“My God,” he said. “If a man wanted you, he could have you on the ground with your skirts up in five minutes.” He pushed her away, a look that was almost hatred coming into his eyes. “If a man were fool enough to want you! A-a-ah! Why the devil should I care? Run after your Philippe. Spread your pretty legs for him!” He strode angrily to the door, then turned, his mouth twisted in an ugly grimace. “But what will you do with the brats he gives you?” He laughed scornfully at the sudden look of horror on her face. “Did it never occur to you, little fool, each time your loving gardener Philippe plants his hot spade in you, he is perhaps planting more than you bargained for?” He laughed again, seeming more like a devil than ever. Sweeping his towel off the floor, he disappeared into the room whence he had come.
Fighting back her tears, she fled to the courtyard, trembling against the sunny wall while she tried to wipe from her memory the feel of his mouth on hers. Foolish Ninon! It was just a kiss that had caught her unawares—that was all. He had done it to humiliate her. Best not to think about it—or about her weak-kneed submission. It was his words that should concern her. As insolent as was the man, as crude and ugly were his words, they rang in her brain like a warning bell. She had not even thought of children. Nor the life she would doom them to. A life like her own. She would merely be repeating her mother’s folly, trusting her children’s happiness and security to a legacy that could be stolen by a vengeful widow. She sighed unhappily. But what was she to do? Even if she married Mathieu, she would succumb to Philippe sooner or later; she could not withstand his words of love. And Mathieu, coarse and lustful Mathieu. Would he be as careless and cruel to a stepchild as Baugin had been? Ah Dieu! What was she to do?
No matter Philippe’s feelings for her, he would never forfeit his comfortable life, the convenience of his marriage to Henriette. She had been a fool to let him know she loved him. Hadn’t she learned by now not to trust a man with her heart? Now he would beguile her with his sweet words and—willy-nilly—she would warm his bed, bear his children, do his bidding, however humiliating and joyless, if she stayed.
If she stayed.
“By the forehead of Zeus, Colombe, you shall not displace my guitar!”
An outraged shriek. “You mincing tapette! I’ll tell you what you may do with your guitar! But for the nonce, I shall ride!”
Startled out of her reverie, Ninon looked up. Two of the actors were quarreling. The leading lady of the night before was brandishing an ornate guitar, alternately threatening to smash it to the ground and gesturing obscenely with the neck of the instrument. An equally irate man, large and fleshy like a soft dumpling, was guarding what appeared to be the last open space on the overloaded and groaning wagon. Ninon saw now why the lady had worn the outmoded and high-waisted gown the night before: in a simple skirt and apron, her large belly, obviously in the later stages of pregnancy, bulged like an overripe melon.
“Fat whore!” hissed the man. “Would you break the back of the ox? You can walk like the rest of us! Pay for your wanton pleasures with the soles of your feet!”
Colombe shrieked again, her face purple with rage, and raised the guitar to smash it over his head.
“Colombe! Nom de Dieu. Hold your temper!” A third actor appeared between the two combatants, snatching the guitar from Colombe’s hands and momentarily cowing her with his glance. He seemed to be well along in years, perhaps fifty, with a gray spade beard and close-cropped hair. His brown eyes flashed angrily as he turned to the younger man. “And you, Marc-Antoine! You see that Colombe can scarcely walk in her condition. Let her ride. We shall find a place for your guitar, else I shall carry it myself.” Though he still scowled, his voice was conciliatory and commanding all at the same time.
Colombe smiled smugly and clambered aboard the wagon. “A pox on his old guitar, Gaston,” she sniffed. “Marc-Antoine is merely sulking because he cannot possibly be the father of my child!”
“Oh! A poisoned arrow to my heart!” Marc-Antoine slapped his hand to his breast—a silly, melodramatic gesture, it seemed to Ninon—and grimaced in pain. “You see what I must endure from that bitch?”
“Have done, both of you,” Gaston growled in exasperation. “I fail to see why you should take such offense, Marc-Antoine. You have hardly made a secret of your inclinations!”
Colombe clapped her hands in delight. “The two pageboys in Bourboule—do you remember, Gaston? When Marc-Antoine…”
“Enough! There is too much for me to do today without listening to your viper’s tongue! Sit you there and be quiet—or I myself, Gaston Floresse, will toss you out of the wagon! If we are to make Grancey by nightfall, there is work to be done. Mon ami, my friend,” he said, as a curly-haired young man joined them, “fasten a line across those chairs. Mind they don’t rattle.”
The young man swept off his plumed hat, dragging the feathers in the dust of the courtyard as he bowed low. “Monsieur le roi! My lord the king. You have but to command me…”
Grancey by nightfall, thought Ninon. They travel far—and fast. There was no safety on the road for a woman alone. But with a band of actors…? She had already collected two months of wages; she could pay them for their protection. It would leave her very little, of course, to start a new life, but it could not be helped. Or could it? Her eye lit on the guitar that Gaston still held. She was a skilled musician. Why not offer her services for the few weeks she would be with them, until she had found the path that her future was to take?
Timidly she approached Gaston. It was obvious he was the leader of the troupe. “Monsieur Floresse,” she began, “have you a need for another player?”
“You, mademoiselle?” She nodded. “What can you do?”
“I can play the guitar. And the lute. And I can read.”
“Can you sing?”
“A little.”
He handed her the guitar. “Show me.”
She plucked at the strings, familiarizing herself with the instrument. “It is well tuned,” she said, smiling as she nodded to the fleshy young man. “Monsieur…Marc-Antoine, n’est-ce pas?”
He bowed to Ninon. “Marc-Antoine de Ville de La Motte. At your service.” He sneered over his shoulder at Colombe. “Here, at least, is a lady of sensitivity!” He bowed once again to Ninon. “You honor me, ma belle.”
Ninon began to play. Her voice was not remarkable, but she trusted in the skill of her fingers to show her talents. After two country airs, she stopped and looked questioningly at Gaston. He pulled aside Marc-Antoine and the curly-haired young man. For some moments they conferred quietly, looking now to her, now to Colombe, who sat pouting in the wagon, excluded from their deliberations.
At last Gaston turned to her. “Can you act, mademoiselle?”
“What does it matter?” Marc-Antoine simpered wickedly. “Colombe cannot!”
“I…I have never done it,” said Ninon.
“But you can read a part that is written down?”
“Of course.”
“And commit it to memory?”
“Wherefore not? Is it so different from learning lessons? But why do you ask?”
Aware of his delicate role as diplomat, Gaston smiled warmly at Colombe in the wagon. “You see, mademoiselle, the…ah…difficult situation of our charming Madame Linard. She is a superb actress, you understand, but…it is impossible to play the part of a…maiden, when all the world can see…” He stopped and cleared his throat.
Marc-Antoine giggled and the curly-haired young man threw him a warning glance.
“As you can see,” Gaston went on smoothly, “Madame Linard must of necessity restrict her appearances on the stage for the next few months. We will need another lady to play the first parts.”
Better and better, thought Ninon. Just the few months she needed. “Then you will take me on, monsieur?” she asked, proffering the guitar to Gaston.
“No. Keep it to show your skill to Val.”
“Val?”
“The head of our illustrious company.”<
br />
“But…not you, Monsieur Floresse?”
“Not I. You must speak to Monsieur Sanscoeur.”
Ninon laughed. “Sanscoeur? Heartless? What a name!”
The curly-haired young man stepped forward. Warm brown eyes, as rich mahogany as the curls that spilled over his linen collar, smiled at Ninon. “His full name is better. Valentin Sanscoeur.”
“A wry name. A name of unpleasant irony.”
“An apt name, as you will discover.” He grinned. “And scarcely conferred at the baptismal font, you understand!”
She laughed, feeling welcomed and warmed at once by his open countenance. “And what is your name? Réjouissance? Merriment?”
“No. You see me in my modest morning guise, but they call me Chanteclair.”
“The Crowing Rooster. And do you live up to the name?”
Smiling, he took her free hand. “Sometimes I crow, sometimes I strut about, and sometimes…” he kissed her hand with mock passion, “I assail every hen in the barnyard!”
She laughed in delight. “Well met, Chanteclair!”
His eyes twinkled merrily. “But I warn you, mademoiselle, I will…Ah! Valentin! We have found a replacement. And just as I thought we should have to paint Colombe with copper and present her as a kettle in our next play!” This remark sent Marc-Antoine into a frenzy of laughter, while Colombe sputtered in fury. “Voilà! A replacement.”
Ninon turned to meet Monsieur Sanscoeur, and felt her heart thud in her breast. It could not be! The arrogant man from the stable. His lip curled in a mocking grin, enjoying her discomfiture. He finished buttoning the cuffs of his full shirt and tucked it into his breeches, making even that simple gesture seem an insult. “You have talents…beyond the obvious, mademoiselle?” he drawled at last.
“Indeed, yes!” crowed Gaston. “She plays the guitar exquisitely.”
Sanscoeur took the guitar from Ninon and handed it to Floresse, but his eyes never left her face, and the insolent cock of his eyebrow made her tremble with fury. “Guitar?” he sneered. “Name of God!” One slim-fingered hand reached out and pulled the cap from her head, releasing the glory of her copper curls. There was a chorus of a-a-ahs from the men, while Colombe muttered under her breath, her face pinched with jealousy. Valentin stepped closer to Ninon. Swiftly he pulled down her chemise so it rested off her shoulders and bared the first rounded swell of her bosom. “That is what they will come for, mes amis!” He stared at Ninon, his eyes black and filled with hatred. “The race of men rejoices in the allure of a tormenting woman.” A bitter laugh. “Though, curse me, I cannot fathom why!”
Furious at the indignities visited upon her, Ninon almost slapped his face again. She could hardly understand her intemperate urge to strike him, to crack that sardonic mask. Always before she had hidden her anger, swallowing her pride, fearful of the storm of retaliation her open emotions might bring down upon her head. She took a deep breath, willing her rage to cool, and straightened the neckline of her revealing chemise. “If you will but allow me, Monsieur Sanscoeur,” she said coldly, “you shall see I am skilled with the guitar.”
He smirked. “No. No guitar. It would cover your bosom too much. An actor learns very soon that it is foolish to hide one’s best assets!”
She smiled tightly, determined to throw the insult back in his teeth. “Indeed?” she purred. “Then, my lord Valentin, you may safely wear Spanish breeches, loose and billowing. And with no fear. For surely you have no nether assets worthy of display!”
“Touché!” exulted Chanteclair. Marc-Antoine and Gaston roared with laughter as Sanscoeur turned purple and strode away quickly, finding a loose rope on the far side of the wagon to draw his attention.
Ninon turned to Chanteclair, the smile fading from her face. “You said the name suited him,” she said quietly, so the others could not hear. “It is so. The man is heartless. It is plain I cannot join your company. I scarce can fathom the why of his hatred, but I feel it to the quick.”
“No. It isn’t you. He does not particularly care for any woman. Unhappily for him, the ladies in the audience are eternally sighing and love-smitten.”
“Not any woman? Is he…?” she stopped delicately, leaving the question unfinished, and glanced toward Marc-Antoine daintily brushing the dust from his doublet with a lace handkerchief.
“Ma foi! My faith! No!”
She frowned and hesitated, torn by indecision. “The man is insufferable,” she said at last.
“Yes.”
“Arrogant, rude, insulting…”
“Yes.”
“Not a shred of human decency in him.”
“Without a doubt.” Chanteclair smiled, his gentle mouth twisting at the quizzical look on Ninon’s face. “I would trust him with my life,” he said softly.
She stared, blue eyes wide with surprise. How could anyone speak well of Sanscoeur?
With studied indifference, Valentin fastened one last rope on the wagon, then marched back to Ninon and planted himself before her, arms folded across his chest. “Well? Have you decided?”
“Have you?” she challenged. “Am I…acceptable to you?” This time the mockery was in her voice.
He shrugged. “Only because Colombe has grown so large. And Hortense has not the looks, nor Toinette the art to play her roles. When she is delivered of her child…Well, we shall see what we shall see.” He gazed at Ninon’s flat belly, as though he were seeing Philippe’s seed already growing there. It hardly seemed worth it to her to disabuse him of the notion that she and Philippe had slept together—what did his opinion matter to her? Besides, it was none of his concern. She was growing quite used to his malice, even in so short a time. And so long as it was not directed exclusively to her, she could deal with the man.
“Then it is agreed?” she asked.
“’Tis a hard life.”
“I have known worse.”
“We travel from town to town. And we are ofttimes…unwelcome. We have no rich patron, so we must manage as best we may. We divide equally…after expenses. If you have a hundred livres to spend at the end of a month you will consider yourself fortunate.” His eyes raked her body, almost seeming affronted by her lush curves. “Of course, you may earn a few extra crowns from time to time, as our sweet Colombe does, but that is entirely your own affair.”
He thinks me a whore, she thought. So be it. Let him think so! She smiled smugly. “I have no doubt I shall…earn my way,” she said, “and with a little more besides for trifles and indulgences. You need have no fear of that, monsieur!”
He nodded curtly. “Let me introduce you to the company. You have met Gaston Floresse, I think, and our ‘nobleman,’ Marc-Antoine de Ville de La Motte. This is Chanteclair…”
She shook his hand, feeling as though she already had a friend in the company. “And does the Rooster have another name?”
“My mother called me Jean,” he said, shamefaced. “Far too ordinary a name.”
She smiled with warmth. “Then I shall be happy to call you ‘friend,’ Chanteclair.”
“Mon Dieu,” growled Valentin. “Shall we be at this all morning? Colombe Linard, our somewhat indisposed prima donna. Over there…” indicating a plain-looking woman, “Hortense Joubert, a most accomplished comedienne. And that little tart flirting with the stableboy yonder—Antoinette Vivoin, our soubrette, who plays the maidservant roles.”
“Toinette, you little minx!” Marc-Antoine cried waspishly. “Come and meet the charming creature who will show our fat cow what it is to be a leading lady!”
“God’s blood,” Gaston muttered in exasperation, as Colombe screeched in outrage. “Do you never stop, the two of you?”
Valentin puffed with impatience and put his hands on his hips, black eyes glittering in annoyance. “The last of our company you will meet in a little. Joseph Pélerin, the youngest of our number, is filling the water pouches at the well. And Sébastien Duvet…”
“A pox on him!” This last from the plain-looking Hortense, wh
o had joined them just in time to hear Sébastien’s name. She frowned and made an obscene gesture with her finger. “You must be a fool, Valentin, to have sent him for our earnings from Madame la Comtesse! It will be gambled away before we see a livre of it!”
“I trust the man, Hortense,” Sanscoeur said tiredly.
She snorted in derision. “You? Trust? I’ll wager you bit your wet nurse’s nipple to see if she was genuine!”
“Only because she was female,” he growled. “In truth, Hortense, I promised Sébastien that I would show the company your fat backside if he hurried with the money!” He took a menacing step toward her, one eyebrow raised in mockery. “You had best pray he lingers along the way! Now, let me introduce our new player. Ninon…”
“Guillemot.”
“Welcome to the Peerless Theatre Company, Ninon Guillemot. I trust you will not regret your decision.” Valentin interrupted the handshakes and greetings that followed with an impatient clap of his hands. “We leave in half an hour’s time.”
“Wait!” said Ninon, struck by a sudden thought. “I…I do not wish them to know, in the château…when, and with whom…I have gone. I should prefer to leave in secret.”
“I knew it!” cried Colombe. “The girl’s a thief. I could tell it in an instant!”
“How so?” Chanteclair said angrily. “What nonsense!”
“It’s true,” said Toinette, shaking her blond curls, ready at once to agree with anything that was said. “Only a thief slips away in secret.”
Colombe smiled like a cat. “You see, Val? You will simply have to do without a leading lady until my child is born. That creature would murder us in our beds if we took her along! You see the evil cast in her eye? It gives me the chills! Surely she will put a curse on my unborn babe!”
Dreams So Fleeting Page 8
