Dreams So Fleeting

by Sylvia Halliday

  Ninon frowned at Valentin. He had become a stranger again. But more than that. He looked as Chanteclair had looked on the day he was to hang. A man going to his doom. When they stopped that night at a cozy inn, she saw to it that they would share the same room. After supper, he hurried immediately to bed, as if he would avoid her, but she excused herself from the rest of the company and followed him.

  She slid under the sheets and turned to him, wrapping her arm around his waist and kissing his rigid back through his nightshirt. “Such a long time,” she murmured.

  “Leave me in peace,” he muttered. “I’m tired.”

  “I cannot believe that. When it’s been weeks…” She leaned over him, blowing softly in his ear, kissing his neck.

  “Leave me alone!”

  “No.” She was determined to tease him out of his black mood, to ease his tenseness with the act of love. “Don’t you remember our agreement? You cannot sulk and deny me when it suits your fancy.”

  He sat up angrily. “Don’t chivy me, Ninon! I’m in no humor for games!”

  “You great sour-face. I want no games. I want you.”

  “Damn you! So be it.” He pulled her roughly into his arms, his mouth hard and punishing on hers. While she yet gasped with the cruelty of his kiss, he began to tug at the hemline of her chemise, pulling it up above her waist.

  She struggled in his arms, filled with anger and disgust. It was like being violated by a stranger. “Let me go,” she said at last. “You are too tired.”

  He laughed in mockery, moving on top of her. “’Tis what you wanted, n’est-ce pas? Such a very long time, you said.” His knee pressed down on hers, forcing apart her tight-clamped legs. “Did you think you played games with a lad?”

  She was beginning to feel panic. He was pushed to the edge of whatever torment obsessed him. He was capable of anything. “Name of God, Valentin,” she panted, “not like this!”

  “However I want it,” he said through clenched teeth. “You think you rule me? You think you have wheedled your way into my heart so you may lead me around like a fool?”

  “Let me go!” She pounded on his chest until he grabbed her hands and forced them down onto the bed beside her head. It was no use. She could not fight his strength. He would take her—as if she were some whore in a brothel—and she could never forgive him. It would never be the same again. With a choked sob, she relaxed beneath him. “I should have stayed with Philippe,” she said. “He was a man—not a wild-eyed savage.”

  He froze for a moment, then moved slowly off her and turned away to his side of the bed, pulling the coverlet up to his shoulders. “Let that serve as a warning,” he growled. “I belong to no woman!”

  With shaking hands she smoothed down her chemise and curled up in her corner of the bed, filling her pillow with burning tears.

  After two more days of travel, during which Valentin seemed to sink further and further into himself, staring morosely out the carriage window for hours, or sleeping hunched up in the corner of the carriage, his broad-brimmed hat pulled over his eyes, they arrived at Ivry-la-Bataille. It was a small but charming town, with a dancing fountain in the middle of the town square, and flowers in boxes at every window. At the far end of the square was a large stone wall with an arched gateway, simple and unadorned except for the gilded clock on its face. When their carriage passed through, they found themselves in a wide courtyard bounded on three sides by low buildings, some of which appeared to be stables and workshops and servants’ quarters. Directly in front of them was the corps-de-logis, the main living quarters of Château d’lvry. At Villebois’s directions, they alighted from the coach. He indicated one of the low buildings.

  “Monsieur le Comte thinks you would be comfortable there. You will find servants waiting on your needs. Will you be rested enough to play tonight?”

  “The sooner the better,” said Valentin.

  “Good. Before you repair to your quarters, I should like to present you to Monsieur d’Arouet. He has been waiting for your arrival.”

  Valentin shook his head. “Not I. Monsieur d’Arouet will see me upon the stage tonight, and not before. You have a honeyed tongue, Ninon. You can persuade a man to anything. Explain to our host that I am too weary. Monsieur Villebois…” Valentin gave a little bow, “convey my regrets to your master.” He turned on his heel and made for their quarters.

  Ninon bit her lip in consternation, but followed Monsieur Villebois and the others across the cobbled path to the archway in the corps-de-logis. Passing through, she nearly gasped aloud. The modest front of the building had not prepared her for the splendors beyond the arch. The château opened up into a large U-shaped building that overlooked a vast and magnificent expanse of gardens and crystal pools spanned by graceful bridges. The château itself reflected centuries of a proud lineage: ancient round towers of golden stone had been joined by later additions of red and black brick in geometric patterns, and carved stone tracery nestled side by side with turrets that had been built for defense. Each succeeding generation, it seemed, had added a wall here, a pavilion there, leaving its mark for posterity. All individual, all different, but somehow combining to make a whole that was utterly charming and timeless, the very stones seeming to sing: This is the realm of Arouet—today, tomorrow, forever.

  She had never seen such beauty, such serenity, in one place before.

  Villebois led them through a door into a wing of the château. They mounted a circular staircase and passed through a large hallway hung with tapestries, and at last found themselves in a small cabinet with brocade-covered walls and gilded furniture. While they waited for Villebois to fetch Monsieur d’Arouet, Ninon glanced out the window, admiring once again the beauty of the gardens. From here she could see—beyond a grove of trees—a small, semicircular garden, like a natural amphitheater, surrounded by statues, that looked out upon a reflecting pool. Not a breeze disturbed the glassy water. Ninon was enchanted. If she had the time, she resolved, she would spend a few tranquil moments there before they left Château d’lvry. A door opened in the brocaded wall, and Monsieur le Comte entered. He had once been a tall man, that was apparent, but now he walked stooped over, leaning heavily on a cane. His hair was snow white, and his eyes were warm and intelligent in a proud face. He moved to an elbow chair and sat down, nodding as Villebois introduced each of them in turn.

  “I welcome you all to Château d’lvry,” he said at last. “You are a small company. Smaller than I had been led to believe. But I have no doubt you are worthy.”

  “We beg your indulgence, monsieur,” said Marc-Antoine with a bow. “We are short by several members, because of illness and misfortune. And Monsieur Sanscoeur begs you to forgive him, but…”

  Arouet cut him off with a wave of the fingers. “Yes. Villebois has told me. I trust Sanscoeur will play, however. A company of five I can allow. A company of four cannot be countenanced.”

  Ninon smiled grimly. “Monsieur Sanscoeur will play. You have our assurances.”

  “Good. I have no theater in the château. You will play in the petite galerie. Villebois will show you the way when you wish to go there. You need not set up your scenery. It seems an unnecessary bother. If you are skilled in your acting, I shall not miss a tree or two. If you are not skilled, all the trees in the world could not hide that fact. My men will see to the proper lighting, as you direct. And a simple stage for you to play upon.”

  “And what will you have us play, monsieur?”

  “I leave that entirely in your hands.”

  “But, monsieur,” Ninon curtsied politely, “would you laugh or weep?”

  He turned to her, smiling gently. She had never seen such sadness in a man’s eyes. “Does it matter, madame?”

  “But…but your guests,” she said. “What would they prefer?”

  “I have no guests. You play for me. I wish to see you play—I care not what you play.” He sighed heavily and rose from his chair. “You will excuse an old man. Villebois will see to you.” />
  They spent the afternoon setting up their stage in the petite galerie, a charming room with paneled walls and frescoed ceilings. Valentin allowed Joseph and Marc-Antoine to act as décorateurs, while he sat in his room and altered several plays to suit the diminished company.

  They rehearsed for an hour, then had a bit of bread and cheese as the sun was setting (Villebois had promised a hearty supper after their performance).

  Costumed and made up, they trooped through the twilight to the wing of the château that held the petite galerie. Valentin had decreed that they should play a pastoral and then a farce. He had covered his face with white lead for the pastoral, and then, at the last moment, had painted a large blue teardrop on one cheek. For Chanteclair, he said, when Ninon questioned him.

  He played magnificently, his tirades eloquent, his moments of pathos heartrending. He seemed more real, his emotions more true upon the stage than in those brief interludes when he waited behind the curtain with Ninon. Once she reached for his hand, and was dismayed to see the emptiness in his eyes, as though Valentin had fled, and only the shell, the play’s character, remained.

  When the pastoral was over, they retired to a small antechamber that adjoined the galerie, quickly changing their costumes for the farce. The men wiped off their face paint and replaced it with masks, Valentin adding a wig and small beard to his usual mask, so that his own features were totally obscured.

  He played the farce with great animation, adding leaps and handstands to his already robust performance. The company, fired by his vigor, performed their lazzi to a turn, and improvised comic speeches and bits, delivering their lines with great wit and crispness. Toinette had never been a sillier inamorata, nor Ninon a more pert and devilish soubrette. Joseph was a sighing lover, filling the hall with his lamentations; Marc-Antoine, as the pompous savant, had foolish advice for everyone. And Valentin’s bragging captain had an unexpected element of pity in him, revealing the fragile man behind the bravado.

  Through it all, Monsieur d’Arouet sat in a large elbow chair placed in front of the stage. He seemed small and fragile, alone in the center of the room, his hands folded quietly in his lap. He applauded not at all, and smiled seldom. Occasionally he motioned to Villebois, standing along a side wall, and whispered something in his servant’s ear, or drank the wine that was brought to him; but otherwise he sat like a statue. Ninon found it disconcerting to play to silence, after the hurly-burly of their audiences. She found herself wondering if he was pleased with their playing; indeed, she had begun to wonder why this strange man had spent so much money to invite them in the first place.

  At last the play was over and they took their bows. Arouet applauded politely, then rose to his feet, supporting himself on his cane and straightening his bent back as much as he was able. He cleared his throat. “Permit me to say you are the finest company I have seen in many a year. I am honored to have you in my house. You do your fathers proud…wherever they may be. You are welcome to return at any time. You will be received warmly.” He cleared his throat again, as though he had found the words difficult to say, then indicated his servant with a nod of his head. “Villebois will wait on you until you have changed your costumes, then escort you to my apartements. I shall be pleased to receive you for supper in my antichambre. Mesdames. Messieurs.” He bowed slightly in their direction, then moved with great dignity to the door that a footman held for him.

  The actors changed quickly, remarking to one another on the success of their playing, the strangeness of Monsieur le Comte, the possibility of playing soon again before such a generous, if not demonstrative, audience. Only Valentin kept apart, combing out his wig, folding his costume with unaccustomed care.

  “Come along, Val,” said Ninon, when they were all changed. “Monsieur Villebois waits for us.”

  Valentin looked up and shook his head. “No. I shall return to our rooms.”

  “But…Monsieur le Comte…”

  “Make my excuses.”

  “Hell’s fire, Valentin,” Joseph said in astonishment. “Would you miss supper? The kitchen in this place must be a wonder to behold!”

  Valentin laughed mirthlessly. “I have not your appetite, Joseph. And I think I can persuade one of the footmen to bring me a bit of supper in my room.”

  Ninon put her hand on his sleeve. “But why, Valentin?”

  “Grant me my own life,” he said gruffly, and turned away.

  Monsieur d’Arouet’s antichambre was a large and handsomely appointed room, its ceiling coffered and gilded, its tooled-leather walls hung with paintings. Beyond a partly opened door, Ninon could see his bedchamber, the carved bed swagged with velvet hangings. It was a man’s apartement; she wondered idly if a woman shared it.

  In the center of the room a table had been set up, covered with a fine tapestry. Joseph could hardly keep from gaping at the platters of food laid out: ham and sausages, quail and songbird, bowls of fresh strawberries and cherries, pâtés and fruit tarts and meat pies. And crystal goblets waiting to receive the finest wine, and snowy napkins and silver knives as though they were visiting royalty.

  The Comte d’Arouet was already seated at the head of the table when Villebois ushered them in. He nodded graciously but did not rise. “And Monsieur Sanscoeur?” he asked.

  Ninon blushed, feeling humiliated for him, for Valentin. “Please to forgive him, Monsieur le Comte. He was overtaken with a weariness.”

  He sighed. “I understand. But sit you down. I trust the cook’s offerings will meet with your approval.”

  They needed no further encouragement, but applied themselves to the food with gusto. While they ate, Arouet questioned them about the company—where they played, how successful they were, how broad their repertoire. After an hour or so, Toinette, Joseph, and Marc-Antoine were quite giddy from the wine, and even Ninon had begun to feel a bit lightheaded. She rose from the table and went to stand at the window, opening it slightly to catch the night air.

  “You played superbly, Madame Guillemot.” Arouet was standing at her side. “You must have laughter in your soul.”

  “Thank you, monsieur. But it does not follow. Monsieur Sanscoeur plays comedy well. Would you not agree? Yet he has forgot how to laugh.”

  His eyes searched her face. “You grieve for him.”

  She blinked back her tears. “No matter.” She turned to the window. “Château d’lvry is beautiful.”

  “And very lonely. It needs a woman.”

  She stirred uncomfortably. She had not thought him a libertine, expecting more from an actress than her performance upon the stage. But perhaps her concern for Valentin had blinded her. “Such a number of paintings,” she said brightly, indicating the walls of the room. “What a fine history you must have!”

  “Yes. The family can be traced back to Saint Louis in a direct line, and there are branches that date to the time of Charlemagne. Let me show you the earliest portrait.” They made a tour of the room, Arouet pointing out his various ancestors, Ninon exclaiming in wonder at the lineage. Not even her father’s family could boast such continuity through the ages.

  Yet all the while she was conscious of his eyes upon her. She prayed he would not importune her. She could turn aside a coarse lout, flatter (while refusing) a lecherous noble; but Arouet seemed too dignified for such a tawdry scene. Sweet Madonna, she thought, let him not press me.

  “Do you care for him?” he asked suddenly.

  “What?”

  “Monsieur Sanscoeur. Do you care for him?”

  She stared at him. Was this an overture to a full-scale assault? “Yes,” she said at last.

  “Come into my bedchamber,” he said. “There’s a portrait you might find of interest.”

  “Monsieur, I…” she stammered.

  “Good God, woman!” he said, his voice hard and angry. “Don’t stand there like an idiot. Come along!”

  In spite of her own common sense, something in his eyes compelled her. Meekly she followed him into his bedchamber, skir
ting the wide bed and standing as far from him as she was able without deliberately insulting him. He picked up a candelabrum from a table and crossed to the fireplace. The candles flickered with each halting step he took, leaning heavily on his cane. He lifted the candles high so that she might see the portrait over the mantel.

  “Mon Dieu!” she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

  It was a painting of a young woman and two small children. The woman was very beautiful, with a pale, heart-shaped face, black hair, and soft, dark eyes. She might have been Valentin’s twin.

  “My wife,” said Arouet. “My late wife. Painted many years ago, of course.”

  Ninon’s voice trembled. “And the boys…your sons?”

  “Yes.”

  “But they are grown by now, n’est-ce pas?”

  “My elder son is dead. A fever two winters ago.”

  Ninon stared at the face of the younger child, dark-haired like his mother, with melting eyes and a deep dimple in his chin. “And the other son?” she asked softly.

  “Driven away by my own folly and pride.” He laughed bitterly. “Pride is a worthless possession when one has nothing left.”

  “But what happened?”

  “We quarreled…it must be three years agone…over a woman. In a moment of madness that I have regretted ever since, I banished him from my sight, disowned him, cut him out of my heart.”

  There was a long silence. “Tell him so,” she said at last. “If you regret it, tell him so.”

  He looked at her in despair. “Nicolas is very stubborn and proud. My letters of reconciliation go unanswered. He will not even stand before me face to face. What more am I to do?”

  Ninon looked at the painting again. “He seems so sweet.”

  “He was gentle, like his mother. Even as a man. A gentle and trusting nature.”