feel pity for Ninon, of course. But for aught I know, the child was begot by her lover in Marival.”
“Oh, you fool! What lover?”
“Why…Monsieur le Comte…or…there was a bumpkin she was to marry…I…”
“Oh-h-h!” Hortense was beside herself. “How can you hate women when you know so little about them? Have you never had a virgin before?”
“A virgin?”
“That day in Troyes…before the performance…she was at the stream, washing her bloody sheets.”
“Mon Dieu,” he whispered, and turned away, making for the row of shops at the far end of the street. They managed to persuade the cobbler to fix Ninon’s shoes as well as he could, and bought a new pair for her as well, using the old for a measurement.
Valentin was silent on the long walk back to their inn, his cloak bundled to his ears, his shoulders hunched up against the cold day. It was beginning to snow. In the communal bedchamber the troupe was gathered around the fireplace, roasting chestnuts and drinking hot wine, an unaccustomed treat after the months of scrimping.
Only Ninon sat alone, in a large elbow chair drawn up to the window, her shoeless feet tucked under her for warmth. She was sewing, embroidering a handkerchief, the flowers of spring blooming under her skillful hands. She started as the needle pricked her finger, then frowned and dabbed at the drop of blood on the snowy linen.
Watching her from across the room, Valentin cursed his own stupidity. A virgin. He had never thought, never dreamed…It had pleased him to think her no better than a whore, to think there were no chaste women in all of God’s earth. He had mocked Philippe to her, deriding his clumsy wooing, his selfish desires. But Philippe, whatever his hungers, had not violated her. That was why she had left Marival—because she was virtuous. Valentin should have realized it. A whore would have stayed.
He sighed, watching her as she worked, silhouetted against the window and the soft fall of snow beyond. She was as pure as that snow, with her solemn face and sad eyes, as fragile and lovely as the flowers she embroidered. And he had stained that purity. Like the drop of blood on the linen. Once spilled, it could not be taken back.
She had called him a brute once. God forgive him, it was so. He had taken what he wanted—first by force, and then with a seductive reasoning that was more false than even that which Jamie had used. He had wanted her. And so he had beguiled her willing body, ignoring her feelings, ignoring the bitter tears she wept into her pillow for a man she loved, ignoring all save his own need.
And he had brought her nothing but grief. The child had been his. And the accident. His the clumsiness in crashing into the scenery. And his the stupid thrift. If he had not been so eager to save a crown or two, that dangerous stage and scenery might have been secured by a proper carpenter.
Well, he had done enough mischief. He would visit no more grief upon her. She deserved better in life. There would be no more miscarriages to break her heart. And no more the thoughtless lover to remind her what she had lost with Philippe.
They would be traveling on in a few days. At the new inn he would move in with Chanteclair and Marc-Antoine. They had slept three to a bed before; they could do it again.
But he would no longer bear the burden of Ninon’s grief on his conscience. He had too much to atone for already in this world.
“Think of it this way, Val. We can now consider ourselves true mountebanks.” Chanteclair smiled ruefully as he helped the workmen arrange the rows of long benches.
“Have a care,” growled Valentin, as the large platform stage was placed over the benches—hence the name “mountebank,” from the Italian monta in banco. He looked around at the open marketplace of Sens, his handsome features twisted in distaste. “To think we must play in the open air, like common forains, crude actors of the fairs!”
“Why trouble ourselves? ’Tis Carnival,” said Sébastien. “We can make a deal of money wherever we play.”
“But we had been promised to share the theater with the local company. Was it not agreed, Chanteclair? And the fee paid?”
“Indeed. With all rights to use music and spectacle. And permission to act any type of play we chose, with the exception of tragedy. Their leading actor, I am given to understand, fa
ncies himself another Montfleury, of the Théâtre de Bourgogne in Paris.”
“Then why have they rescinded the rights at the last moment? Forced us out into the streets?”
“Jealousy, I suppose. They have heard of our success in Montargis, no doubt.”
“Plague take them all!” Valentin fell to cursing, kicking savagely at a bench with his foot.
Watching with the other women, Ninon sighed. She had had enough. “Unless you need me, Valentin, I shall wander a bit in the marketplace.”
He glared at her, his eyes like cold steel. “Only be sure you know your lines.”
She shrugged and turned on her heel, making for the booths and trestle tables that were being set up for the month-long season of Carnival before Lent and Easter. She could not even talk to him. He was the Valentin of old—angry, impatient, impossible. But now it seemed as though the anger was meant for her alone. His passion had run its course, and now his hatred of her seemed deeper than his hatred for womankind in general.
She paused at a booth and admired the carved trinkets and boxes displayed there. Moving on, she considered the purchase of a bit of lace, and sniffed at a vial of perfume. A runny-nosed urchin with a stack of handbills pressed one into her fingers. It was an advertisement for a new drink that was beginning to find favor, particularly in England. It “brightens the spirits,” said the handbill, “and makes the heart gladsome.” It claimed to be a fine cure for sore eyes, dropsy, gout, and scurvy, neither laxative nor restringent. There was even a picture of a smiling man drinking this new potion, which had been brought to England from Turkey. It was called coffee.
Ninon smiled sadly. Could this wonder of a drink cure her malady? For she still craved him, with waves of desire that swept over her each time he touched her, even upon the stage. He had lit a flame within her body—it would take time to quench the hungry spark.
And she could not talk to Chanteclair about it. How could she explain what she herself did not understand? That a man who could not touch her heart could rule her flesh, make her ache with longing. Besides, Chanteclair was not himself anymore. Lovesick and distracted, he burned with a desire that had yet to be fulfilled, contenting himself with long, impassioned letters to his Dorothé.
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