Dreams So Fleeting

by Sylvia Halliday

  Ninon felt tears well up in her eyes. “A person who trusts too much drinks deep of the cup of bitterness and anger when that trust is shattered.”

  “And brings grief to others, I think,” he said gently.

  She brushed away her tears. “I’m surprised he goes unrecognized.”

  “He has changed greatly. See you.” Arouet pulled a small case from his pocket. Opening it, he showed Ninon a portrait carved in wax in relievo: the man depicted had a small, neat beard and flowing mustache. But the profile was unmistakable—the high forehead, the patrician nose. “Greatly changed. A man may go unrecognized by his friends, if he sets his mind to it.”

  Ninon smiled sadly, remembering the many quarrels. “And if he travels the byways and avoids the big cities, where will he find those erstwhile friends?” She looked hard at the comte, seeing the grief etched on his face. “Cannot the past be buried?”

  “How? He will not even allow me to speak to him. I have my own pride. Let it be, madame. Come. We shall rejoin your companions.”

  “A moment, monsieur. ’Tis a lovely night. I marked from the window of your cabinet this afternoon a beautiful little garden. Like a stage, cut in the greensward, with statues for auditors.”

  “Yes. It was a favored spot of Nicolas and his brother. They played at actors, declaiming to the wind, performing for the statues—and any footman unlucky enough to be waylaid by two lively lads.”

  “Is that spot torchlit at night?”

  “If I order it so. Why do you ask?”

  “On such a sweet night, it seems to me that Monsieur Sanscoeur could be persuaded to take a stroll. To that very garden…if it is lighted. I should reckon we will be there in a little more than a quarter of an hour.” She curtsied deeply. “Your servant, monsieur. I thank you for your courtesies and bid you good night.”

  “I shall have the garden lit, madame. Enjoy your stroll.”

  She found Valentin lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. On a nearby table was his supper, barely touched. He turned his head to look at her as she entered their room, then resumed his inspection of the ceiling beams. She perched on the bed and smiled down at him. “It was a fine evening. Monsieur le Comte is a gracious host.” He grunted, but said nothing. “Valentin, come with me out into the park.”

  “Sweet Jesu, whatever for?”

  She bent down and kissed him gently. “Because it is a pretty night. Because I don’t wish to walk alone in the dark. Because you are my comrade, and it grieves me to see you so burdened. Come. Let the sweet breezes blow away your gloom.”

  “I have no place in my heart for cheer tonight.”

  “Oh, Val. I saw such a beautiful garden from monsieur’s window. A little round garden, with statues, and a still pond. Won’t you come with me? No one is about.”

  He sat up and rubbed his hand tiredly across his eyes. “Mayhap a walk is what I need.”

  She led him out to the park of Château d’lvry. From ground level, the round garden could not be seen; only the fact that she had seen it from Arouet’s window led her to the correct path. There was a crossing of two paths farther on. Ninon stopped, perching on one foot, and pretended to shake a pebble out of her shoe. Valentin, preoccupied with his own thoughts, walked on. She smiled to herself, seeing him take the right path without thinking.

  They reached the garden at last. With the lit torches, it was as bright as day, the lanterns flickering on the graceful marble statuary, and twinkling back at themselves in the glassy pond.

  “There,” said Ninon. “Did I not tell you it was a charming spot?” Valentin said nothing, gazing about as though his eyes saw ghosts and spirits in every shadow. There was a rustle in the line of trees that bordered the garden; Monsieur d’Arouet moved slowly into the firelight. Valentin started violently, and whirled about to flee the garden. In that moment, Ninon slipped her arm through his, and held him fast. “Valentin,” she said brightly. “You cannot think to leave without first being presented to our host. Monsieur le Comte d’Arouet, Monsieur Valentin Sanscoeur.”

  Valentin glared at her, his eyes murderous, then nodded stiffly to Arouet. “Monsieur.”

  Ninon ignored his look. “Monsieur d’Arouet was telling me the most curious story this evening, Valentin. He had two sons. He quarreled with one—over a woman, I am led to believe—and disowned him.”

  “A tragic tale,” said Valentin, his lip curled in scorn. “How fortunate he still has another son.”

  “No,” said the comte. “My elder son is dead.”

  Ninon could feel Valentin stiffen beside her. “Dead?” His voice grated in his throat.

  “A fever. The winter of ’fifty-six.”

  Valentin was silent for a very long time. Then he laughed mockingly. “And now you have no sons, Monsieur d’Arouet.”

  “I would have my younger son back. All I own, my lands and titles, are his should he wish to reclaim them.”

  “’Tis easy to need the one when you have lost the other.”

  “Valentin…” Ninon shook her head in reproof.

  “You have a cruel tongue, Monsieur Sanscoeur,” said Arouet. “But I felt the loss of the one long before the other was taken from me.”

  Valentin frowned down at Ninon, his face a mask of hatred. “And all for a woman. That was what you said, was it not, Monsieur le Comte?” He pushed Ninon away and stared up at the night sky, the dark trees beyond the torches. “I knew a man like that once,” he said at last, his voice soft and filled with sadness. “A man who destroyed himself because of a woman. Who damned his soul to Hell because of her.” He laughed bitterly. “Her name was Angelique. How the Devil must have enjoyed that jest! She was his father’s mistress, and quite the most beautiful creature he had ever known. He was young. Sweet Jesu, how young he was! Not in years, but in trust. He had played at love, sweet and innocent and artless, but Angelique was different. He longed for her, he burned with a passion that drove him mad. He began to hate his own father for possessing her.”

  “Why did he stay?” Arouet asked in agony.

  “Because he had not the strength to leave. Nature had favored him in every way, then thrown the temptress in his path to make a mockery of all his fine resolves. To show himself to himself as a weakling and a coward.” He drew a painful breath. “She came to him one night, at last, all soft and sighing; to his eternal shame and damnation, he took her. And not just that one time. He was mad beyond all reasoning. He believed every honeyed lie she told him. He found it easy to betray his father’s trust…my God, he would have killed for her, he was so besotted!”

  “And his father learned of it?” Ninon asked softly.

  “I think the whore told him. They quarreled—he and his father—and the quarrel led to blows and then to swords. Do you understand? He was young and strong; he had trained for a soldier. But he drew his sword against an old man.”

  “Ah Dieu,” whispered Ninon.

  “There was no God that day. He left his father bleeding and crippled upon the floor, and went off to bed his slut.” Valentin groaned. “For a woman. For a sweet-tongued, worthless whore. He was branded with the mark of Cain. Worse than Cain. Cain slew his brother—this man raised his hand against the father who had given him life.”

  “What happened to Angelique?” asked Arouet.

  Valentin laughed bitterly. “Ah, yes, Angelique. Who had invaded his heart, clouded his reason, blinded his eyes. They fled together. The whore stayed only until they learned he had been disowned. He had lost his title, his inheritance, his wealth. My God! He had lost a great deal more—his good name, his self-respect, his honor. Seeing him thus bereft of all she had craved…and with no prospects for a comfortable future…Angelique vanished.” He turned to Arouet. “Was that not wise of her? To abandon a fool to his own folly?”

  Arouet shook his head. “His father’s was the greater folly. For the son was young and headstrong. The quarrel should not have taken place. The father should not have disowned his son.”

  �
�No. No. He drew his sword against his own father. God cursed him that day.”

  Ninon was near tears. “But his father forgives him!”

  Valentin whirled to her, his eyes burning. “Damn your meddling!” he cried. “How does a man forgive himself? He drew his sword against his father! How does he make his peace with God?”

  By swearing never to love again, she thought. By guarding his heart against betraying womankind. She put a gentle hand on his arm. “Valentin…”

  He scowled at her, his eyes narrowing in anger. “If you have no more scenes to play tonight, you deceiving bitch…”

  “Monsieur Sanscoeur,” chided Arouet, “I do protest. Madame Guillemot is a generous woman, with a kind heart. She…”

  Valentin laughed mockingly, his mouth twitching. “Do you find her attractive, monsieur? Charming? Would you care to do battle to take her from me?”

  Arouet flinched at the cruel thrust. “Monsieur. Your servant,” he said at last, bowing to Valentin. With a heavy sigh, he turned about and vanished into the dark trees. Valentin, with one last look of contempt for Ninon, stomped away in the direction of their quarters. She hurried after him, torn between the desire to comfort him, or rage at him for his stubborn pride.

  “You fool!” she cried at last, when they had reached the privacy of their bedchamber. “You pigheaded fool!”

  “And you? Are you pleased with the scene you played? Did you and he laugh as you planned how I was to be ambushed? Did he give you thirty pieces of silver to arrange the meeting?”

  “Oh!” She turned away from him and said no more. In his present mood he would twist her every word, no matter how she tried to reason with him. In silence they stripped down to their nightclothes—chemise and shirt—undressing on opposite sides of the room. Ninon folded her skirts and bodice neatly over the back of a chair and laid down her shoes beside the cold hearth. She hoped he would go to sleep at once. In the morning, God willing, she would be able to talk to him. Deliberately she pulled the pins from her copper curls, taking her time as she shook out the long tresses. She crossed the room, meaning to retrieve her comb from a little table. But Valentin was suddenly standing before her, his eyes burning with intensity by the light of the single candle.

  “Get into bed,” he growled.

  “Sweet Madonna, you cannot want…”

  “Get into bed!”

  She pursed her lips in angry defiance. “No.”

  “Damn you!” His hand shot out, slapping her sharply on the side of the face.

  She caught her breath at the fierceness of the blow. He was beyond reasoning. She turned to the bed and crawled beneath the sheets. She felt neither fear nor hatred, only helplessness. She could not protect herself from his suffering; she could not keep him from bleeding in pain. Had she not helped Arouet to open the old wounds?

  He smashed his palm down on the candle to extinguish it, then got into bed beside her, pulling her roughly into his arms. His mouth was hard on hers, bruising her lips, his hands on her arms cruel and tight. Impatiently he pulled off her chemise and mounted her. He had no thought for her readiness; when he entered her she fought back the urge to cry out in agony. He had never hurt her before—not even that first time—but tonight he took her savagely, as though he wished to punish her. She closed her eyes against the tears that burned: tears of pain, tears of pity for his poor tormented heart. She was grateful for the darkness that hid her misery, her shame.

  Tonight she was not Ninon for him. Tonight she was Angelique, atoning for all the griefs of the past.

  She awoke with her body aching and sore. He had used her hard through the long night, turning the act of love into an act of vengeance. She had said nothing, letting him have his way; only when he slept had she allowed herself to weep. Now she yawned and stretched gingerly, pushing off the sheet, then opened her eyes. Valentin, fully dressed, was staring down at her. She followed his gaze to the dark bruises on her arms where his hands had gripped her. Hastily she tried to re-cover herself, but he frowned and pulled away the sheet, then sat on the bed beside her. His face was filled with pain and remorse as he reached out a hand and stroked her bare arms.

  “You never cried out. Damn you! What makes you play the fool? Is it pride? Stubbornness? That you should keep your own counsel, hold your tongue—even as you suffer?”

  “You were not yourself last night. Let it be.”

  “No. Last night…a thousand nights…a hundred days. What difference? I have been cruel to you, abused you, struck you. Played the brute more times than I care to recall. And still you hold your tongue, and bow your head, and wait for the next blow. Why? Why?” He took her by the shoulders and shook her, his tortured eyes seeking answers in her face.

  “Name of God, Valentin,” she whispered, “let it be.”

  “What are you,” he asked, his voice ragged, “that you hold your pain inside and say nothing? Damn you, what are you?”

  “Your mirror,” she said simply.

  He fled then, leaving her to dress alone and pack her few belongings into her hamper. A small breakfast had been left on a tray; she ate it with complete indifference. The food tasted like ashes in her mouth. When she emerged into the courtyard, the players were already fastening the last bits of baggage into the wagon, and exclaiming in delight at the three horses that had been given them by the Comte d’Arouet.

  “Is it not grand, Ninon?” exclaimed Toinette. “The use of a carriage to get here—and now a gift of horses! What a fine gentleman he is.”

  “And a suit for me!” exclaimed Marc-Antoine, parading about to exhibit his newly acquired doublet and breeches of elegant blue velvet.

  Valentin tightened the ropes on the oxen. “I shall be pleased when Monsieur le Comte sees fit to pay us the remainder of our fee and we can be quit of this place.” He looked over to where Joseph was admiring a chestnut mare. “Go and find Monsieur Villebois and ask him when we are to be paid.”

  “Upon the instant, Monsieur Heartless.” The Comte d’Arouet moved slowly through the arch of the corps-de-logis toward the strollers. Ninon ran to him, letting him lean on her instead of his cane.

  “Your eyes are sad this morning, madame,” he said softly.

  “’Tis my nature.”

  He sighed. “Have I done a foolish thing?”

  “No. I feel sure that, in time…”

  “Will you return? I would know how he fares.”

  “You have my word, Monsieur d’Arouet. If I must move Heaven and Hell, I will see that the Peerless Theatre Company returns to Château d’lvry.”

  By this time they had reached the center of the courtyard, where the rest of the players waited. Arouet fumbled in the breast of his doublet and withdrew a large sack of coins, holding it out to Valentin. “Monsieur Sanscoeur.”

  Valentin bowed and took the proffered money. “We trust you enjoyed our endeavors, monsieur.”

  “Indeed. You are a fine company. I wonder you do not play in Paris.”

  Valentin gazed at him steadily. “Mayhap we shall…now.”

  “I wish you well.” Arouet hesitated, then offered his hand to Valentin. Ninon held her breath. Valentin stared at the comte for a long time, then clasped the man’s hand in a firm grip.

  “Au revoir, monsieur,” he said gruffly, and turned about to Joseph. “If you wish to ride a horse, I’ll take the wagon.”

  “I’ll sit with you,” said Ninon.

  Valentin shrugged. “As you wish.” He pocketed Arouet’s money, then swung himself onto the seat of the wagon, holding out his hand for Ninon to scramble up beside him. They moved out slowly through the frontispiece, crossing the village square toward the highroad that led south. Ninon had turned about at the last to wave to Arouet. As their cavalcade took a bend in the road, leaving the town and château of Ivry-la-Bataille behind, she stole a surreptitious look at Valentin. He was staring straight ahead, his face like carved stone. Proud and stubborn to the end. She bit back the angry words that sprang to her lips.

&nb
sp; Suddenly he put his hand over hers, and squeezed her fingers in silent acknowledgment. When she looked again at his face, she saw that he had begun to weep.

  Sweet Madonna, she thought. Let them be tears of forgiveness. Forgiveness for himself.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Benissimo!” Valentin threw back his head and laughed, clapping enthusiastically for the young boy who blushed and bowed to the company.

  The innkeeper beamed at the players gathered around the supper table. “Did I not tell you my son was a fine juggler?”

  “Indeed he is.” Valentin fished in his pocket for a coin. “If we return to Pithiviers in a year or two, we will consider taking the lad into our company.” He smiled again as the boy puffed with pride and his father clapped him on the shoulder.

  Seated across the table from Valentin, Ninon felt her heart swell with joy. These last few weeks, since Ivry-la-Bataille, she had watched him in wonder and delight. The years had seemed to melt from his face, the weight of his remorse and guilt slowly lifting. It was as though the meeting with his father had been a sort of catharsis, releasing him at last from the burden he had carried for so long. He still raged from time to time—he would not be Valentin else—but his troubled heart seemed lighter.

  She turned and smiled sweetly at the vicomte sitting beside her. She did not care for him very much—his eyes were cruel despite his gracious manner—but he was brother-in-law to the provost, and a man of some influence in Pithiviers. Besides, he and his wife were their hosts at supper tonight, and had promised to bring their friends to the performance on the morrow. She looked across to where Valentin was entertaining the vicomtesse, surprised to see his pleasant demeanor, the way he bent attentively to the woman so that she dimpled like a coquette and ducked behind her fan. Could it be that he was learning to play the diplomat? And when they rose to leave, the company full of gratitude for their host’s many kindnesses, Valentin even managed to kiss the woman’s hand.

  “Methinks I should be jealous,” she said to him with mock seriousness, when they were alone at last in their chamber.