Dreams So Fleeting

by Sylvia Halliday

  “What shall we do, Ninon?” he said at last, pointing to the pink streaks in the eastern sky. “We must be gone. At daylight they will surely discover the mannequin and come looking for us.”

  “A little longer, Sébastien. Please. A little longer.” She walked back to the road with him, fighting the tears that burned behind her eyelids, the grief that threatened to overwhelm her. In a nearby birch tree, a morning lark sang, its sweetness a painful counterpoint to the desolation of her heart. She looked up. The sun, just cresting the hill, blinded her for a moment and she blinked, shielding her eyes from its rays. She blinked again. Silhouetted against the dawn was the figure of Valentin, limping slowly toward them. “Thanks be to God,” she whispered, and ran toward him while Sébastien called the rest of the troupe.

  Valentin’s face was battered and bloody, with cuts on lip and eyebrow, and he seemed to breathe with some difficulty. But he managed a smile as the players gathered around, filled with questions and concerns. He eased himself onto a large rock, clutching at his side as he sat. “Curse all fusiliers,” he said. “It cost me a rib or two, I fear. And my last ten crowns to persuade the whoresons to let me go…but ’tis done. You have Chanteclair’s body?”

  Sébastien nodded. “What took you so long?”

  Valentin rubbed a hand across his eyes. “I stopped to rest. I think I must have been asleep for a time.” He looked up at the bright sky, seeming aware of the dawn for the first time. “Why are you here?” His voice rumbled ominously. “I told you not to wait! Sébastien…Marc-Antoine…were you mad?”

  “We…that is…”

  “Dieu du ciel! I told you to go on! ’Twas a simple enough matter. I should have met you in Ferrières. Did you take leave of your senses?” He stood up, glaring fiercely at them all; it was clear he meant to rage for the next quarter of an hour.

  “I bade them wait,” Ninon said evenly.

  He whirled to her, his eyes blazing. “You did? I ought to wring your neck! You did?”

  She held her ground. “Yes! I did. Now stop making such a great to-do and come along with me to the stream. I’ll clean up your face, and bind your ribs, if they are broken…though I cannot imagine they can be, and still suffer the strain of such noise and wind!” She turned to Joseph and Sébastien. “Get the team ready to travel. And fasten the furniture well. Now that daylight is come, we should take the narrow lanes to Ferrières, and keep well off the highroad until we have left Orléanais Province. Oh. And one more thing. Make a space in the wagon for Valentin to lie down.”

  “I shall walk like the rest of you,” he snarled.

  She smiled sweetly. “If need be, I shall have the men tie you into the wagon. Mayhap, after a little rest, you will have recovered your pleasant disposition. Now, come along,” she said, as he stared at her, his jaw gaping in astonishment. She turned about and made for the small stream hidden behind a large thicket of gooseberry bushes. “Well?” she demanded. “Are you coming? Or must I take you by the ear like a stubborn schoolboy?”

  Valentin glared at Marc-Antoine, who was attempting with some difficulty to hide his smile, and limped off after Ninon. He sat on the stump of a tree, as she indicated, and watched her angrily as she lifted her skirt and pulled off one of her petticoats. “You sharp-tongued virago,” he muttered.

  “Yes, I know. Take off your shirt.”

  Painfully he complied, grumbling and cursing as he did so. “To speak thus to me…I shall not have it…”

  She moved toward him, frowning, her hands pressing gently against the bruises on his rib cage. “You are a king only upon the stage,” she said. “I shall speak to you however it suits me. Does that hurt?”

  He grunted and kept still, contenting himself with scowling at her as she tore strips of cloth from her linen petticoat and bound them tightly around his ribs. But when she had wrung out a square of linen in the stream, and had begun to dab gently at the cuts and filth on his face, he found his voice again. Angrily he assailed her for disobeying his orders, cataloging the dangers they now faced, the risks to the company because of her stubbornness.

  She scarcely heard him, her heart so filled with gladness at his being alive. The cuts to his face were less serious than she had at first feared—they would leave no scars. His beautiful face. She saw it as though through new eyes—his strong jaw, the deep cleft in his chin, the patrician nose, the arrogant set of his head. She had thought never to see it again, picturing it cold and dead all through the long night.

  Let him rage. It could not touch her. She was content to have him back safe. And besides, his rantings were half-bluff. She had learned that much about him in their time together. His protection, his shield against pain. Against feelings that overwhelmed him. He had been angry the day Gaston left; angry in her first weeks with the company—denying his physical need of her; angry at the loss of the child. And now Chanteclair was dead, and he raged like a madman.

  “Hush!” she chided at last. “Have done with your ravings!”

  “I am to let it go? When you have been willful, stubborn…”

  “Will you beat me?” she asked with sarcasm.

  “By le bon Dieu, I should! You risked the whole company!”

  She gazed tenderly down at him. “Foolish man. There is no company without Sanscoeur.”

  “Pah! Witless sentiment!”

  She smoothed the black hair from his forehead. “Sanscoeur is the head, the brain, the soul. We cannot do without him.”

  He laughed bitterly. “But who will be the heart and the laughter without Chanteclair?”

  “Why then, Sanscoeur must take that role as well.”

  “Damn you! Don’t speak like an idiot! Sanscoeur has no heart.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said softly, the tears welling in her eyes.

  He stared at her for a moment. Then the mask of pride crumbled and he turned away, his shoulders shaking with grief. She gathered him in her arms, holding his head against her bosom, feeling his burning tears on her flesh. He sobbed out his pain, his arms tight about her waist, while she wept her own tears and murmured his name over and over again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  On a soft spring evening, the sky streaked with gold, they buried Chanteclair. They found a tiny churchyard set apart from a village on their way. While the women kept watch, the men laid him to rest, smoothing the earth and pressing on fresh sod to hide the place. To keep the country priest from hearing the noise, Marc-Antoine dressed in uncharacteristically somber clothes and presented himself at the church as a penitent sinner. As the curé listened in wide-eyed wonder (till then he had counted the theft of a cow as the wickedest sin), Marc-Antoine confessed all, dredging up every lurid tale of his colorful past. In the end, he bestowed upon the priest a large purse of gold, begging him to have Masses said in perpetuum for a departed brother and friend named Chanteclair.

  They moved on again, traveling south, playing where they could, sometimes just for food and lodging. They had spent most of their money in the futile attempt to save Chanteclair, and had not the means to hire a theater that would bring a decent day’s receipts. They played in old barns, broken-down guild halls, anywhere.

  And their performances, by and large, were disastrous, earning them boos and catcalls. They played listlessly. Without horses to carry them about, they were constantly exhausted from their travels. They could not afford to eat well, to sleep comfortably, to linger in a town. Valentin, nursing his ribs, was forced to curtail the physical aspects of his playing, and his voice had not its usual strength. And Hortense began to cough.

  By the time June arrived, with sunny skies and flower-filled meadows, she was desperately ill. The physician had come, and prescribed a hippocras for her to drink, but still she tossed and turned on her sickbed, her eyes glazed with fever.

  “We should have another doctor!” said Sébastien, pacing the cobbled courtyard of their shabby inn. They had just finished a meager dinner out-of-doors.

  Ninon looked at Valentin, her blue
eyes clouded with concern. They had spent a week now in this inn, barely able to afford the two rooms they had taken—one for the women, the other for the men. How could they pay for a doctor? They could hardly afford more medicine.

  “Do you still have your nostrums and cures from the days when you were an operator, Sébastien? You can play the mountebank again.”

  “They are mostly dried out by now,” he said.

  “Why can’t we make up new potions?” asked Ninon. “There must be a dozen herbs growing wild in the woods.”

  Sébastien looked shamefaced. “To speak truth, I was not a very good operator. It was only our singing and dancing that attracted the spectators—not my orations on the miraculous cures. And Hortense always managed to nim a purse or two.”

  “How much have we left?” asked Joseph.

  Valentin took out a small purse. Pushing aside the dinner plates, he spilled its contents out onto the table. “There. ’Tis all we have. It must pay for the rental of the hall tomorrow, and candles to light the stage.”

  “What of our lodging here?”

  Valentin shrugged up his shoulders. “God willing, tomorrow’s receipts will cover that.”

  “If we don’t eat,” Joseph said bitterly.

  “Here,” said Toinette. She blushed and reached into her bodice, pulling out a handkerchief that held several coins. “It’s all I have. And I earned it…on my own. But if it will help, take it.” She giggled. “Besides, the bailiff is taking me to supper tonight. He will be astonished to discover what a fine appetite an actress has! And if I can, I shall hide away a pastry or two, to bring back as a treat for Hortense.”

  “I spent my last crown this morning,” said Marc-Antoine. “To mend my boots.” He brightened suddenly. “But the apothecary’s shop is dim, and he’s an old man. Could we not play a scene and distract him…and steal what we need for Hortense?”

  Valentin frowned. “Don’t be an ass, Marc-Antoine. It has not come to that yet.” He picked up a coin from the table and held it out to Sébastien. “Why don’t you try your luck in the local tripot? You have done well before.”

  Sébastien hesitated, then pushed away the money. “I can’t,” he said, his face twisted in agony. “I never cared before. To win, to lose. It was all the same. But Hortense could die for the want of that one coin if I lost it.” He covered his eyes with his hand.

  “Never mind,” Valentin said softly.

  Ninon put a hand on his sleeve. “Val. Let me sell the earrings you gave me.”

  “No.”

  “We need the money. When I sold Brinon’s bracelet…you remember how much it brought in.”

  He turned away. “No,” he said gruffly. “They were a gift for you.”

  She pulled him away from the others, into the shade of a tree, and put her arms around his neck. “You dear, foolish man,” she murmured. “Will they bring me joy if Hortense dies? And they have brought me joy many a time. Because they were from you. I have them, I have them not. But the giver remains.”

  His dark eyes searched hers, a light of wonderment dawning on his face. “Ninon, I…”

  “Is it to be done then?” Sébastien asked impatiently.

  “Yes, of course,” said Ninon, turning back to the company. “And I have a few lace handkerchiefs I embroidered. I can sell those as well.”

  “I shall come with you to the village,” said Valentin.

  They concluded their transactions quickly, finding a goldsmith to take the earrings in pawn, and a mercer who was delighted to buy the delicate handkerchiefs. They came away with more money than they had hoped to earn; elated, they stopped at the apothecary shop to buy more medicine for Hortense before setting out once again for the inn.

  “’Tis a beautiful day,” said Ninon, glancing around at the sunny fields that bordered the road. “I feel sure our fortunes will change.”

  “As do I.” Valentin put his arm around her shoulders as they walked. “And if not, I shall set you to work as a seamstress. Mon Dieu! Twenty livres for a bit of fluff…I could not believe my ears when the mercer offered it.”

  She smiled sadly. “Don’t set your fortunes on my nimble fingers. My mother was a seamstress. It did not provide for us.”

  “What was she like?”

  “She knew little of happiness. She suffered greatly.”

  “With your stepfather? As you did?”

  Ninon sighed. “No. She suffered more. She had only regrets. I had my dreams then.”

  “Yes. Your dreams.” He withdrew his arm from her shoulder and plucked morosely at an overhanging leaf. “My mother was full of joy and laughter,” he said at last.

  “Does she yet live?” Ninon looked at him with interest. He had never spoken of his family before.

  “No. It must be near to ten years now that she is dead.”

  “And your father?”

  His face was like stone. “It will rain before nightfall.” He increased his pace, so she had to skip to keep up with him.

  “But it will not rain now,” she said. “Give me a moment to catch my breath!”

  “Forgive me.” He moved under the shade of a large oak and sat on the grass, pulling her down beside him. “I have missed you from my bed. Sébastien is poor company.”

  She laughed. “At least he stays the night! I never know when Toinette has a rendezvous.” She turned to him, her full lips rosy and inviting. “Must we hurry back?”

  He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her gently, his fingers caressing her cheeks, her delicate ears.

  He frowned, seeing her bare lobes. “Philippe would have covered you in jewels.” He rose to his feet. “Hortense will need her medicine. Come.” He smiled crookedly, his mouth twisted in bitterness. “Poor Ninon and her lost dreams.”

  The company was still gathered in the courtyard when they returned. At sight of them, Marc-Antoine rushed to Valentin, his face beaming.

  “Val!” he cried. “Thanks be to God. We have a commission!”

  “Where? What are the terms?”

  Marc-Antoine indicated a man who sat at the table talking with Sébastien. “Let me present you to Monsieur Villebois. And then we can celebrate with the finest wine our flea-bitten landlord can provide. Monsieur Villebois has promised to pay!”

  As soon as introductions were made, and they were all sitting around the table enjoying the first wine they had had in weeks, Valentin turned to Villebois. “If you please, monsieur, tell me the terms you propose.”

  “I am, of course, acting for my master. Monsieur le Comte proposes a fee of two hundred crowns in advance, and two hundred for your performance, as well as the charges for the journey. Monsieur Duvet tells me you are in need of horses. Permit me to present you with a carriage and team.”

  Valentin raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Your master is extraordinarily generous. Four hundred crowns. Mon Dieu! We are used to four hundred livres—a third the amount.”

  “Monsieur le Comte has heard much of your troupe. And he cannot travel readily. He considers it money well spent to enjoy your representations in his own domain.”

  “You have not told me where that is,” said Valentin.

  Sébastien looked uneasy. “I beg you, Val, for Hortense’s sake, to put a good face on it.”

  “Wherefore?” said Valentin, frowning.

  “I fear it is very near to Paris.”

  “Where?”

  “Ivry-la-Bataille.”

  Valentin’s face went white. He turned to Villebois; when he spoke, his voice was a harsh croak. “Who is your master?”

  “Monsieur Georges d’Ivry, Comte d’Arouet.”

  “No. By God, no! We shall not take the commission.”

  “Valentin, are you mad?”

  “And wherefore not, monsieur?” asked Villebois.

  Valentin took a deep breath, seeming to recover himself. “To begin, our company is woefully reduced in numbers. We have just lost the actor who played the first parts. And then, one of our ladies is ill. I feel sure her
husband will wish to stay with her while she recovers. N’est-ce pas, Sébastien?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “You see, Monsieur Villebois, we would be a company of five players. Hardly enough to justify Monsieur d’Arouet’s generosity.”

  “I have no doubt you are skilled enough to take several parts.”

  “Indeed, yes, Monsieur Villebois!” said Marc-Antoine in his most jovial manner.

  “I say no,” Valentin said coldly, rising from his chair. “Good day, Monsieur Villebois.”

  Ninon hurried after him, clutching at his arm. “Have you lost your senses, Val?”

  He looked at her, his eyes filled with pain and betrayal. “Will you take the part of the others against me?”

  “Sweet Madonna! I take the part of reason! Would you see Hortense die?”

  “She will not die. We will fare well enough without Monsieur le Comte.”

  “But why say no?”

  His mouth was set in a stubborn line. “Because I wish it.”

  “You know that if we put it to the vote, all would agree.”

  “Would you? Would you agree?”

  She looked down at her hands, unwilling to see the expression on his face. “Yes. Please, Valentin. ’Tis more than just Hortense. Since…since Chanteclair, we’re a poor excuse for a company. If a new hat will restore Marc-Antoine, enough to eat hearten Joseph, how can you say no? One night, one performance, and we shall be rich enough to snap our fingers in contempt at half a hundred comtes.” She laughed gently. “Shall I have Sébastien and Joseph break a chair or two over your head to persuade you?”

  “No.” His eyes were cold. “Your disloyalty is wound enough. Tell Villebois I am agreed.”

  They set out the following morning in a fine coach that Villebois had provided. Joseph grumbled at first, but finally agreed to drive the wagon with their goods in exchange for twenty extra crowns. Sébastien, provided with a large enough purse to see to his and Hortense’s needs until the company should return, waved them farewell on the dusty summer road. Villebois had tied his horse to the wagon, and rode in the coach with Ninon and Valentin, Toinette and Marc-Antoine.