“Sweet Madonna,” murmured Ninon, stricken.
“Shut your pernicious mouth, Colombe!” barked Valentin. He looked at Ninon, a spark of compassion—just for an instant—flickering in his dark eyes. “The girl has her reasons. None of which are your concern. Or mine.” He laughed sharply, the mocking devil returning once again. “Did you ever know a woman who did not have her schemes? Now…you…Ninon. You wish to be an actress, n’est-ce pas? I give you the opportunity to play your first role. Professionally, of course. I have no doubt you have always been capable of pretense—it is a beautiful woman’s birthright! Now: your part. You are to bid us farewell for all the world to see. Do not play it too broadly, with grief and wringing of hands. Your preoccupation last night with the pawing oaf and the panting peacock of a gentleman made it rather apparent that our endeavors onstage were wasted on you! Now to the plot: obvious farewell by heroine; exeunt traveling players. There is a crossroads—some two leagues from here, I would guess. We shall wait there for two hours. No more.”
She nodded and hurried into the château. It would only take a moment to gather her belongings and her carefully hidden wages, and tuck her straw hamper under the back staircase near the door. She would wave good-bye to the company from the window, the children beside her; who would fail to notice the racket they made? She would return with them to their room and their studies. After a decent interval, she would praise their work and send them down to the kitchen for a treat from the cook, cautioning them to remain there until she came to fetch them.
Her scheme worked perfectly. In no time at all she was on the road, hidden from the château by dense trees, hurrying toward the crossroads. Farewell, Philippe. Farewell, folly. She gulped back her tears; she must learn to be hard again. She thought of Sanscoeur, so cruelly mocking, so hurtful and ugly—she was almost glad he was so disagreeable. It would be easier to remember what Philippe had managed to make her forget for a little—that a man was a betrayer, a heartbreaker, taking a girl’s dreams and giving back ashes.
Drawing a deep breath, she began to trot toward the crossroads. Toward the unknown life that awaited her.
Ninon Guillemot. Actress and traveling player.
Chapter Four
“Valentin, you plaguey villain, if I wake with my bones aching, I shall deliver you such a kick as would render you impotent for a month!” Colombe smiled maliciously. “That is, if you had the inclination, sweetling.”
Valentin shrugged and turned his back to her, warming his hands at the fire in the clearing. Beyond the dark trees, an owl hooted into the night air. Chanteclair and the young lad, Joseph, set down an old and battered settee that they had lifted from the wagon, placing it within the circle of firelight.
“Put a cheerful face on it, Colombe,” Chanteclair said mildly. “You shall sleep elegantly, while the rest of us must be content with the hard ground and a few branches.”
“Bah! But for that great looby, that pricklouse, that shittlebrain…”
“Fair lady.” With an elaborate bow, Chanteclair knelt before Colombe, gazing worshipfully at her scowling face, her swollen belly. “If the world but knew, when it glories to see your queens and princesses upon the stage, that beneath the trappings of the noble lady lies the soul of…” Discretion getting the better of him, he smiled benignly, rose to his feet, and said no more. Behind him, Marc-Antoine smothered a laugh.
Colombe sniffed. “But for Valentin, that fool, we should all be sleeping soundly at The Red Bull in Grancey. Two hours at the crossroads!” She whirled to Ninon, sitting apart from the group, finishing the last of her supper bread. “Two hours, mademoiselle! Two hours in the hot sun, and a cold supper. And not a decent bed! And all on your account.”
“Have done, Colombe,” growled Valentin, turning from the fire. “You shall breakfast well at Grancey. We needed another actress. You know it as well as I.”
“Ah, but this one…this one…” Colombe’s eyes were like a cat’s. “To put ourselves out for this one. Not a shred of talent, I’ll wager. And indifferent looks. And yet we waited half the day!” She laughed, an ugly sound. “Can the great Sanscoeur be growing soft toward a woman? You had best guard yourself, my dearest Mademoiselle Ninon, unless you wish…” She patted her own expanding girth.
Valentin crossed his arms against his chest, his dark eyes sweeping Ninon with contempt. “I scarce think Mademoiselle Ninon needs me for that. Better a nobleman’s brat than a stroller’s bastard.”
It was clearly meant as an insult to Philippe. Ninon leaped to her feet, bosom heaving in fury, fists tight-knotted at her sides. Only Gaston’s gentle voice and his hand on her shoulder prevented her from springing at Valentin. “As to the matter of ‘mademoiselle,’ we must change it, of course. Surely you know, Ninon, you must be called ‘madame’ henceforth.”
Chanteclair smiled at Ninon’s puzzled frown. He folded his hands in prayer, his eyes rolling heavenward. “Alas! Despite our most virtuous behavior,” a sly wink at Colombe, “the world at large thinks actors a scurvy lot. And so, to preserve the illusion of propriety, every lady in the company must be assumed to be married, and is thus called ‘madam.’”
“And if you are religious, ‘Madame’ Guillemot,” Gaston said kindly, “you must be prepared for the scorn of the Church. You will be held ipso facto excommunicate until you abandon this trade and seek absolution.”
“And absolution comes dear,” said Chanteclair, rubbing an imaginary coin between his fingers.
“Excommunicate!” murmured Ninon, her eyes wide with distress. “But…but a child must be baptized, n’est-ce pas? And what of burial in holy ground, and…marriage, and…?”
“What a great blubbering fool you are!” sneered Colombe. “There is not a church register in the whole of France that has not recorded a host of sacraments for so-called musicians and singers. ’Tis a simple matter to gull a country curé, so long as the fee is large enough!”
“Mon Dieu!”
“Have you not the stomach for it after all?” growled Valentin. “Will you return to Marival in the morning?” The words were cast down like a challenge.
Chanteclair threw him an angry look. “If you wish to hide your name,” he said gently to Ninon, “take another…as Valentin has done.”
“Take two, if you wish,” said Gaston. “I remember the great Robert Guérin, who played in Paris when I was a boy. When he played comedy he was Gros-Guillaume, ‘Fat William,’ but on the days he essayed tragedy he called himself LaFleur.”
“No,” said Ninon, looking Valentin firmly in the eye. “I shall be Madame Guillemot. At least until I can find a name that suits me as well as others’ suit them! I cannot imagine you ever had any other name save Heartless!”
“Valentin! Nom de Dieu. Can we not get on with the business of the itinerary before we lose half the company?” Marc-Antoine, his fleshy lips pursed in disapproval, indicated the edge of the clearing where two couples seemed about to vanish into the privacy of the dark forest. At Valentin’s call, they reluctantly joined the rest of the players to sit around the fire, Joseph putting his head in Toinette’s lap and smiling vapidly up at the girl, Sébastien with his hand under Hortense’s skirts.
“Well then,” said Valentin, “what say you all to Nevers, Moulins, Bourges, Auxerre? And a few towns in between, if profit beckons?”
“Montluçon before Bourges,” said Gaston. “There is a fine tennis court there. And if we arrive before the eighth of June, Saint Médard’s Fête, there should be a goodly number of folk willing to spend their money on a divertissement or two.”
“I heard that there was plague at Auxerre. Perhaps we should avoid that town.” This from Sébastien, who seemed more concerned with his hand under Hortense’s petticoat than with the conversation.
“Plague be damned!” said Hortense, her eyes flashing. “You’re afraid of the bailiff at Auxerre! The one you cheated at cards some years agone, and who swore to kill you if you gambled again in his town!”
“I
never cheated the man!”
“Then why avoid Auxerre? Unless you intend to gamble again, damn your poxy soul!” Hortense and Sébastien glared at each other; there was a sudden movement of Sébastien’s hand under the skirts and Hortense let out a great shriek, half-rising to her feet and subsiding again to the ground at some distance from Sébastien. “Sleep alone tonight, you dunghill!” she spat.
“If we are to be in Bourges,” Marc-Antoine said petulantly, “I do not see why we cannot go on to Orléans or Tours.”
“Because we are not good enough,” said Valentin. “Their theaters and actors are the equal of Paris. How can we hope to vie with them?”
“That’s what you always say! But how are we to know, unless we try? If you were agreeable, we could go in a tiltboat on the Loire from Nevers to Orléans. Sometimes I think you avoid the big cities intentionally.”
“True enough,” said Gaston. “I fail to see why, when we were so close to Dijon after our commission for Froissart, we could not have tried our luck in the city.”
Colombe had been reclining like a queen on her settee; now, the conversation having touched a theme dear to her heart, she struggled to her knees and pointed an accusing finger at Valentin. “We could have stayed until the Parlement of Burgundy was in session and the great nobles were assembled! Do you think I never tire of being cosseted by a country lord, too poor to go to Paris or the big cities, his title too mean to be talked of more than five leagues from his château?”
Chanteclair snickered. “You never tire of being cosseted by anyone.”
“The nobles who fill the public theaters in the big cities are rowdy and dangerous,” growled Valentin. “And powerful. If you break one of those heads in a brawl, it will cost you your neck! I say ‘no’ to the cities, and let us have no more on it!”
“We will talk of it another time, I promise you,” Colombe said ominously, settling back onto her couch.
Joseph yawned and sat up, giving Toinette a kiss on the cheek, so that she giggled. “Is there more that we must talk of tonight?”
“The matter of money,” said Valentin. “We have saved out enough of Froissart’s gold to pay our expenses until our next presentation, but who will lend expense money to Madame Ninon until she earns her first share? I, for one, shall not.”
“Nor would I take a sou from you, Monsieur Sanscoeur!” Ninon reached into her pocket and withdrew a leather pouch, counting out a handful of coins and throwing them angrily at Valentin. “There! Twenty-five crowns! Half of what I own in the world. Sweet Madonna, I shall not be beholden to you!”
Valentin nodded silently and pocketed the coins. In a few moments, Toinette and Joseph, arms about each other, had disappeared into the woods. Colombe sighed and curled up on her settee, the men made themselves as comfortable as possible on the pine boughs they had gathered for their bedding, and Hortense, still sulking, sat with her back to the fire, gazing into the blackness of the night sky.
Ninon leaned against a tree trunk and covered her face with her hands, feeling the ache in her legs from the unaccustomed walk, the deeper ache in her soul. She envied Toinette and Joseph and their youthful love, her longing for Philippe almost more painful than she could endure. Ah Dieu! Had she made a mistake? Was she a coward to run away from Philippe and her destiny? And she could not even pray to le bon Dieu for guidance. Was she not an outcast now? As godless and scorned as these, her new comrades? She looked up to see Valentin staring at her from across the fire, his eyes black with hatred, a hatred she had not even earned. Have I traded Philippe’s love for this? she thought, and closed her eyes again.
“What? Saucy wench, will you go to sleep without bidding me a good night?” The voice was high-pitched and quavering.
Ninon’s eyes flew open. Leaning over her was Chanteclair, a pair of spectacles perched on his nose, a large white chambermaid’s cap covering his mahogany curls, a dark shawl across his shoulders.
“Look!” cried Marc-Antoine, sitting up in delight. “’Tis Grandmère, the old hag!”
“Grandmère, you sweet lady, where have you been these past weeks?” laughed Sébastien. “Learning to speak like a castrato?”
“Mock me not, you naughty children, else I shall crown you with a piss pot!” simpered Chanteclair, limping into the firelight and giving Sébastien a sharp rap on the nose.
“Name of God, Chanteclair,” muttered Valentin, “will you play your silly part at this hour of the night?”
“Pish-tush, you great sour face, Grandmère always comes to visit when she is needed. Now, Hortense, you goose—is it worth a cold sleep to show Sébastien how angry you are at the mere expectation of his gambling? Punish the sin, but not the contemplation of it—else we should all be damned in Hell! Come, come, Hortense, up with you, and go and give Sébastien your lips…” “Grandmère” leered wickedly, “and whatever else you wish to give.”
Prodded by Chanteclair, Hortense arose and embraced Sébastien, who beamed in triumph and pulled her into the trees. “Grandmère” pranced about the clearing, tweaking Gaston’s beard, whispering a bawdy remark to Marc-Antoine that brought a roar of laughter, thrusting out his belly and waddling in imitation of Colombe’s clumsy gait. In a few moments everyone except Valentin was smiling and chuckling at his antics.
“Now,” said Chanteclair, stopping before Ninon, “what can Grandmère do to bring you cheer? I cannot give you a prettier face, God knows!” Chanteclair cackled delightedly and pointed a quivering finger at Valentin. “Aha! I have it! I shall turn your tormentor into a frog.”
Ninon giggled. “Leave him as he is. For is he not a wild creature already? A great grumpy bear?”
“Indeed he is!” said Chanteclair, his voice a high squeak. “Now give Grandmère a kiss goodnight, and let her go to see what the children are up to. I have no doubt Joseph, at least, is ‘up,’ though I cannot be sure about Sébastien.”
“Grandmère, you are a devil,” laughed Ninon, kissing Chanteclair on the cheek and watching in delight as he hobbled off into the woods. She felt her life put into balance again by his warmth and humor. She moved closer to the fire and glanced up. Valentin was still staring at her, his broad forehead creased in a deep frown. “Do you never smile?” she asked.
“Why?”
“Are you so filled with bile that you find nothing to smile about?”
“What do you know?” he said bitterly. “Living your days as a pampered princess at Marival—your first disappointment to find you could not have Philippe all to yourself.”
Ninon flashed him an angry look, but said nothing.
“What? Not a rejoinder? No tears to excite my pity, no waspish words to sting me for my insolence? None of the tricks of womankind?”
She sighed and turned away, suddenly too weary to bother.
He laughed cruelly. “Think your last thoughts of your lover, Ninon, and your easy life at Marival. Tomorrow you learn to work!”
They set out early the following morning, traveling westward from the mountains of Burgundy to Nivernais and the rolling green hills watered by the Loire River and its many tributaries. Colombe wolfed her breakfast at Grancey with ill humor, determined that Valentin and Ninon should know how she had suffered on their account. With an eye to Ninon, Chanteclair suggested they hire a few horses to take them to the next town, but there were none to be had in Grancey.
The day was fine, with a soft May breeze that ruffled Ninon’s hair and cheered her spirits. Except for Valentin, the strollers appeared a pleasant enough lot, no better or worse than she had a right to expect. Chanteclair and Gaston were unfailingly kind to her, and even Marc-Antoine, for all his affectations and florid manners, seemed good-hearted, though he took great joy in insulting Colombe. Joseph was young, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, Ninon guessed, with all the brashness of his tender years, and the appetites to match. He walked along the dusty road behind Toinette, his eyes on her swaying hips, his desires plain on his face. Sébastien and Hortense spent the morning bickering with each o
ther; it was hard to believe they had been lovers the night before. And Colombe, perched precariously on the swaying wagon, was sometimes agreeable, smiling and gracious—especially when Gaston nullified Marc-Antoine’s sharp remarks with compliments. She was very beautiful, Ninon thought, though her raven hair, rich by firelight and candlelight, seemed an unnatural hue under the glare of the May sun; Ninon wondered if nature had been aided and abetted in the matter.
Ninon glanced at Valentin striding along beside her. Hard and lean, he moved with the suppleness and grace of an actor, forever poised for the sudden leap from a pasteboard balcony, the mock duel, the sham brawl. Even his words, cynical and cruel as they could be, or merely instructive, as they were now, were delivered in a voice that flowed in a musical rhythm, rich and resonant.
“We shall start with the improvised comedies, I think. We imitate the Italian manner. Are you familiar with it?”
“Indeed,” said Ninon, smiling in remembrance of her days at Bellefleur with her father. “I had occasion once to see the great Scaramouche, Tiberio Fiorello.”
Valentin snorted. “I scarcely thought Monsieur le Comte de Froissart had the taste—or the pocketbook—to engage the Comédie Italienne.”
“Fiorello, the Scaramouche?” said Gaston, coming up beside them at the mention of the actor’s name. “Did you know that once, when King Louis was still the Dauphin, and a child of three or four, he laughed so hard at Scaramouche, while being held by the great comedian, that he quite forgot his manners?”
“What happened?” asked Ninon.
“He wet the man thoroughly!”
Ninon giggled. “Truly?”
“They say the king tells of it even today, with great relish.”
“He is a great comedian,” said Valentin, his voice edged with impatience. “But Ninon will be no comedienne at all, if we cannot get on with the business at hand! Now, unless we acquire a written comedy newly brought from Paris, we work from a rough soggetto, as the Italians call it, merely an outline of the plot. You will be expected to improvise, but I think you have a ready enough wit for that. We play stock characters, though they may have different names. And each of us plays his own characters, and none other. Thus, Gaston is the Pantalone, the rich merchant, the deceived husband; Marc-Antoine the doctor or savant; Chanteclair, the Polichinelle, the clever servant, the intriguing Brighella, the knave. Joseph and Sébastien,” he added dryly, “play the lovers—even onstage!”
Dreams So Fleeting Page 9
