Dreams So Fleeting

by Sylvia Halliday

  “Love is always worth the risk, mon ami.”

  Valentin’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “Is it?”

  Chanteclair’s soft brown eyes went from Valentin to Ninon and back again. “There might come a time, my raging friend, when you will be forced to risk all for love.”

  “Then I shall tip my hat and let Love pass me by.”

  “I would rather die in the spring than have a heart as cold as yours. Forgive me, Valentin…but ’tis my privilege to speak my mind today.” He sighed and turned away, looking once again across the town square to the lofty tree where, even now, the hangman, perched on a high ladder, was arranging his rope across a branch. “Have a care, man,” he said softly. “It lacks yet an hour to noon.” He turned back to Valentin. “There is another matter that concerns me. An actor’s foolish vanity, perhaps, but…It was part of my sentence, to have my corpse dismembered, disemboweled, the limbs hung separately after the grisly job was done. I have seen executions of the sort before. The parts have a way of disappearing as mementos. I should not care to have my foot—which trod upon many a stage—sitting on someone’s shelf while my corpse danced upon the wind with only one leg. And as for my poor prickle, dried up and useless…God save me from having it carried around the village in some oaf’s pocket, to be dragged out and exhibited. ‘Ah, yes!’ the ladies will say, ‘I knew Chanteclair well! There is not a cock-a-doodle left in him!’”

  “I have already made the arrangements,” Valentin said gruffly. “The hangman will not touch your parts. Nor will the provost’s men who guard your body. The provost was very agreeable. He has a mistress to support.”

  “And what will you do for money when you must eat?” Chanteclair asked gently.

  Ninon smiled. “We still eat. We merely walk, instead of riding. Besides, Sébastien can take out his miracle cures and sell them.”

  Chanteclair laughed. “But will he ever find a dupe as willing as was Jamie? Now that I come to think of it, we could have charged him a fee for his torments!” His eyes turned serious. “Is the curé waiting below, Valentin?”

  “No. I must have him sent for. But he has been paid. And handsomely. You have only to make your amende honorable to be forgiven your wicked profession.”

  “Then send for him now, if you will. I fear my confession will take half the afternoon!”

  Valentin knocked on the door, which was opened by the guard waiting in the corridor beyond. He stepped out for a moment to talk to the man.

  Chanteclair took the opportunity to tilt up Ninon’s chin and kiss her tenderly on the cheek. “All is well between you again, ma petite?”

  “Yes.”

  “And still, Madame Tristesse, your eyes are sad. And not only for my sake. What will take the sadness away, I wonder?”

  “Please…” she choked.

  “No. Don’t turn away. Will you tell ‘Grandmère’…at last?”

  “To go home,” she whispered. “My heart yearns for home…a place to belong…my own…” She covered her eyes with her hands, unable to go on.

  He folded her into his embrace. “But what a foolish wish, my dear Ninon. Home is where lies the heart, the sages say. Not in a place! You must be sure you know where to search. Now dry your tears before Valentin returns. You must take care of him. He needs you.”

  She sniffled. “But he…”

  “Hist! Here he comes.” Chanteclair stood back from her and smiled gently as Valentin limped into the room.

  “’Tis all arranged, Chanteclair. The priest will be here in a quarter of an hour or so.”

  “Good. I have one more favor to beg of you. Do not stay to see me hang. It’s dangerous for you…and shameful for me.”

  “Chanteclair…my dear friend…”

  “Please. It will not be my best performance. Give me your promise.”

  “And my hand on it,” said Valentin, his voice cracking.

  The two men embraced, then Chanteclair grinned. “You promised to tell me all this week why you are limping, and why your face bears the remains of considerable damage. You said it would make me laugh.”

  “Indeed, yes,” said Valentin.

  “Well then, my friends, make me laugh until the priest comes, and then be on your way. I swear I shall be laughing still as the hangman tightens his rope.”

  The sun balanced on the edge of the twilight sky, a brilliant ball of orange. Valentin stopped on the dusty road and rubbed his hand across his eyes. “I’m going back,” he said, his voice hard, his jaw set in a stubborn line.

  “You must be mad!” said Sébastien. “Wherefore?” He signaled to Joseph, who brought the ox team and wagon to a halt.

  “To steal Chanteclair’s body and bury it. In consecrated ground, if I can. But, by heaven, he shall be buried!”

  “Don’t be a fool, Val!” said Hortense.

  “’Tis too dangerous,” said Marc-Antoine. “You cannot.”

  “I must! I just remembered what he said.” He turned to Ninon, his face twisted in agony. “Do you recall it? When we told you the story of the hanged men in the woods?”

  “Sweet Madonna, yes,” she said softly, her eyes wide with pain. “He did not want to spend eternity dancing in the wind, he said.” She gulped back her tears.

  “And he shall not.”

  “But it will be night before you get back to Nemours. At least midnight.”

  “All the better. It must be done in the dark.”

  “Then we’ll all go,” said Ninon.

  “I’m damned if you will,” growled Valentin.

  “You’ll need help!” she snapped. “It cannot be managed alone if the provost’s men still guard his body. We can leave the wagon and team in the grove outside of Nemours, as we did before.”

  “No!” Valentin’s eyes narrowed in anger.

  “Yes! He was dear to all of us!”

  Sanscoeur hesitated, then nodded in agreement. “I have a scheme. Hortense and Marc-Antoine can safeguard the wagon and wait for the rest of us.” Quickly he outlined his plan, then held up an admonishing finger. “But if anyone fails to return to the wagon, the rest are not to wait! Do you understand? When the provost discovers what has happened, his men will be out searching for actors. I would be as far away from Nemours as possible.”

  It was close to one o’clock before they reached Nemours. The large oak tree stood at the edge of the town square, beyond a row of ancient houses. By the light of the full moon they could see Chanteclair’s body hanging from a thick branch and swaying slightly in the spring night. Next to the tree was a small guardhouse before which two fusiliers squatted, playing dice in the glow of a tallow lantern. Every few moments, one of them would take a swig from a bottle that sat on the ground between them, then shake it to assess the amount of liquid cheer still remaining.

  Crouched in the shadow of one of the houses, the Peerless Theatre Company did the same. Valentin removed a leather flask from his belt, unstoppered it, and handed it to Ninon and Toinette. The women sipped tentatively at the strong distilled spirits, then passed on the flask to the men, who drank more freely, deliberately allowing the aqua vitae to slop onto their clothes. Silently Valentin pointed to the row of houses, indicating by his movements that the women were to emerge from the shadows as far away from Chanteclair’s body as possible. Ninon nodded and stood up, pulling at Toinette’s sleeve. Even in the dark, she could feel Toinette trembling in fear. Well, if need be, she would play the scene alone.

  The two women moved softly in the gloom, grateful that the square was packed earth, and quiet underfoot; a cobbled way would have revealed them too soon to the soldiers. The moonlight was white on the ground, the line between light and shadow challenging them to cross. Ninon put her arm about Toinette’s waist and stepped into a path of silver, giggling loudly as she did so. The fusiliers looked up from their dice.

  “Hell’s fire,” said one, whistling softly through his teeth. “But here’s sport for the night!”

  Whispering and laughing to each other, N
inon and Toinette crossed the square, seeming not to notice the men.

  “Wait a moment, you pretty creatures. You cannot mean to leave us!” The soldiers put aside their game and stood up, moving quickly to stand before the women and block their way.

  “If you please, messieurs,” said Ninon primly. “Let us pass.”

  The man laughed in mockery. “Is it a fine lady who does command it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Saucy wench!” He reached out and pinched her on the cheek. “A lady does not go abroad in the dead of night!” He sniffed. “Nor reek of drink.”

  The other soldier had been eyeing Toinette; now he pulled her from Ninon’s encircling arm and held her close to his side, his large hand cupping her buttocks through her skirt. “Where are you going, pretty jade?”

  Toinette gulped. “H-home,” she stammered.

  “And where have you been?”

  “I…we…”

  Ninon put her hands on her hips. “’Tis none of your concern. Now get out of our way!”

  The first soldier frowned. “You’re a brazen wench, aren’t you. Would you talk so bold, I wonder, with your skirts pulled up?” Roughly he grabbed her by the arms and slammed her against his body, his hot mouth seeking hers.

  She struggled half-heartedly, intent on watching for Valentin over his shoulder. Toinette had already allowed her soldier to kiss her, turning him away from the tree; now, with both guards distracted, Valentin slipped into the moonlit square, carrying a dummy dressed like Chanteclair. Tossing the mannequin over one shoulder, he leaped for the lowest branch of the tree and swung his leg up, his actor’s agility smoothing the difficult ascent. He moved out across the branch that held Chanteclair’s body, lowering the dummy on its noose until it was level with the actor’s corpse, then fastening the rope securely to the branch. Ninon saw the flash of his knife in the moonlight; with a soft thud, Chanteclair’s body dropped to the ground.

  Ninon’s suitor pushed her away and turned his head slightly, as though he had heard the noise. “Pox take you,” she wailed, her voice a sharp whine. “I’m not a common whore. Let me pass!”

  He shrugged off his uneasiness and pulled her back into his arms. “You’re as common as they come, you doxy!” He laughed, his hand grasping the firm roundness of her breast.

  Valentin was now hanging by his hands from the branch. Just as he let go and dropped to the ground, the branch creaked loudly. He froze for a moment, then dragged Chanteclair’s body to the shadowy side of the tree.

  Ninon threw her arms around the soldier’s neck. “I expect to be paid, of course,” she said coquettishly. “My sister and I have just come from entertaining an alderman tonight. Very tight-fisted he was…and how’s a girl to live?”

  This time he could not be distracted. “I’ll pay you if you’re worth it, whore,” he said, disengaging her arms from his neck. “Michel!” He turned to the other fusilier. “I thought I heard a noise.”

  Michel pinched Toinette on the rump and she shrieked loudly. “’Tis only our dancing actor, who envies us this night’s sport.”

  “No.” The first soldier bent to pick up his fusil—his flintlock rifle—and moved toward the tree.

  “You lousy shittlebrain,” Ninon said with contempt. “Would you abandon me?”

  “Only for duty, my sweet. There are those who find it diverting to strip a corpse. And the provost has given us our orders.”

  Sweet Madonna, thought Ninon. Was there no way to stop him from discovering Chanteclair’s body or Valentin? And if he looked closely at the hanging “corpse,” they would be undone. “Damn you,” she said sharply. “I’m for home. I shall not wait while you tiptoe about in the middle of the night!”

  “You poxy whore,” he snarled. “I’ll have you tonight whether you will or no!” Grabbing her savagely by the wrist, he propelled her toward the other soldier. “Here, Michel,” he said. “Hold this jade until I’ve gone once around the tree.” Keeping his weapon at the ready, he moved toward the hanging body. Ninon and Toinette, held fast by Michel, looked at each other in panic.

  Just then, Valentin began to sing. A bawdy ballad, in a voice that cracked and wavered drunkenly. He lurched out from the shadow of the tree and bowed elaborately to the fusilier, tripping and stumbling over his own feet.

  “You crack-brain!” said the soldier. “What do you there?”

  Valentin moved with unsteady steps, all the while easing himself away from the tree and toward Michel and the two women. Watching him carefully, the soldier followed, his ready-charged weapon aimed at Valentin’s head. “Why, good sir,” said Valentin, his voice a slur, “I came to ask that man if he would drink with me.” He jerked his thumb back in the direction of Chanteclair’s body. “The scurvy rogue would not even answer!”

  “Ah-h-h!” said the fusilier, giving Valentin a cuff on the side of the ear. Plague take the drunken wretch, he thought, keeping him from his doxy! “Be off with you, fool, lest you join yon gallows bird!” He put down his weapon and emptied the last of the wine into his mouth.

  “Without a kiss?” muttered Valentin. He stumbled over to Toinette and pulled her from Michel’s arms. “No. I don’t like this one. Not enough meat on her. Go…get you hence!” He delivered a resounding smack to Toinette’s bottom, propelling her away from him. She needed no further encouragement, but vanished into a dark alley between the houses. Valentin turned to Ninon. “This is a saucy wench! Come give us a kiss.”

  “I’ll break your head,” the fusilier said ominously.

  “Pish-tush!” said Ninon, moving into Valentin’s arms. “What’s the harm in a kiss?” She smiled coyly at the fusilier. “The poor devil has sucked up his tipple tonight! Let me send him home happy, then you and I shall while away the rest of the night.” She tried to look bored while Valentin kissed her, managing to show a certain impatience with the lout when he insisted on putting his hand down the front of her bodice.

  “Can you see Joseph and Sébastien?” he whispered.

  She frowned and pushed away his hand, managing to shake her head slightly.

  He turned away from the fusiliers, bending her over his arm while he kissed her again. “They must have taken Chanteclair away by now. Get you out of here as soon as ever you can. Don’t wait for me.” His voice was soft, but urgent.

  “Villain!” she shrilled, swinging at him. “You have taken enough liberties! Find your drunken way home.”

  He drew himself up proudly, though unsteadily, swaying with the effects of drink. “Madame,” he said, “I am no villain. I have a purse of ten crowns…and you are a pleasing wench. If you will accompany me…” He offered her his arm.

  “Ten crowns! Mon Dieu! For ten crowns you could buy my mother and half her kinswomen! Show me your house, my friend—and the color of your coins—and I am yours.”

  “Damned if you are!” cried the fusilier. “You’re mine!”

  “And what of me?” complained Michel. “Thanks to that drunken sot, I’ve lost my own bit of baggage.” He clutched unhappily at his groin. “And never a birding-piece more primed and ready than mine!”

  The first fusilier eyed Ninon, his mouth curved in an ugly smile. “That damned whore would have deserted me, gone off with a drunkard. She deserves whatever she gets. But she’s woman enough for both of us, eh, Michel? I’ll take the first tour, while you hold her down. Then I’ll do the same for you.” He moved menacingly toward Ninon.

  Valentin laughed and held up his flask of spirits. “Can we not all share? Give me my turn between the jade’s legs, and my flask is yours. What say you? ’Tis good aqua vitae.” He held out the liquor as the two fusiliers hesitated. “Come,” he said, “to show you I’m a good fellow, I’ll hold her down first!”

  Michel nodded and reached for the liquor, while the other man began to unbutton his breeches. Valentin grabbed at Ninon, attempted to wrestle her to the ground as she cursed and struggled, though not so loudly that she might wake the other fusiliers in the guardhouse. With a sudden m
ovement, she whirled about in Valentin’s arms and pushed him to the ground, then raced for the end of the square and the safety of the narrow streets. Michel let out a roar and threw the flask to the ground, meaning to follow her, but Valentin contrived to rise unsteadily to his feet at that precise moment. Michel, tripping over him, cursed and went crashing to the earth.

  “Merde!” swore the fusilier, working frantically to re-fasten his fly buttons. “Thanks to you, you drunken pricklouse, we’ve lost them both!” He reached for Valentin as Michel scrambled to his feet. “You’ll wish you had stayed at home with your bottle tonight, rogue!”

  Oh, God, thought Ninon, racing through the dark streets to the edge of town. Let him be safe. Let him be safe.

  She met Joseph and Sébastien on the road from Nemours, carrying the body of Chanteclair between them as though he were a drunken comrade. She was glad for the hat they had put on his head, and the setting moon, which had plunged the night into blackness. She did not want to see his face.

  When they arrived at the wagon, Toinette was already there, tearfully explaining to Marc-Antoine and Hortense how frightened she had been.

  They wrapped Chanteclair’s body in an old back-cloth for a shroud—it seemed fitting—then laid him tenderly in the bottom of the wagon, and waited for Valentin. After half an hour, Joseph took the oxen by their halters and clucked softly to them, leading them out of the grove toward the road.

  “No,” said Ninon. “We wait.”

  “But Valentin said…”

  “He will be here. We wait.”

  “I like it not,” said Hortense.

  “’Tis foolish, Ninon,” said Sébastien. “He knows we more toward Ferrières. ’Tis foolish to wait.”

  She sighed. “I know. But the whole scheme was mad and foolish. And brave. A fitting tribute to our gallant Chanteclair. Let us be foolish a little longer, and wait.”

  Toinette giggled nervously. “Valentin will take a fit when he comes!”

  “Pray God he comes,” said Marc-Antoine. “If he takes a fit, I myself shall rap him soundly on the head!” They all laughed at that, the laughter helping to ease the dread that filled them all. Hortense, always practical, brought out some bread and cheese. They ate, then took turns sleeping while Sébastien paced the road, coming back to the grove every quarter of an hour to shake his head in despair.