Dreams So Fleeting

by Sylvia Halliday

  She sighed. Welladay! This had not been what she had expected as an actress. But perhaps it was in the very nature of the life, the impermanence of place, of emotions. Wasn’t Joseph sleeping with the innkeeper’s sister, and Toinette earning a few extra livres on her back as Colombe had done? And neither of them seemed to mind that they now slept apart.

  The life of an actor. It was over with Valentin. Cold and dead. Best to forget the feel of his mouth, the warmth of his body. It was over.

  They played the next afternoon in the open fair, earning such success that their rivals, who held the acting monopoly in Sens, were filled with rage. They could not forbid the Peerless Theatre Company to act in the town, particularly if the local officials had already issued the permits, but they had the right to control what was played. The very next morning the company of Sens obtained an injunction prohibiting dialogues, tirades, monologues, songs—in short, every form of spoken business upon the stage.

  Undaunted, Valentin had scrolls of explanatory verses printed up; unfurled from the wings and back-cloth, they explained to the audience the plot and action as the strollers acted out their plays in mime. It was a technique being tried only here and there in France, to thwart the monopolistic local companies, but the spectators were enchanted with the novelty of it. The Peerless Theatre Company played The Imaginary Cuckold in silence, and although the scene with the box was difficult to convey without words, the fight in the kitchen, with slapstick and plates, was almost more successful than when they had put words to it.

  Valentin was elated, and swore henceforth that the scene should be played in mime. The acting company of Sens, finding themselves outwitted and outacted by the Peerless troupe, agreed to share their theater during Carnival, giving them alternate days, and secretly hoped that they would draw patrons who were expecting to see the much-acclaimed Peerless group.

  By the time Carnival was drawing to a close, Valentin’s troupe had earned a great deal of money. Marc-Antoine had bought himself a new pair of boots, and a hat more flamboyant than the one Pierre had stolen; Valentin had found a fine rapier of Toledo steel. And Sébastien discovered he had more money than even he could gamble away. They moved to the finest inn in Sens, a large, thatch-roofed building set on the edge of the town, nestled up against the remains of the Roman walls that had been built when Sens had been one of the largest cities in ancient Gaul.

  It was a bright night. Ninon sat up in bed, the light of the full moon streaming through her small casement window. A small window, a small room…a small bed. Now that she slept alone, she did not need a large chamber; her room was just under the eaves. A cozy room. She would have thought she could sleep easily in such a room, but night after night she tossed and turned on her straw pallet, her insides curdling with desire and torment, until she dreaded the loneliness of her bed. And now with the moon…she would never sleep this night.

  She got out of bed and slipped into her shoes. Her new shoes, a gift from Valentin. The last kind thing he had done before…She could not even curse him. He had been characteristically honest and direct. I don’t wish a bastard, he had said. You don’t want a marriage, child or no. ’Tis best that we end our arrangement. And then he had not been able to resist the bit of malice, his mouth twisted with sarcasm.

  “I dislike thinking that I might have kept you from dreams of your Philippe every moment of the day. I give you back to him…little bird.”

  She sighed and wrapped herself in her warm cloak. It must be on to midnight, she thought. She tiptoed across the room and made her way down the stairs of the inn. It was very still, save for the sound of snoring behind one closed door. The courtyard of the inn was bathed in light, the large hay wagon filled with threads of silver. The ancient, moss-covered wall cast a black shadow that stretched across one side of the yard. She breathed deeply. It was warm for March, the air filled with the rich scent of thawing earth. Time to plant peas and cabbages. Tomorrow was Shrove Monday; they would not play. Perhaps she would offer to help the innkeeper’s wife with the planting. She had forgotten the joy of a garden, watching the first seedlings appear, glorying in the fruits of one’s own labor.

  But she was an actress, a homeless wanderer now. Someone else would enjoy her plantings. She gulped back a tear, then jumped at a sudden noise in the shadows.

  “Who’s there?” she whispered.

  A figure emerged from the darkness. “’Tis I, Chanteclair. Is that you, Ninon?”

  “Yes. I…I could not sleep.”

  “And you came to seek solace of the moon.”

  She bowed her head, feeling overcome. He took her by the hand and led her to a small bench, urging her to sit beside him.

  “Poor Ninon,” he said. “We should have named you Madame Tristesse, for those sad eyes.”

  “Don’t,” she choked. “You must not pity me. I had forgot what it was like to be lonely…that’s all. Even with a rogue like Valentin, I could forget.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Am I not a fool?”

  He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them gently. “There was a time I could have loved you, Ninon Guillemot, had you let me. But now…” He laughed in irony. “’Tis like a clumsily acted play. You enter upon the stage, alone at last. And I have just made my exit with another player. Or will do so shortly.”

  “How fortunate is your Dorothé.”

  “I pray we are not both doomed by this love.” In the shadow of the Roman wall a horse snorted. “I had thought…well, perhaps I’m glad after all that you could not sleep. Another quarter of an hour, and I should have been gone.”

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  “You will not need me. Lent begins in three days, and we cannot play much after that. And if all goes well, I could return after Easter.”

  “But where do you go?”

  “To Nemours. To be near Dorothé. To see her.”

  “And then what?”

  “I shall pay court to her. Try to persuade her father to let us marry.”

  “But he’s a nobleman! If he’s a man with any ambition for his family, he will refuse your suit. What else could he do?”

  “Then we shall elope. Dorothé is a woman of such modesty and virtue, I could not take her without the Church’s blessing.”

  “Oh, my dear Chanteclair, you speak madness!”

  “No. If her father is a man of honor, he might let the marriage stand, rather than see his daughter’s reputation besmirched.”

  “And if he will not?”

  He laughed softly. “I scarce can believe it. That divine creature that I love so, that angel who should dwell in a silver palace all her days, has sworn to me that she will take another name and join me as a stroller!”

  “I called you a gambler once. ’Tis true.”

  “But I gamble for such a great prize. Now you must not tell Valentin and the rest until morning.”

  “Indeed,” she said bitterly. “Valentin does not believe in love.”

  “Valentin does believe in love. It is only for himself that he refuses it. If I were an ordinary man, going to an ordinary lover, he would wish me Godspeed. But I am an actor, and Dorothé is a noblewoman, and he would call me fool. And so you must not tell him tonight.”

  She began to weep. She had no shame with Chanteclair, no need to hide her heart from his gentleness and goodness. “Oh, Chanteclair, I shall miss you so. You have been friend, brother…so much to me that I had never known before.”

  He brushed a curl from her face, caressing the cheek that glowed like velvet in the moonlight. “I used to watch you sleep. Did you know that? When we spent the night along the side of the road, or in some deserted barn. I would watch you sleep and wish that you were mine. But I knew then what I know now. I can never be more to you than friend and brother.”

  “Oh, God…” She felt as though her heart would break.

  “So then!” he said brightly. “Dry your tears and bid your brother au revoir, and I shall be on my way. And another thing. You might persuade the compan
y to add the Nemours road to the itinerary. If you can manage to get there in a month or two, you shall find me the happiest man in the world…or the most despairing.”

  “What shall we do if we need ‘Grandmère’?”

  He cackled softly. “You silly goose,” he said in a high falsetto. “You must teach Marc-Antoine to play the role!”

  He stood up quickly and whistled to his horse, which moved out of the shadows toward them. He mounted easily and waved her a last farewell, then guided the horse to the breach in the Roman wall.

  “Wait!” she said. She scrambled onto the wall, climbing across the broken boulders until she was even with him. She tugged at his sleeve so that he leaned over in the saddle, then she put her hand behind his neck and pulled his mouth to hers. She kissed him with warmth, glad to feel an answering warmth on her lips, devoid of passion. “Thank you for your gift,” she said.

  “What gift? Alas, I learned too late it was your birthday last month! What gift?”

  “The gift of laughter,” she whispered, and waved him into the black night.

  Chapter Twelve

  “The sky was pink tonight. It will be a fine day tomorrow.” Chanteclair crossed the small room, ducking under a low beam, and placed his candle on a table near the bed. He moved quickly to the window, his footsteps rustling over the fresh sweet reeds strewn on the oak floor. He leaned out between the mullions for a moment, seeing the first star, then closed the casement against the chill of the April night. “The landlord said my horse will be saddled by half after seven.” He turned to the young woman who still paused at the threshold, holding her mantle tightly about her shoulders. “Dorothé. Love,” he said gently. “Do you want to return to your father’s house?”

  She looked up, surprised. “Oh no, Jean. Never! He’s a man with no heart, no soul. I’m not sorry to leave. How could I not despise him when he said…oh, such terrible things about you.”

  Chanteclair laughed softly. “That I am an actor? That I am a vagabond? All that is true.”

  She shook her head, her elfin face solemn in the dim light. “No. That you were less a man than that villain LaPierre he wanted me to marry.”

  “LaPierre has money.”

  “LaPierre has influence,” she said with contempt. “He is a member of that corrupt and voluptuous circle of courtiers who shame the nobility of France with their ways. But my father hoped to better himself through LaPierre.”

  “By selling you in marriage.”

  “’Tis done every day.” She shuddered. “Yet my flesh crawls to think of the man. His first wife died. They said it was a fever. But I have heard,” Dorothé crossed herself quickly, “she took her own life because she could no longer bear his depravity.”

  “And still you hesitate at the door.”

  “No longer.” She smiled and stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind her. “A foolish thought that troubles me no more.”

  He crossed to her, the old inn floor creaking beneath his boots. “Will you tell me your foolish thought?”

  “Soon enough.”

  He took her face between his hands, his fingers caressing the pink roundness of her cheeks. “My God, how I love you.” He kissed her gently, pushed back the hood of her cloak, and stroked the pale brown curls at her temples. Then, overcome, he swept her into his embrace and held her close while his mouth tasted the sweetness of hers, and her lips parted to yield all to him. He stepped back at last, and turned away from her, unbuckling his sword and placing it across a bench. “I have spoken to the priest in Vauvert,” he said, his voice hoarse with passion kept in check. “He was pleased to agree to marry us tomorrow. Now that Easter is past, the pious but generous frauds who thronged his church will not be seen so often. He must again depend on his bishop for that bit of clairet to wash down his austere bread. The fat purse I gave him has bought his compliance—and his discretion.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “He thinks we’re both aristocrats, eloping because your family has had a serious reversal and is too ashamed of its fall to come begging to my family.”

  She giggled. “What a tale.”

  “Thanks be to God for my training as an actor. I can play a noble—mon Dieu, I have played kings!—and I can tell a story with great sincerity.”

  She frowned. “But will the marriage be legal if you give a false name?”

  “Don’t fret. I used my own name, Jean la Couronne. I only added a ‘de.’ I didn’t even take a title. I called myself Chevalier de la Couronne. Morbleu! My mother would take a fit if she knew!” He took off his doublet, then knelt and peered under the bed. “Good. There’s a truckle bed here.” He stood up and smiled. “I feared I should have to be content with the hard floor.”

  “No.” Her voice was soft and low. “I have thought about it and made my decision. I want you to be my husband tonight. I give myself to you tonight.”

  “Dorothé. My sweet love. Dearest flower of purity. I cannot let you do this. I can wait.”

  “I beg you, Jean.”

  He laughed lightly, trying to make a joke of it. “What would the sisters at the convent say? You must not destroy their faith in you!”

  “Don’t you want me?”

  He groaned in agony and turned his face away. “I have done many wicked things in my life, but I cannot bear the thought of defiling you, my chaste Dorothé. I know it’s contrary to all your teachings.”

  She knelt at his feet, throwing her arms around his legs. “Listen to me,” she said. “I can make my own peace with God. When my mother died, I could not bear to stay with my father, to be witness to his corrupt ways, and those of his friends at court. There was evil to affront God’s teachings. And so I stayed at the convent to live and study. To learn that happiness is to be taken where you find it.” Her voice caught on a sob. “I found my happiness with you, Jean. I shall be your wife tomorrow. God will forgive me if, in my great joy and happiness, I cannot wait to be your lover.”

  He lifted her to her feet, filled with the wonder of the love he had found, and kissed her mouth and closed eyes, tasting the salt of her tears. He untied her mantle and let it fall to the floor, then unhooked the bodice of her gown.

  “No,” she said shyly, “let me do it.” While he watched, his eyes worshipping her, she pulled off her bodice and skirt and petticoats, and laid them neatly on the bench next to his sword and doublet. Blushing a little, she lifted her chemise and unfastened her garters, then removed her shoes and stockings, and came and stood before him, her slim fingers playing nervously with the drawstring of her chemise. “Let me be a good little wife and help you off with your boots.” She led him to the bed and made him sit, pulling off his boots and stockings; then she undid the button of his shirt so he might slip it over his head. Nervously she put her hands on the firm flesh of his chest and shoulders. “I…I never felt a man’s body before. ’Tis a wondrous thing.”

  He laughed softly, afraid to trust the stability of his own voice. He felt like a virgin himself, trembling before this wondrous creature who had stolen his heart so completely and given him back a love he had never known before.

  “You must tell me what I am to do next,” she said, standing before him. “The sisters were not very helpful on these matters.”

  He pulled her to him, burying his face in her bosom, too overcome with emotion to speak. He held her tightly for a moment, then undid her chemise and pushed it down over her hips to the floor. He slipped out of his breeches and moved over on the bed, patting the sheet next to him.

  She hesitated, then climbed in beside him. “I feel so foolish, so helpless. You must tell me how I am to lie—on my back, like this? Shall I touch you? Shall I…”

  “Hush, hush,” he whispered. “’Tis not a performance upon a stage, with the proper movements. Only let me love you. You have naught to do but take my love. I shall do the rest.” He kissed her tense mouth, then began to laugh. “You may kiss me in return, if you wish, and put your arms about my neck if you a
re so inclined. ’Tis an improvised performance.” He stroked the soft curves of her young body, feeling her tremble and quiver under his gentle caresses, then bent his mouth to her breast and teased her nipple with his tongue. She gasped in wonder, her flesh burning with his touch, her senses reeling with the strange waves that rippled through her body. At last he parted her thighs and moved on top of her, his hands sliding under her hips to bring her closer to his throbbing manhood. He felt the tenseness of her body, the sudden tightness of her muscles at the unfamiliar feeling. He started to enter her, then stopped, seeing the look on her face by the light of the dim candle. “I’m hurting you!”

  “No, my love. No.”

  “I’m the actor, not you,” he said dryly, and moved off her.

  She bit her lip in dismay. “I have disappointed you.”

  “My foolish, sweet Dorothé. You have nothing to reproach yourself. ’Tis I who was clumsy. We shall begin again.” He kissed her gently, his mouth soft on hers, his hands caressing her face and neck, until he felt her begin to relax under his tender ministrations. He deepened his kiss, his tongue exploring the corners of her mouth, the edge of her teeth. She sighed and slipped her arms about his neck, her fingers tangled in his long curls. He let his hand stray to her bosom, fondling her firm young orbs, feeling her strain against him with awakening passion. His hand moved lower, stroking the inner flesh of her thighs, gradually separating her legs as he caressed her. It seemed a natural progression. His fingers were on her thigh, then gently rubbing the guardians of her maidenhead, then slipped within her, moving in a rhythm that made her twitch with ecstasy and moan softly. When he withdrew his hand and mounted her, she let her legs fall wide in anticipation, no longer fearing the unknown. He pushed gently, feeling still a bit of resistance. “Forgive me, my love,” he whispered, and plunged hard, cringing to hear her momentary gasp of pain.