“’Tis a pity you never saw my first husband,” the comtesse purred. “Extraordinarily handsome. And devoted to me and our sons. But perhaps not as wise as he might have been. He took part in the Fronde uprising in fifty-one and joined the Prince of Condé and the other nobles the following year when they occupied Paris and Cardinal Mazarin and the king were forced to flee. But when the king returned to power that year, and Condé became a traitor to France and allied himself with the king of Spain, my husband would not heed my advice. While most of the nobles were reconciling themselves with Louis and swearing allegiance to the crown once again, my husband was in secret correspondence with Condé in Spain. He was found out, tried, sentenced to death. And of course his lands were forfeit, leaving me and the children destitute.”
“That is a sad tale, madame.” Ninon turned to the comtesse in genuine sympathy, but the gray eyes that stared at her were cold.
Madame de Froissart smiled, a tight grimace that held more malice than if she had frowned. “Now I shall tell you a happy tale. I could not show my face in Paris, of course. And my sons, who had borne their father’s name proudly, were spat upon by their fellows. I went to stay for a time with a cousin in Dijon. And there I met Philippe, home from the Netherlands, nursing a broken heart. You understand. We women have a sense of the precise moment when a man is…shall we say…ripe for the picking? Philippe was most anxious to prove himself a man, after his…Rosamunde—I think that was her name—spurned him.” She laughed softly. “Come, come, girl! Look not so astonished. You are hardly a fool. You see the world with eyes that are scarcely deceived, I think. Why should my words shock you?”
Ninon looked down, trying to hide the anger in her eyes. “Have I your leave to go, madame?”
“No. I have not finished the tale. There is more to come, and a moral besides. As I have indicated, it was singularly easy to catch Philippe. Holding him has proven a little more difficult. But he has adopted my children so they no longer bear the name of a traitor. Common sense, and my boys’ future, would dictate that I keep Philippe as a husband. And there is my tale.”
“And the moral, madame?” said Ninon tightly.
The gray eyes had become hard as steel. “The moral is, perhaps, a warning as well. Desperate circumstances breed desperate acts. I shall use whatever I must to keep him by my side. Always!” She glanced down at Philippe in the garden, then stared again at Ninon. “You see, I too view the world with unclouded eyes. He is blind, as yet, to what I see. It would be best for you if he remains so. There is too much at stake for me to be generous. Do you understand?”
Afraid that she would cry, feeling helpless and trapped, Ninon turned away.
The comtesse put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Ninon, my dear,” she said, her voice dripping with honey, “I have only your best interests at heart. Surely you know that. You are lonely and ofttimes sad. It grieves me to see you thus. It is time for you perhaps to take a husband. And I am pleased to bring you happy news. Mathieu Couteau—I think you know him—the carpenter, has already asked me for your hand. I told him I would speak to you first. But he is a fine young man. You would be foolish to refuse. Come,” she said, turning Ninon about to face her, and cupping the delicate chin in her hand. “What say you? I will, of course, provide a fine dowry. What say you?”
Sweet Madonna, thought Ninon miserably, am I a fool? She could spend a lifetime mooning about Philippe and never win his heart. Nor even his notice! Mathieu was a hard worker and a good man—there would be a comfortable life and strong children if she married him. Wasn’t it time to put aside her childish fancies of a noble hero? “If you please, madame,” she said softly, “I should like to think on it for a week or two. I shall give you my answer then.”
The smiled faded from the Comtesse de Froissart’s face. “Take care that you make the right choice,” she said harshly. “Remember my tale…and its moral!”
Philippe de Froissart stared down at his wife. In the dim bedchamber, lit only by a single candle, Henriette’s flesh seemed pale, almost gray, like that of the corpses that littered every battlefield. In truth, she lay like a corpse, her eyes closed, her arms stretched languidly above her head; when he stroked her breasts, she scarcely moved. He wondered why he even bothered anymore—it was always the same. The endless days of feeling the juices begin to rise in him, the stirring of his senses, the hunger in his body that cried out to be eased. And the dismal realization, each time he climbed into bed with her, that he could relieve himself as effortlessly, as mindlessly, with a whore from the village as with Henriette. Not that he really cared. Life was boring. Henriette was boring, at least in bed. But she catered to his craving for novelty in other ways, planning surprises, trips to Paris and Versailles, parties and fêtes.
Just now she was in the midst of planning a whole week of festivities. Several dozen of the local nobility were coming to Marival to stay as guests, while Henriette regaled them with dances and elegant suppers. She had even contracted with a traveling theatrical troupe to entertain them for several days. And she was clever. Several of the invited guests were notorious gossips in court circles. Philippe could afford the expense of the fête, of course, but it would not hurt if word got back to the eighteen-year-old, pleasure-loving King Louis of the gaiety at Château Marival. There might be a royal pension of a few thousand livres, an important post, if Philippe were to join the ranks of Louis’s favorites.
Philippe himself was looking forward to the festivities for other reasons. He had arranged a hunt where his guests, comfortably ensconced on the side of a hill, would shoot at several dozen deer that he had had his woodsmen trap. When the animals were released, it would make excellent sport, and he was eager to try out his new musket. In addition, he had sent for a tailor from Paris to deck him out in the latest fashion; after several fittings he had become quite used to the new style. His guests, in their conservative clothes, would seem like provincial bumpkins next to him. The thought gave him great satisfaction—he would certainly set the fashion in the Dijon region for the next five years!
He began to feel an uncomfortable pressure at his groin. It was time. Even Henriette’s lifeless body, numb to his caresses, roused him sooner or later. He parted her thighs with his hands and took his place between her legs. Her cousin from Dijon was invited to the fête. Philippe was not quite sure, but he thought they might be lovers. There was a brief time, in the first few months of their marriage, when he might have been jealous, but now…
He thrust into her with more force than usual, feeling an unexpected residual anger at her, at himself, at how the whole business had turned out.
“Oh!” she cried, petulant. “Mind you don’t hurt me, Philippe!”
He mumbled an apology, then resumed his labors, pumping mechanically for his body’s sake while his thoughts were elsewhere. He was looking forward to the party. The Marquis d’Enfant was bringing his new wife. A beauty, they said, and very accommodating. He hoped so. He hadn’t had an interesting bed partner since that charming Lucie-Anne, and then it was the thrill of the chase that had made her so intriguing. After his initial conquest, he had found her less charming.
Yes, he thought. It was most assuredly the chase, the seduction that excited him. It was what had made Rosamunde so desirable—her maddening refusal. But once he was married to Henriette he had lost interest in Rosamunde. Infuriated at his rebuff, she had practically thrown herself at him. To satisfy his curiosity, and nothing more, he had taken Rosamunde to bed. He had found it difficult to keep awake.
Henriette now stirred beneath him. “Nom de Dieu, Philippe! Have done!” With a little effort, he brought himself to climax and collapsed against her. Grunting in annoyance, she pushed him off her and sat up, straightening her hair. “I shall need more money this week,” she said. “Two hundred ecus, I think. There is the roof over the east pavilion, and…”
He held up his hand for silence. “It can be arranged,” he said indifferently. “Spare me the particulars.” He rolled
out of bed and reached for his dressing gown, shrugged into it, and helped himself to a cup of wine from a small table.
“And if all goes well,” she continued, “I shall need another fifty crowns next week.”
“What do you mean?”
“I…have been concerned about Ninon of late.”
“How so? She is a fine tutor for the boys, and she seems content.”
“She is…too pretty, mayhap, with a face that could do the devil’s work. A girl like that can make mischief. I have seen it happen before. Quarrels among the men, the wanton giving of her favors…The sooner she is married, the better. Let her husband fill her belly with children and beat her to keep her from other beds.”
“Dieu du ciel! God in heaven, Henriette, she’s still a child!” There was an edge of annoyance in his voice.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” she soothed, “but not too young to marry. I married at sixteen. Besides, Mathieu Couteau has already spoken for her.”
“That coarse oaf? The girl has noble blood, an education, fine breeding…”
Henriette sneered. “And is yet a bastard, n’est-ce pas? And a penniless servant. Would you want one of our noble friends to marry her?”
He frowned. “No. Certainly not.”
“Then speak not to me of her birth! What matters is what she is now. Better she marry Couteau and not try to rise above her station.”
“What does she say to the marriage?”
“She wishes to think it over. A shy flower. But I know she will agree. It’s all for the best. I think she understands that. Thus, I shall need the fifty crowns. For a dowry.”
“Do as you see fit,” he growled, putting down his wine cup and striding to the door. “I shall sleep in my own chamber tonight.” He closed the door on her passionless “good night,” wondering why he suddenly felt so disquieted.
Ninon climbed the stairs from the kitchen, hurrying back to the children and their studies. She was glad to be out of the common room this morning. Madame de Froissart must have spoken to Mathieu Couteau, giving him to believe his suit would be successful. The carpenter had scarcely left her side all during breakfast, sliding his hand onto her lap under the table, grinning slyly, whispering coarse promises of what he would do to her once they were married. The thought of being yoked to him made her stomach turn, yet she feared madame’s reaction if she refused. She sighed. Perhaps the marriage would work out, despite her uneasiness.
A door opened onto the passage and Philippe stepped out. “I would speak with you, Ninon,” he said. “Please to come into my cabinet.” Dutifully she followed him. His cabinet was a small chamber, one of several rooms that made up his apartement. Designed for reading and contemplation and quiet retreat, it was decorated with frescoed panels on walls and ceiling—depicting various gods and goddesses in myth and legend—and furnished with a few well-padded chairs. Philippe indicated one to Ninon, and seated himself on another, facing her.
“Is it true?” he said at last. “Are you to marry Couteau?”
“I have not agreed to it as yet, but…”
“You have given him cause to hope?”
Ninon’s lip twitched in a wry smile as she remembered Mathieu’s bold words. “He has hopes. Yes.”
“But why?”
She said nothing, merely shrugging in reply.
“You’re an intelligent girl, Ninon. Surely you can do better than Couteau,” he said, like a reasonable parent trying to persuade a child.
Silent, she looked down at her folded hands.
“How can you be such a fool?” The tone was a little less reasonable now. “Would you waste yourself on him?”
Still she said nothing. What could she tell him?
“You’re still a child!” he snapped angrily, reason flying out the window. “There will be time enough to find you a suitable husband. Until then, I will not have you throwing yourself at Couteau…or any other lout in the stableyard! Unless…” his eyes darted to her face, as a sudden thought struck him, “unless you are forced to marry him. Is that it? Have you succumbed to Couteau already?”
Her eyes flashing in fury, she jumped up from her chair and made for the door. He caught her there, grabbing savagely at her arm and swinging her around to face him. “Damn you! I will not have your silence when I speak to you! You are not the little bird any longer. Answer my questions!” It was a moment’s wild impulse, but suddenly his mouth was upon hers, crushing her lips in a fierce kiss. She went limp in his arms, and when at last he released her, he was stunned to see that she was trembling violently, and her blue eyes, brimming with tears, were filled with anguish.
“My God,” he breathed. “What have I done to you?”
She turned away, clutching her arms in misery.
“You love me.” He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her back to face him, seeing with dismay the flush of humiliation that swept across her cheeks. “Since I rescued you from Baugin? Since then?” She nodded, weeping softly. “Mon Dieu!” he burst out, running his fingers absently through his hair. Then, “Why did you come when I sent for you?”
“How can you ask that?” she whispered.
“But…Henriette…?”
She buried her face in her hands.
He groaned. “You did not know.”
She shook her head, her body still quivering, her grief beyond containing.
“Ninon,” he said, his voice warm with pity. “You poor child…”
It was more than she could endure. Rushing past him, she fled up the stairs to her room.
Bewildered, confused, he sank into his chair, leaning back and staring at the cherubs kissing on the ceiling. The unhappy child, he thought. Then sat up, frowning, remembering the yielding warmth of her in his arms.
But she was no longer a child. Indeed, no. What a fool he had been. What a blind fool.
She was a woman.
Chapter Three
Philippe sat carelessly in his chair in the long galerie, facing the temporary stage that had been set up across one short end of the room. The players had worked diligently, transforming the bare boards into a playhouse, with a curtain on a brass rod that closed off the front of the stage, and small candles set along the edge, their glare shielded from the audience by semicircles of tin.
He was slightly tipsy from the wine, and hoping to be more so; a snap of his fingers brought a footman with a jug to refill his empty glass. Thanks be to God his guests were going home in a day or two—he had long since wearied of playing the gracious host. There had been a few brief triumphs, of course. His costume, for one. He had worn the new fashion his tailor called Rhinegraves: exceedingly wide and short breeches in a deep gold, gathered at the waist like a skirt, and trimmed at knee-length hem and waist with yards and yards of cherry-red ribbon loops. With these petticoat breeches he wore a very full white silk shirt, the sleeves puffed and ribboned and frilled, and a waist-length gold jacket with short sleeves beribboned and slashed to the shoulders, and left unbuttoned so that his shirt front billowed out and bloused over the top of his breeches. His tailor had not stinted on the ribbon—250 yards, he had been able to boast to his admiring guests! Just below his knees were wide white frills of fabric, gathered to the tops of his blue stockings. Canons, they were called, and they added to the elegance of his outfit. His pale yellow shoes were tied over the instep with more ribbon loops, and the heels, several inches high, were of red cork. He had even managed to master the mincing walk that his tailor had said was de rigueur with the fashion.
The hunt had gone well, with enough excitement to win the praise of his guests, and the acting troupe, which had performed once already, was passably good. They had done a farce and a pastoral with singing last night; tonight they were to do a tragicomedy.
But he had had his fill of triumphs, and was feeling the old ennui creep up on him, the need for fresh interests. And he had not had a woman in more than a week. Henriette pleaded the cares of a hostess, and there was not a female among the guests who sti
rred his blood.
He took a swallow of wine and motioned his guests to benches beside him and along both narrow walls. He would go mad tonight. He had spent the better part of the last two weeks watching Ninon, aware for the first time of her womanly charms, aware how the wanting of her tormented him. Now there was to be more agony tonight. It was traditional at Marival to invite the servants to one performance by a visiting company, and Ninon had just come in with Mathieu Couteau. If he turned his head slightly to the left, and glanced over his shoulder, he could watch them behind him, sitting close together, Couteau’s arm draped protectively around Ninon’s shoulder, his limp hand hanging down just above her rounded bosom.
Philippe smiled falsely as Henriette took her place on his right. He found her more tiring than ever, though she had sparkled and fussed over her cousin the whole week long. He wondered idly if she had dared to cuckold him in his own home. Look at her! he thought. How artificial she seemed: the boned bodice of her gown creating curves that nature had never intended and hiding the natural sweep of her bosom, the full skirts with their padded hip roll worn under her petticoats, the corkscrew curls of her black hair, held out from her head by a hidden wire frame.
And Ninon. A beautiful face, a soft body that had bloomed and ripened since first he had met her as a child. So fresh and sweet and natural. No corsets, no tortured hair—though he could never understand why she covered her glorious mane with that damned cap! Warm and sensual…and aching with love for him. He would die if he could not have her. But it must be before that drooling Couteau could take her; he could not bear the thought of the carpenter slobbering over that milky skin. Mother of God, he would die tonight!
Ninon looked curiously about the galerie as an actor stepped before the curtain to light the candles, and the guests settled themselves comfortably for the start of the play. There was not another man in the room as elegantly dressed as Philippe. She understood it was the latest fashion. It suited him, of course, accenting the nobility of his stance, the graceful turn of his leg. Still…she wondered if it would betray her love if, in a small corner of her mind, she thought the outfit a trifle précieux and affected. She had not imagined him to be a prancing peacock until now; she found his artificial clothing and his heavy perfume a bit of a disappointment.
Dreams So Fleeting Page 6
