Dreams So Fleeting

by Sylvia Halliday

  Resolutely she kept her back to him and said nothing.

  “If he loved you, he would have come for you himself.”

  She shrugged. “I am not so thoroughly the romantic that I expect a panting swain. He’s not a schoolboy with his first love.”

  He sighed heavily. “I suppose it’s for the best. He will not rage at you for looking at another man.”

  “No.”

  There was a long silence. Then: “I suppose you expect marriage!” he blurted.

  “I would want my children to have a father.”

  He laughed bitterly. “You will be a comtesse and live in a great château. Just like your dreams.”

  She closed her hamper and fastened it. “Is that so wrong?”

  “Dammit, you cannot leave!” She felt her heart leap in her breast. “Joseph and I have contracted for the jeu de paume this afternoon. We cannot play without you.”

  “Nonsense. You’ve done it a score of times.”

  “And tomorrow? And next week?” His voice rose angrily.

  She longed to turn around, to see his face. She closed the trunk before her, fingers playing absently with the hasp. “You know as well as I the company is breaking up,” she said evenly. “Toinette is carrying a child. I think she means to marry the first fusilier or merchant who will have her. The rest of you will find other strollers. You can cast in your lot with them.”

  His next words were soft; she strained to hear them.

  “Take not the roses from my days,

  But stay with me and be my Spring.

  When on your smile I may not gaze,

  Then Winter to my heart doth cling.”

  She blinked back her tears, feeling her heart break. She would give him no quarter. “From The Invisible Mistress,” she said at last.

  “Yes. Don Carlos’s speech.”

  “Yes.”

  His defenses were stripped away. “Don’t go,” he said hoarsely. “I love you.”

  She turned at that and threw herself into his arms. “Oh, my dearest love…how could I leave you?”

  He kissed her hungrily, then pushed her away, his eyes wide in amazement. “You love me? You love me?”

  She was laughing and crying all at the same time. “Of course I do!”

  “But you love Philippe! You dream of Philippe!”

  “Do I?” Her eyes were wistful. “Do you remember sometimes when a perfumed coxcomb would come into the changing room and then leave? And we joked about his presence still being there, like a ghost, because the heavy scent lingered. Only the scent. That’s all. I say I love Philippe. I have loved him for years. My heart keeps the memory of love out of habit. I love him. My mouth speaks the words. And yet…just now…hurrying to be with him, I could not call to mind his face before my eyes.” She sighed. “We play at sentiment upon the stage—passion and anger and joy. But they are not real. Mayhap my love for Philippe was always an illusion, a trick of my conjurer’s heart. From the very first. Gratitude masquerading as love.”

  “Yet you would have gone to him, had I not shown you my heart.”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes were full of pain. “Wherefore?”

  “Because…because I’m proud.”

  “Mon Dieu!” He swept her into his arms and held her close. “I should have lost you!”

  “Chanteclair said that love is worth the risk. Do you remember?”

  “Did you gamble on my taking the risk?”

  She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “No,” she said softly. “I should have gone to Philippe and married him.”

  “And broken my heart.”

  “Philippe, at least, would have been happy. He loves me. Though he does not need me.”

  He laughed. “As I do?” There was a touch of bravado in his voice. The old, guarded Valentin. She looked at him somberly, her clear blue eyes peering beyond the mask. He dropped his gaze, his handsome face awash with self-reproach. “As I do, Ninon. Always.”

  “Oh, Valentin. My dear love. Only hold me in your arms.” She clung to him, filled with wonder and relief and a great joy. Chanteclair had been right. This was her home, locked in Valentin’s sweet embrace. She was giving up a comfortable life with Philippe for the wanderings of a gypsy. And without a pang of regret. Philippe had been romance, the romance of her childhood fantasies. Valentin was real—and more dear to her than any dream could ever be.

  They played a tragedy that afternoon. Dido and Aeneas, with Ninon as the hapless Queen Dido. She had never been better, her impassioned love tirades delivered from the depths of her joyful heart. At the very end, mourning the loss of Aeneas while the flames of her funeral pyre rose around her (one of Gaston’s cleverest tricks), she brought the spectators to their feet, cheering and weeping. And when the curtain had dropped, they brought her back again and again to take her bows, tossing flowers upon the stage in homage to her performance. She gathered the blossoms in her arms and retired behind the curtain. She leaned against a wing and smiled at Valentin, her face flushed with success, her eyes shining.

  “We should go to Paris,” he said. “The Théâtre de Bourgogne would welcome you with open arms.”

  “If you think so.”

  He frowned. “Would you grieve to give up this life?”

  “You mean for Paris? To give up the life of a stroller?”

  “No. To give up the life of an actress.”

  She looked surprised. “What would you, Valentin?”

  “I…have been thinking for some time now…he is an old man…the years have been hard on him. How much longer can he manage the estates alone? And the thought of his loneliness troubles my heart.” He looked at her with tenderness. “I want to marry you, Ninon. I want you to bear my children. But how much sweeter if those children have a home—and a grandfather to love them. It would bring great happiness to his fading years.”

  “Valentin. My love. It would bring me great happiness to see you reconciled.”

  He laughed gently. “’Tis a very different life than what you have known. Sometimes tiresome. You might miss the excitement of the theater. And aristocracy can be a burden.”

  “I think I can play the role,” she said with a sniff.

  He bowed in mockery. “Of course, Queen Dido. I forget. But there is more to the role than commands and noble tirades. You will be the Vicomtesse de Bovier in sooth—the title is mine while my father the comte lives. Not a shadowy Queen Dido upon a stage. Do you think yourself a skillful enough actress to play the part?”

  She drew herself up with dignity. “Pish-tush, you great looby! I was born the daughter of a marquis!”

  He began to laugh, thinking it a joke, then stopped, seeing the look on her face. “Sweet Jesu, what an astonishing creature you are!” He nodded to the rest of the company, who had begun to gather around and urge them to change their costumes for the next play. “We come. We come.” He held out his hand to Ninon, kissing her fingertips and leading her toward the changing room. “Come, my love. Let us play the farce to a fine turn, and then you shall sit by me and relate how my sweet Ninon came to be born the daughter of a marquis!”

  Epilogue

  1670

  The laughing of a child woke her. Ninon stirred and looked over to the other pillow, where Nicolas still slept. The years had been kind to him. His handsome face was unlined, his hair as black as ever—though one or two gray curls had appeared on the ebony thatch that covered his chest. She almost bent over to kiss his lips, then thought better of it. He had ridden like the wind from Versailles to be with her last night. Let him sleep.

  She eased herself out of bed, wrapping her naked body with his discarded cloak that lay on the floor. Her eye was caught by the painting of his mother over the mantel, seated with the boy Nicolas and his brother. How much her own two lads were come to resemble their father.

  She heard the laughter again. Crossing to the casement, she looked out onto the vast garden; the servant Girard’s boy was playing with his dog. The day was
sunny, the sky a limpid blue. She felt young and reckless. It was early—her duties would not call her for a while yet. Quickly she donned her clothes and tiptoed out of Nicolas’s bedroom to his antichambre, motioning for quiet to his valet de chambre who waited in attendance.

  He tugged politely at his forelock. “Good morning, Madame la Comtesse.”

  “Good morning, Achille,” she murmured. “Monsieur d’Arouet still sleeps. I would not have you disturb him.”

  “As you will, madame.”

  She hurried along the passageway and sped down a back staircase to the sunny garden, feeling deliciously wicked and wanton. Her lover was home, the sky was blue, and she was free from her cares and duties for a few moments. Skirts flying, she ran among the trees and danced along the graveled paths, coming at last to the secluded garden with its crystal pool and circle of statues. She breathed deeply of the soft spring morning, catching a whiff of lilacs. She seated herself on a small bench, feeling a contentment and serenity that was mixed of equal portions of sunshine and lilacs and love.

  “I knew I should find you here, when Charlotte said you were in the park. Is something troubling you?”

  She rose to greet him with a kiss. “Good morrow, Nicolas. Put your mind at rest. It was only that the spring day whispered at the casement and called me out.”

  “To this spot, of course.”

  “It holds such fond memories.”

  His eyes were misty and faraway. “Yes.”

  With a sweep of her arm, she indicated the statues, silent witnesses to the traffic of the small garden. “Did you know that the children play at actors here?”

  He laughed and shook his head. “I knew we should regret ever telling them of our shameful past!”

  “By the by, did you see Hortense and Sébastien on your way to Paris?”

  “Yes. Their inn prospers, though of course they still quarrel day and night.”

  “Mon Dieu. I thought that Sébastien had given up his gambling.”

  “For the most part. But now he has taken to letting the rooms go for a pittance when a charming woman asks for lodging. And Hortense is in a rage because a strolling company passed through last month and he would not even present a bill!”

  “We should have been grateful for a landlord like that many a time! And Marc-Antoine…had you the opportunity to see him?”

  “No. Molière said he was deep in rehearsals for Monsieur Lully’s new opera.”

  “Poor Molière. Do the rumors still persist in Paris?”

  “Alas, yes. And he is not well. A morbid cough, I fear.”

  Ninon clucked her tongue in sympathy. “After all these years. Still the ugly gossip. The taint of incest.”

  “His wife, Armand, is so much younger…and a Béjart…”

  “But to noise it about that she is Madeleine Béjart’s daughter…not her sister…Sweet Madonna, ’tis ugly enough. And then to claim that Molière himself sired her when Madeleine was his mistress…I cannot believe such calumny.”

  He sighed. “I thought when their child was born, and Louis himself stood godfather…”

  “The act may have legitimatized the child, and shown the world the esteem the king holds for Molière…but…”

  “But it cannot stop the gossip mongers, more’s the pity.”

  “To have all that success,” she said, “and still to be tormented…”

  “’Tis a chancy life, to be an actor and playwright. Have you forgot? Racine’s star is rising…they speak of him in the length and breadth of Paris. And I think that Lully means to see that music and opera take precedence over farce in the king’s attentions.”

  “I was not thinking of Molière’s torments as an actor. Only as a man. Armand was an unfortunate choice for a wife. She cuckolds poor Jean-Baptiste and breaks his heart.”

  Nicolas cocked a mocking eyebrow at her. “We all make mistakes.”

  She glared at him, hands on hips. “Valentin Sanscoeur!”

  He laughed softly. “Now may Heaven protect me. There’s the devil to pay when you call me Valentin!”

  “Valentin was the devil. I thought so the first time I saw you at Marival.”

  “In Philippe’s stable. When I kissed you.”

  “And took my breath away.”

  He put his arms around her. “But even the devil was an angel fallen from grace.” He kissed her tenderly. “And as for Sanscoeur—Heartless—it was only because my heart was given to you.”

  She dimpled prettily. “You’re filled with compliments this morning! While I have you in this mood I should ask for favors.”

  “Shameless hussy!” He tweaked her nose. “What do you want?”

  “Arnaud. Is there not a title for him? He feels it keenly, that he is only Chevalier d’Arouet while Pierre-Augustin is Vicomte de Bovier.”

  “I’ll speak to the lad. And to Pierre-Augustin. It may be that a little humility from Pierre-Augustin will benefit Arnaud as much as a title of his own.” He held her tightly in his arms. “And how else may I serve you?”

  She giggled. “You might take me to Versailles. The last time we were at court, I met the most charming duc…”

  “Saucy wench!” He pinched her soundly on the bottom. She shrieked and pulled his hair. In a moment they both were on the ground, rolling about and laughing. When she stopped to catch her breath, he kissed her, his mouth possessing hers, his hands stroking her soft shoulders. “Now,” he said, looking up at the line of statues that surrounded them, “unless you wish to be ravished in sight of all these witnesses, madame, you will move with all haste to have my breakfast prepared.” He stood up and helped her to her feet, holding her hand as they strolled toward the château. “À propos Versailles,” he said, suddenly serious, “the court is leaving in a week or two for Flanders. To visit the towns that were annexed in Louis’s last campaign. Or so the Gazette has printed. But the court gossips, always alert to intrigue, suspect another story. If the court were in Flanders, it would put the king’s sister-in-law, Henriette d’Angleterre, near to the coast and her brother, Charles II of England. There is some suspicion that negotiations might take place between brother and sister. A treaty between France and England.”

  “To what end?”

  “To destroy the Dutch, I suppose, and drive Spain out of the Netherlands once and for all.”

  “Will you serve?”

  “If I must. Look not so unhappy. ’Tis not likely. Louis prefers to depend on his standing army. He has not forgot the Fronde, and the nobles who rose against him. He’ll break the backs of the aristocracy and beggar us all before he’s through.”

  She smiled up at him. “Why then, if we’re reduced to poverty, you and I shall gather up the children and take to the road! Can you still play a part, do you suppose?”

  “Not on an empty belly, mon Dieu. I want my breakfast!”

  They were passing through formal gardens with sculpted box hedges interspersed with bright tulips. Parterres de broderies, they were called, because they resembled embroidery. Ninon pushed Nicolas ahead of her. “Go in without me,” she said. “And have your breakfast. The tulips are so lovely. I must choose a few for my apartement.” She kissed him warmly and watched him stride toward the château, then bent to the flowers, gathering the blossoms in her arms. She heard Rachel’s voice and looked up. The children had run out of the château to greet him. He picked up Arnaud and put him on his broad shoulder, laughing as the boy squealed in delight.

  Through the mist of sudden tears she saw Bellefleur, her father, the shadow of memories long forgotten. Echoes of her own childhood laughter. Pretty little Ninon. You shall be a queen, a princess, a great lady.

  Her lips still tingled from Nicolas’s kiss. Her love and husband. Her Valentin.

  “Rest content, Papa,” she whispered. “I’ve come home.”

  More from Sylvia Halliday

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  Armed with only a disguise and her wavering courage, Marielle Saint-Juste goe
s on a perilous mission to free her brother from unjust captivity. But when she enters the prison of Louis XIII, it isn’t her wounded brother she finds, but a mysterious stranger—and her destiny.

  In this French dungeon, a love illuminates the darkest shadows in two hearts. Marielle will not only face her deepest fears, but change her life forever.

  Lysette (The French Maiden Series - Book Two)

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  But little does she know, there’s another man in her midst, waiting for the perfect time to take her for himself. It is in his arms that Lysette is destined to find that true love and sanctuary she seeks.

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  Scorned, Delphine soon finds herself determined to avenge her broken heart. But a love that will not be denied soon gets in the way of her journey to vengeance.

  Dreams so Fleeting

  Born the illegitimate daughter of a great French nobleman, Ninon knew only a harsh life of cruelty and hardship. It wasn’t until the dashing Count of Froissart, Philippe, whisked her off to a different world did she begin to have hope for a better future.

  But she soon learns her new life isn’t void of misfortune. A slave to both his powerful title and an unbreakable marriage vow, Philippe’s love remains just beyond Ninon’s reach. Could she dare give her heart to the handsome and cunning rogue, Valentin, instead?

  Gold as the Morning Sun