“Of what? She was old and fat and tiresome.” He took her in his arms and kissed her.
“Then at long last you have learned Chanteclair’s skill at flattery, when it is in the best interests of the company.”
“Sweet Jesu,” he growled, “I wasn’t kind to her to truckle to the beldam!”
“Then why?”
“You yourself spent the evening with her husband. What thought you of the man?”
“Cruel, I think, despite his charm. I should not care to cross him.”
“Yes. It was clear from what the poor woman said to me that she is lower to him than his grooms.”
She looked at him quizzically. “And that is why you flattered her, kissed her hand?”
He shrugged. “If the poor creature can feel admired for a moment or two—though it be sweet illusion—what’s the harm?”
She stared at him in astonishment. There had been a time when a woman’s tenderness would ignite his malevolence. “You softling,” she teased. “Do you mean to tell me there are times when a woman is worthy of your kindness? The great Monsieur Heartless?”
“Very few times,” he said dryly. “As for ‘softling,’ you saucy wench, I’ll give you ‘softling’!” He grinned and began to tickle her playfully, stopping only when she begged for mercy and swore that he was still the same sour-faced Valentin he had always been. Still laughing, they fell into bed and made love with lighthearted abandon, finding new joy in each other, as though they had never been lovers before.
“How many peaches are left, Joseph?” Ninon rolled over onto her back and gazed up at the clear blue sky.
“Two.”
“No more?”
“I only stole a score. I thought I heard the farmer’s dog.”
“Here,” said Valentin, leaning over Ninon. “Have a bite of mine.”
“Mmm.” She smacked her lips, savoring the sweet fruit, and closed her eyes. The scent of summer flowers filled the meadow, and the warm sun kissed her cheeks. She could hear the humming of bees as they worked a patch of clover, and a distant thrush sang. She sighed deeply, filled with contentment. The company had never done so well, playing success after success, despite their reduced numbers. They had bought new scenery, new gowns for the women, new boots for the men. They stayed in the finest inns, dined well, satisfied their every wish. Hortense had recovered her health, and Valentin…Valentin…Ninon sighed again. Every day was a joyous revelation, showing her a man she had not known before. A man who was become so dear to her that her heart ached to think of ever parting from him.
If only he would see into her heart. It was the one dark cloud on the clear blue of her horizon. If only she could make him see.
She opened her eyes and sat up, looking about at her comrades sprawled on the greensward. She had known them for little more than a year, but they were the dearest friends she had ever had. There was a sense of community in their little band; where they touched on matters that concerned the whole company, they thought and felt as one. That was why they were here this afternoon, stretched out in a sunny meadow, munching on stolen peaches, instead of in the next town unpacking their belongings. The glorious day had called to them all—there was time for a picnic under the blue sky. They would arrive at their destination after dark, but what did it matter? The day was too sweet to waste in travel. Ninon scanned the sky, idly noting a large white cloud on the horizon.
Sébastien wiped his mouth on his sleeve and tossed his peach pit over his shoulder. “Nom de Dieu, Marc-Antoine, share some of that wine!” He drank deeply from the demijohn and handed it on to Joseph. “I forgot to tell you,” he said to no one in particular, “when we were in Saint-Benôit I met a merchant just come from Paris. He heard that Monsieur Molière has gained for himself a fine patron—the king’s brother, ‘Monsieur’ Duc d’Orléans. I should not be surprised if Molière played Paris in the near future.”
“And came to the king’s notice as well,” said Joseph.
“We might have done the same,” Marc-Antoine said sulkily. “I shall stifle with provincialism!”
“Come now, Marc-Antoine,” chided Valentin. “The provinces have put money in your pockets and boots on your feet.”
“Ah, but in Paris…a man may live his life however he chooses, without fear of censure and bourgeois morality. I tire of provincial naïveté.”
“And the pickings are slim,” Toinette said waspishly. “How many Pierres can you find in the provinces?”
“Stupid bitch,” said Marc-Antoine, obviously stung by her words. With great dignity he marched to a nearby tree, sat down—his hat pulled low over his eyes—and went to sleep.
Hortense frowned at Sébastien. “Where were you in Saint-Benôit when you met that merchant?”
He sighed. “Must we play this scene again?”
“Damn you!” Her voice was shrill. “The local gambling hall, n’est-ce pas?”
“We can afford it.”
“Ahhh! You would take your last crown—that was to buy my shroud—and lose it on rouge et noir!”
“Don’t start with me, Hortense,” he said, jumping to his feet. “Val, I shall take a horse and ride on ahead to town. Do you want to stay at the Black Swan?”
“Why not? Their beds are clean, as I recall.”
“Then I shall take rooms and await your arrival. If you find me not at the Black Swan,” he smiled maliciously at Hortense, “look for me in the tripot.” He moved to one of the grazing horses, swung up into the saddle, and disappeared over the crest of a hill.
Concerned as always with his stomach, Joseph reached into the wagon and brought forth a loaf of bread—round and flat like a discus—that they had bought in the last town. “I’d give my soul for a bit of lard or honey at this very moment,” he mourned, breaking off a dry crust from the loaf.
“The field is full of clover,” said Hortense. “There must be a beehive nearby.”
“Indeed, yes.” Joseph was all smiles. “Toinette, will you come with me to look?”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Valentin. “’Tis no simple matter.”
Joseph bristled. “My father did it all the time. He would throw sticks at the hive until the bees went away. Toinette, will you come?”
She made a face. “I cannot even think of food while my stomach churns. Go without me.”
Ninon glanced at the sky. More clouds had appeared, large white puffs that held an edge of gray. “But do not tarry, Joseph. I like not the look of that sky.”
“It will not rain,” he said, and strode off to a small grove beyond the meadow.
Hortense had been eyeing Toinette. “Your stomach churns,” she said at last. “Have you been taken with a looseness?”
Toinette shook her head. “No. Only that…I know not what it can be…” She gulped and clutched her belly.
Valentin laughed. “Mayhap it is the result of a looseness in your behavior!”
Toinette gasped. “Mon Dieu! Do you really suppose…?”
“Come along,” said Hortense, slipping her arm through Toinette’s. “We have much to speak of.” The two women strolled to the edge of a small brook, and soon were talking animatedly to each other, Hortense waving the air with a cautionary finger, Toinette nodding her head in agreement while her yellow curls bobbed up and down.
Ninon looked at Valentin and began to giggle. Under his tree, Marc-Antoine still snored. “I was only just thinking what happy comrades we are,” she laughed, “and here we are scattered to the winds like dandelion seeds.”
Valentin yawned and stretched. “’Tis too lazy an afternoon to be troubled by the cares of others. I shall sit here and write a play in my head.”
“What will be your theme? Will there be a part for me?”
His dark eyes studied her, suddenly serious. “Perhaps. My heroine will be a princess who keeps her heart locked in a tower.”
“But surely she is only waiting to be rescued.”
“Yes. I think my hero will be strong and noble—and fair.”
“Why not dark?”
“Because she prefers a man who is fair.”
Ninon frowned. “Is she so simple that she judges a man by the color of his hair?”
“She has no judgment left, for her heart is locked up. Remember?”
“Dark or fair,” said Ninon sharply, “how shall he rescue her? He must have obstacles of course, to make the plot more interesting. Give him chains to drag about with him. Chains forged of his own pride!”
“Would you write a comedy, then?” he muttered.
“No. A farce. For the hero is a buffoon.”
“And the princess is a fool!”
“Wherefore?” she asked, gazing at him with yearning eyes. “She has her dreams, and her hopes—”
“Foolish dreams,” he interrupted angrily. “Empty hopes! Do you think Philippe still remembers you?”
She fought back her tears. “Let us play Oedipus and put aside the writing. You play his blindness exquisitely!” She looked up at the sky, now dark with clouds. “And if that fool Joseph does not return, we shall be drenched long before we reach town.” She hurried to the wagon and began to cover their furnishings with the canvas they kept for inclement weather. Damn Valentin and his stubborn pride. She would not let him break her heart.
A sudden howling from the woods snapped her head around. Valentin jumped to his feet and Marc-Antoine started in his sleep. Joseph emerged from the grove of trees, runnning like the wind, a swarm of bees in close pursuit. They caught him a moment before he splashed into the brook; he yelped in pain and swatted furiously at the creatures. Laughing at first, and then filled with sympathy for the hapless Joseph, the players gathered around. By the time they had packed his face and arms with mud to ease the sting, and laid him, groaning, into the bottom of the wagon, the rain had begun.
They arrived at the Black Swan after dark, drenched through, grumbling and angry with the weather, with one another, with their wretched lot that put them—like gypsies—forever upon the road. While the rain beat loudly upon the roof, they ate in silence in Ninon and Valentin’s bedchamber, sunk in gloom, shivering still (though they had stripped down to shirts and chemises and hung up their wet clothes), filled with their own private miseries. Ninon sighed and pushed away her plate. Was it only this afternoon that they had seemed so happy?
There was a sudden cackling laugh. They looked up in astonishment at the sound. Valentin stood in the doorway, a shawl about his shoulders, Chanteclair’s glasses on his nose. “You foolish children,” he said, his voice a high squeak, “is there not enough rain and misery beyond the casements without you bringing it into the room?”
Marc-Antoine grinned in delight. “Grandmère, we have needed your cheer.”
“Then why go to Paris, you silly ass? You may find a better troupe, you may find a new lover. But you shall not find warmer friends and companions.”
Marc-Antoine looked shamefaced. “True enough.”
“As for you, Toinette,” “Grandmère” pursed her lips in vexation, “have you not enough charm—after your parade of lovers—to help poor Joseph forget his pain and grief tonight? Your ministrations should be better than any doctor’s, n’est-ce pas?”
Toinette laughed and blew “Grandmère” a kiss, then led Joseph into her bedchamber.
Hortense shook her head sadly. “You cannot resolve my concerns, Grandmère.”
“Wherefore? Because Sébastien gambles? Many a man does as much.”
“No. Because gambling is his wife. His mistress.”
Valentin laughed sharply and pinched Hortense’s cheek. “You goose! Are you blind? Know you that Sébastien would not gamble when you were ill—not even when we urged him to double our capital. He feared to lose the one coin that might save your life.”
“Ah Dieu,” whispered Hortense, turning to Sébastien. “Is it so?”
“Have you so little faith in me?” grumbled Sébastien. He turned to Valentin. “Grandmère, what think you of beating a wife with some regularity?”
Valentin snickered slyly. “I can think of a better reason to tuck up a woman’s skirts.” He turned to Ninon and smiled, pulling off his glasses. “Now be off, the lot of you,” he said in his own voice. “‘Grandmère’ has business of his own this night.” He took Ninon’s face between his hands and kissed her softly. “Dearest Ninon, why do you weep?”
“For Chanteclair’s legacy,” she said, and put her arms around his neck.
He carried her to the bed and made love to her as he had not before, almost reverently, his hands caressing her in adoration, his lips doing honor to her eyes and mouth and bosom. And when at last his body had stilled, he folded her into his embrace, as though he could not bear to be parted from her even while they slept.
The sun was bright in the room when she awoke. She stretched in pleasure, feeling the smoothness of the sheets against her naked body, the contentment of her senses. Valentin was already moving about the chamber, putting on his clothes, but when she stirred he came and sat on the bed beside her.
“I thought you would sleep the day away.”
“Would you have minded?”
He stroked back the hair from her forehead. “Yes. For then I could not kiss you.” He bent down and put his lips to hers, then smiled, his eyes enveloping her with their warmth. “Beautiful Ninon. I never remember to tell you so. And then I hear some coxcomb flattering you, and I curse my own silent tongue.”
“You wicked man,” she said tenderly. “How am I to forgive you?”
“Let me atone in some small way.” He fingered her earlobes. “Joseph and I must arrange the jeu de paume for this afternoon. But it would please me if you would seek out a bijoutier and buy a new pair of earrings to replace the ones we sold.”
“Valentin…how foolish…I would be as happy with an armful of summer flowers from the meadow. I scarcely need…”
“Please. Buy them for me. And I promise that when Joseph and I have concluded our business, I shall bring you flowers.”
She dressed and breakfasted, then hurried down the street to the village square. A tinsmith, spreading out his wares to the morning sun, directed her down a narrow lane to a jeweler’s shop; she was delighted to find that the bijoutier had among his stock a fine pair of coral earrings. She paid for them quickly, eager to see Valentin again—he must have returned to the inn by now. She could hardly wait to show him her purchase, so like the earrings he had given her. She hummed a merry tune, skipping blithely over her shadow on the cobbled way, and turned into the inn courtyard.
She saw the splendid carriage first, the Froissart crest painted on its door, then Valentin standing like a statue, the summer blossoms forgotten and scattered at his feet. He looked up as she approached, his face a mask, one eyebrow cocked in cynicism. He smiled stiffly, indicating the servant in livery who waited near the coach.
“This is Philippe’s man. Come to take you back with him.”
“But…you cannot mean…”
The coachman stepped forward. “Mademoiselle Guillemot?” She nodded in silence, too stunned to speak. “I have a letter for you,” he went on, fishing in the pocket of his doublet.
She reached for it, her hand shaking, and tore open the seal, conscious of Valentin’s burning eyes on her. Philippe’s letter was filled with extravagant outpourings of love, vows of undying devotion. He had put aside the differences in their stations, he said, and now waited—his heart surcharged with longing—for her to fly to his side.
“What does he say?” asked Valentin, his voice harsh with contempt. “Is he panting for you? Is he filled with desire? Does he need your love beyond all reason?”
“Name of God, Valentin…” she whispered. Stricken, she turned back to the letter and read it again, seeking a spark of warmth, the anchor upon which to fasten her floundering heart.
“And what of Madame de Froissart?”
“Henriette is dead.”
He laughed sardonically. “Why then, little bird, nothing stands in your way.
Your dreams have come true at last.”
“Val…” It was a cry of agony.
“Go, damn you! Go to your Philippe!”
She stared at him for long moments, seeing his handsome face contorted with anger. She sighed. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I must go.” She turned to the coachman. “Tend to your horses and have the innkeeper give you something to eat. I shall not be long.” She glanced up at the sky. “’Tis almost noon. Have him pack a little dinner for me.”
“It will not be necessary,” said the coachman. “Monsieur de Froissart has provided me with a purse for your food and lodgings on the journey.”
“How solicitous your lover is, little bird,” said Valentin. “He has considered your every need.”
Dear Heaven, she thought, I shall die. She turned quickly so that he would not see her face, and hurried toward the inn, speaking over her shoulder to the servant. “I shall not take long. My packing…a few things…no more.”
“Mind you take only those gowns that belong to you!” Valentin’s voice was hard and angry. “We can always find another soubrette to wear your costumes.”
She fled to her room, choking back her tears. What a fool she was! She was going to Philippe, and he loved her. What more did she want? Have a little common sense, Ninon, she thought. She opened her large trunk and emptied it of its contents, spilling her clothes out on the bed. She fetched her hamper from a shelf and began to sort her things, replacing the borrowed costumes in the trunk (which belonged to the company), and neatly folding her own skirts and bodices into her hamper. She was rather proud of herself and her newfound composure—it was really the best course of action, to go to Philippe. She worked quickly and efficiently: the tights and spangled gown into the trunk, the petticoat into her hamper. The red velvet gown was hers, but the mermaid costume…the mermaid costume…Her busy hands slowed and she began to tremble, holding the costume to her cheek, remembering the times when she had worn it. Her eyes filled with tears.
She heard a step behind her and brushed at her cheeks. She must not weep.
“He’ll break your heart,” Valentin said gruffly. “You’re a fool.”
Dreams So Fleeting Page 37