by Stella Riley
‘Bugger off,’ she said.
~ * * ~ * * ~
TWO
At home in the ugly little house on the Rue Benoit, Athenais found her father snoring drunkenly over the kitchen table and, leaving him where he was, went straight to her own cramped room under the eaves. Then, throwing herself into bed, she sank into deep, dreamless slumber.
She awoke, as usual, shortly after nine and, wrapping herself in a chamber-robe which the second-hand clothes seller in St. Michel assured her had once belonged to a marquise, went down to cook herself a belated breakfast.
Her father – awake and more or less sober – was sitting by the hearth, nursing his head. Athenais’s brows rose and she said blightingly, ‘My God. Which has run out – Gaston’s wine or your money?’
Archibald Stott, who’d fought in the German wars until the palsy had taken the use of his right arm, looked back at her blearily and, in the unlovely accents of Bridewell, said plaintively, ‘Bleeding ’ell, Agnes – for Gawd’s sake stop nagging, will you?’
Athenais drew an irritable breath and, sticking to French, snapped, ‘I haven’t started yet. And don’t call me Agnes.’
‘Why shouldn’t I? You can use a fancy made-up ’andle at the theatre – but in this ’ouse you’re plain Agnes Stott.’
It was an old argument. Usually, Athenais refused the bait. Today, with her nerves at full-stretch over the likely consequences of her attack on Clermont, she said acidly, ‘Since you and Maman never married, that’s not true, is it? But if it was, I could hardly be blamed for changing it. Agnes is bad enough, God knows. But Stott?’
Archie sat up rather too spryly and winced at the sudden throbbing in his head.
‘I don’t see what’s wrong wiv it.’
‘No. You wouldn’t.’ Snatching a pitcher from the table, Athenais turned towards the door to the yard. ‘If you want breakfast, you can make a start by getting the fire going,’ she remarked. And went out to the pump.
The yard stank of rotting cabbage leaves and the contents of countless pots de chambre. Athenais wrinkled her nose and, ignoring the jibes of the pair of slatterns gossiping by the wall, filled her pitcher and went back inside to fry slices of sausage. Archie watched her work and, in between debating ways of getting her to line his empty pockets, wondered – not for the first time – how he and Louise had managed to produce such a little beauty.
He was proud of her, in his way. Proud of her success on the stage as well as the way men looked at her. He was also sometimes uneasy about exactly how far she’d had to use the second in order to achieve the first. But he never asked any questions or told her of either emotion. He simply reminded himself that, despite her fragile appearance, his Agnes had a will of iron, the constitution of an ox and a tongue like a razor.
As for himself, he’d never meant to let her keep them both and, in the past, had tried various schemes which always seemed certain to make money but somehow never did. For a year or so after Louise had died, he’d even occasionally tried holding down a job. But when nothing worked, apathy had set in, causing him to dive deeper and deeper into the bottle. And the truth which lay inescapably at the bottom of it was that the dratted palsy had deprived him of the only thing he’d ever been any good at. Soldiering. Without that, he was left with nothing; not even self-respect.
Whereas the recent civil troubles afflicting France had failed to grasp Archie’s interest, the wars in England had been a constant reminder of what he was missing. And just when he thought that the battle of Worcester had finally removed that particular thorn from his side, the Commonwealth had driven it in afresh.
As Athenais placed the platters on the table and sat down opposite him, Archie said abruptly, ‘Now England’s at war wiv the Dutch, I reckon the Cavaliers’ll be trying their luck again.’
Athenais, whose interest in English politics registered at several points below zero, merely shrugged. Then, when her father continued staring morosely at his sausage, she relented and answered in the English he’d taught her.
‘Wiv what? They got no army, no money and nobody to ’elp ’em. By all accounts, they’re lucky they still got their Prince.’
Archie scowled. Everyone knew that Charles Stuart had narrowly escaped death or capture in England and only got back to Paris by the skin of his teeth, leaving his Cause in tatters behind him. Scotland was being forcibly incorporated into England; the Royalists of far-off Barbados and Virginia had submitted to the Commonwealth; and even though Henry Ireton had been dead since the previous November, Ireland still lay crushed beneath the boots of the New Model. Consequently, the Parliament had probably picked as good a time as any to go to war with the Dutch over the carrying-trade.
Through a piece of sausage, Archie said stubbornly, ‘He’s not a prince no more. He’s King of England.’
‘Noll Cromwell don’t seem to fink so.’
‘No. Well, he wouldn’t, would he? Bloody king-killer.’
Athenais grinned faintly. She had never understood why her father was so fiercely Royalist – and suspected that he didn’t either. On the other hand, she wholeheartedly agreed with his views on regicide for the simple reason that no King meant no Court – and her profession relied on patronage. Not that there had been much of that recently – what with the Fronde, His Majesty, King Louis X1V still being a few months short of his fourteenth birthday and neither his mother, the Queen-Regent nor Cardinal Mazarin having much interest in the theatre. But Marshal Turenne would eventually drive Condé from Paris so the Court could return; and, in the meantime, at least the theatres stayed open –which was more than could be said for England. But then, in a country where women’s roles were played by boys, the closure of the playhouses was probably no great loss.
Here in Paris, things were very different … and if the revival of Le Cid was a success, her own career would blossom with it. If, of course, she still had a job. Feeling suddenly sick, Athenais pushed her platter aside. Rightly or wrongly, Clermont was not without influence. If he set out to get her dismissed, he’d almost certainly succeed; and she’d have thrown away years of work for the fleeting satisfaction of telling an over-blown pig’s bladder what she thought of him.
The possibility of being cast out of the theatre terrified her. It wasn’t just the fact of not being able to act any more or of no longer being part of that warm, glittering make-believe world she escaped to every day. It was the thought of going back … of being trapped in the sordid cage of her childhood where everyone stank of stale sweat and there wasn’t always enough to eat and you saved your only pair of shoes for church on Sunday.
The real trouble, of course, was that she’d glimpsed something better … had herself become something better. She’d started by sweeping the theatre floor and running errands and had ended as one of the Marais’ leading actresses. But it hadn’t been easy. It had taken six years of struggle and hard work. Extra tasks in return for reading lessons; hour upon hour developing proper posture and learning how to curtsy correctly – how to move, to turn, to smile, until she was graceful enough to be allowed on-stage as a walker. Then, most difficult of all, striving to eradicate every trace of the gutter from her speech before she could be trusted with a line of her own.
The result was that, along with her acting skills, Athenais had learned how to pass as a lady. The veneer might only be skin deep but it was good enough to deceive most people. The trouble was that, as long as she lived in this midden, there wasn’t much point in playing the duchess every day.
‘Finished wiv this, ’ave you?’ Archie gestured to her half-full platter and, when she nodded, said, ‘Reckon I’ll finish it, then.’ He eyed her obliquely. ‘It ain’t like you to pick at your food, Agnes. Not sick are you?’
‘Yes,’ said Athenais, catching his meaning and resenting it. ‘I’m sick of living in this pig-sty and finding you drunk every night. I’m sick of wearing other folks’ cast-offs and ’aving Marie d’Amboise sneer at me. And I’m particularly sick of being called blo
ody Agnes. But the one fing I ain’t is sodding pregnant!’
Archie pursed his lips. ‘Never fought you was.’
‘Course you bloody did.’
‘Didn’t. A brat’d put paid to your acting, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ She came abruptly to her feet. ‘Worse still – unless you don’t mind starving – it’d mean you’d ’ave to do an ’ands turn yourself once in a while. So it’s just as well I’ve more sense than to get caught that way, ain’t it?’
And she swept out without giving him time to reply.
* * *
She set off for the theatre earlier than usual but walked slower. She could only afford Martin’s services for the homeward journey, so every day – come rain or shine, she tramped the not inconsiderable distance between St. Severin and the Marais.
Her route took her along the Rue des Rosiers, past the house she would have sold her soul to live in. It wasn’t anything spectacular; just a tall, narrow building, jammed between numerous others. But it looked as clean and neat as the road outside; and, to someone reared amid the smells and filth of the Rue Benoit, it seemed like a palace.
She arrived at the theatre to find her colleagues clustered before the stage, conversing in abnormally subdued voices. Clermont was the only one missing. All the rest fell abruptly silent as soon as she appeared.
Athenais’s heart sank but, assuming an expression of mocking indulgence, she threw her cloak across a bench and said, ‘Don’t stop on my account. I’m sure I’ve missed the best bits, anyway. And doubtless Monsieur Laroque is waiting to see me.’
‘In the Green Room with Froissart,’ nodded Marie d’Amboise promptly. ‘I’m afraid you haven’t been very wise, my dear.’
‘Probably not,’ agreed Athenais, turning to go. ‘But at least I’ve got some back-bone.’
She crossed the floor to the sound of her own footsteps and was just about to leave the auditorium when Etienne Lepreux called out, ‘Watch your step, Athenais. They’ve got old pig-face with them.’
For an instant, Athenais looked back at the slender young man who – since he could out-act Clermont a hundred times over – ought to be making his debut next week as Le Cid. Then, with a swift smile, she thanked him and continued on her way.
Well-modulated even in rage, Clermont’s voice reached her from the other side of the Green Room door.
‘It is insupportable! I, Arnaud Clermont – who have worked with Montdory and Jodelet – to be insulted by a common little trollop? An arrogant ingénue who appears to think herself of such importance that she can order the company as she sees fit? It is not to be borne!’
It was as good a cue as any. Athenais opened the door and walked in saying coolly, ‘Why not? The rest of us have to put up with you doing it all the time.’
Glaring, Clermont swung round and said, ‘Bitch!’ Then, once more addressing the manager, ‘You see? The impertinent slut isn’t even sorry!’
Petit-Jean Laroque, an ascetic-looking man in his middle fifties, who ran the Théâtre du Marais with ruthless efficiency and still occasionally played character roles, surveyed Athenais with faint irritation.
‘Well, mademoiselle? Can we expect no apologies?’
‘On the contrary, Monsieur – you can expect several,’ replied Athenais ruefully. ‘I’m sorry I’ve inconvenienced Monsieur Froissart and I’m sorry we’re wasting good rehearsal time on a squabble. But I don’t take back anything I said to Clermont last night. After the way he behaved on stage, he deserved every word.’
The actor’s colour became positively apoplectic and, seeing it, Froissart said quickly, ‘Doubtless there is fault on both sides. But for the sake of the play --’
‘Bugger the play!’ snapped Clermont. ‘I want the insolent cow dismissed.’
There was a sudden, deathly hush during which Athenais stood very still, trying not to show that her heart was thudding against her ribs and her stomach a mass of painful knots. For a lot longer than she thought necessary, Manager Laroque communed silently with the ceiling. Then, expelling a long breath, he said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, Arnaud. No.’
For a moment, none of his listeners could believe they had heard him correctly. Clermont’s jaw dropped and Athenais groped her way feebly into the nearest chair. Finally, in something less than his usual rounded tones, Clermont said, ‘What? What did you say?’
‘I said no,’ responded the manager, still calmly but with utter finality. ‘I can’t dismiss Mademoiselle de Galzain merely because you and she have quarrelled. Particularly when, as I understand it, she has a certain amount of right on her side.’
Athenais’s breath leaked away.
Clermont, on the other hand, demanded glacially, ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Simply that I don’t expect a player of your stature and experience to take his personal feelings on to the stage at all – and particularly not before an audience. Consequently, I have some sympathy with Mademoiselle’s anger, if not her method of expressing it.’ Laroque paused and spread expressive hands. ‘As Antoine has said, there is fault on both sides. So I suggest that the two of you agree to put the episode behind you and forget that it ever happened.’
‘Impossible!’ declared Clermont.
Athenais re-inflated her lungs and stood up.
‘Why? Come on, Arnaud. I’ll kiss and make up if you will.’
‘And stab me in the back later on, no doubt,’ he retorted. The burning gaze encompassed Froissart. ‘Antoine – I appeal to you. After what she said to me – and you heard it all – I can’t possibly work with the little bitch. Nor do I intend to try.’
Froissart contemplated his finger-nails, saying nothing and there was another long, airless silence before, finally, Manager Laroque came to his feet.
‘I’m truly sorry you feel that way, Arnaud – and can only hope that you’ll change your mind when you’ve had time to consider the matter,’ he said clearly. And, looking straight into the actor’s florid countenance, added gently, ‘It goes without saying that I would be desolate to lose you.’
This time the silence was of epic proportions. Athenais, a sudden flush mantling her cheek, kept her mouth tightly shut and left Clermont to voice her own thought.
‘Do you mean to say,’ he asked gratingly, ‘that you are choosing this – this doxy in preference to myself?’
‘Only if you force me to it,’ replied Laroque. ‘I don’t deny that you are valuable, Arnaud. But I have felt for some time that your ego is stifling the company … and I’m getting a little tired of your whims. In short, you are becoming exceedingly difficult to work with.’
Athenais folded her arms to stop herself applauding.
Clermont opened and closed his mouth rather in the manner of a cod. Then, apparently unable to think of a suitable reply, he spun on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door with an almighty crash.
Athenais and Froissart winced. Laroque sighed and said, ‘God. How predictable.’
Drawing a steadying breath, Athenais said, ‘Monsieur, I don’t know what to say except thank you – and I promise I’ll work till I drop rather than let you down.’
‘You’d better, ma fille – because, if I’m any judge, Clermont is already on his way to offer his services to Floridor at the Bourgogne.’ Laroque walked to the door and then, turning, added, ‘As for your gratitude, it would be better addressed to Antoine, here. If he hadn’t convinced me that your recent success isn’t a mere flash-in-the-pan, I might have felt inclined to hold on to Clermont. Pain in the arse though he is.’ On which note, he was gone.
Athenais curbed a faintly hysterical giggle and launched into a passionate expression of gratitude – only to realise that Froissart wasn’t listening.
‘Merde!’ he muttered bitterly. ‘It looks as if I’m going to have to go on myself tonight.’
* * *
Word of Laroque’s stand and Froissart’s part in it went round the company like wild-fire and earned the assistant-manager a resounding cheer fro
m which only Marie d’Amboise remained aloof. A faint, sardonic smile touched Froissart’s mouth and then disappeared as he instructed Etienne Lepreux to take the role of Rodrigue during the rehearsal. He said nothing, however, to suggest that the part was to be permanently re-cast and Etienne wisely asked no questions, merely setting to work with renewed zest. Everyone else eyed Athenais with perplexity verging on wary respect.
By the time the rehearsal was over and Athenais was alone with Pauline Fleury, perplexity had somehow been transformed into speculation and then into fast-moving rumour.
‘What?’ gasped Athenais, when Pauline told her. ‘They think I’m what?’
‘Sleeping with Froissart. After what just happened, what did you expect them to think? You know they haven’t much imagination.’
Athenais gave a gurgle of laughter.
‘Or too much. I never heard anything so silly. Everyone knows Froissart’s never looked at another woman since he married Amalie. And if he hears anyone saying he has, he’s likely to murder them.’
‘So Marie d’Amboise had better watch her step,’ grinned Pauline. Then, thoughtfully, ‘Your stock has risen significantly today. Clermont may not come back – and Laroque can’t afford to lose you as well. So now would be a good time to ask for an increase in pay.’
For a moment, Athenais was tempted. Then, shaking her head, she said, ‘I can’t. He’s done enough for me already. I can’t ask for money as well.’
Pauline stared at her acidulously.
‘Then you’re an idiot. How often do you suppose a chance like this comes along?’
‘Not very often. But I owe Froissart --’
‘You owe him your best on stage. You owe yourself some half-decent lodgings. My God, Athenais – if you don’t look out for yourself in this world, no one else will.’
‘I know. And I know you mean well and are probably right. But I won’t do it.’
‘Very noble! But you’d be better saving your principles till you can afford them.’