Ninon sat down and poured herself a cup of wine, deliberately turning away from Valentin. Pampered mistress indeed! Seated next to her, Colombe began to dish up supper from the large pot that had been placed on the table, ladling out the stew into bowls. Joseph, hungry and impatient, picked up his spoon in anticipation and broke off a large chunk of bread from the loaf on the table.
“A moment,” said Ninon, putting her hand on Colombe’s arm. She called out to the innkeeper. “Madame. If you please.”
Valentin groaned. “Now what? Is the food not to the great lady’s liking?”
Ignoring him, Ninon looked sternly at their hostess and gestured toward the pot. “What is this?”
“Fricassee of pigeons.”
“Fair enough, but where are the pigeons?”
“What?”
Taking the ladle from Colombe, Ninon stirred the pot, then indicated the bowls that had already been filled. “There are a great many turnips and onions—and half a garden’s worth of cabbage—but I have counted only one wing, one breast, and two necks. For all ten of us. You have asked a deal of money for this meal. You will either give these hungry men more meat, or lower your price.”
The innkeeper drew herself up. “How dare you! Will you insult my table? Kind sirs, will you allow this?”
Ninon stood up and faced the woman, her voice hard and controlled, though her eyes blazed blue fire. “I give you another choice, madame. I marked a dovecote in the courtyard as we rode up. With these hands, I myself shall wring the necks of half a dozen birds and throw them into the stewpot! Do you understand?” The innkeeper wavered, clasping and unclasping her hands, then curtsied politely and scurried from the room.
“Bravo!” cried Chanteclair.
“Well done!” said Gaston. “You played the scene like a queen.”
Valentin poured himself another cup of wine. “Pah! That was merely the ranting of a spoiled child who is used to the best that life can offer.”
“Oh!” Ninon restrained the urge to hurl her wine in his arrogant face. “Are you a fool, who lets himself be cheated? Do you hold money so cheaply that you can throw it away? Mon Dieu! Even the wine in this filthy place has been thinned with water. Did you not even notice?”
She was prevented from saying more by the appearance of the innkeeper, who bustled in bearing a large Westphalian ham on a platter, and begging madame’s pardon. It was all she had tonight, but she promised madame that the company should breakfast on a petit pâté and a hare pie that even now was being set to bake.
When they had eaten their fill, Gaston put down his spoon and knife and leaned back in his chair. “I say that henceforth Ninon should make all our arrangements concerning lodgings and food.”
“I agree,” said Chanteclair. He looked pointedly at Valentin. “Must we put it to the vote?”
Sanscoeur shook his head. “No. I agree.” He was strangely silent as the company bade their good-nights and went to seek their beds. Only when they had all gone did he rise from the table to stand before Ninon. His black eyes searched her delicate face, a bewildered frown creasing his brow. “Perhaps you are sturdier than I thought,” he said at last.
She gave him a withering look. “Perhaps you are a fool.”
In the morning, Valentin, Gaston, and Chanteclair visited the provost of Nevers to obtain a license to act in the town. He was a difficult man, seeming unwilling to make the effort on their account, grumbling about the bother of sending to the deputy governor of Nivernais for the necessary permissions. Valentin could scarcely keep his temper, but Chanteclair calmed his friend and pulled the provost aside. Did the provost know, he asked, that Valentin’s cousin-german was married to the brother of the deputy governor? And that the aunt of Madame Ninon, one of their chief actresses, was femme de chambre to the governor’s wife? Suitably impressed, the provost promised to make every effort to obtain the license as soon as possible. Chanteclair sweetened his task with a small purse of coins.
The next order of business was to find a hall, theater, or tennis court in which they might perform. After some inquiry, they found that there was a large tennis court near the center of town, and well suited to their needs.
Since the sixteenth century, when the Valois kings had enjoyed the sport of jeu de paume, the game of the palm, hundreds of tennis courts had been built throughout France. The game had fallen from favor in the last fifty years; it was still played, but not so frequently, and the proprietors were only too glad to rent out their premises to strolling players for a few extra coins.
A tennis court was ideally suited for conversion to a temporary theater: a long and narrow building, with a high-pitched roof and a row of windows that ran just under the line of the eaves. Next to the playing floor, on either long side (or sometimes both), ran a boxed-off gallery from which the spectators could watch the matches safely and comfortably.
Valentin was pleased to see, as they entered, that the jeu de paume of Nevers was large enough to have an upstairs gallery as well. The petty nobility of a small town was always delighted to pay a little more to enjoy the exclusivity of the upstairs boxes. Several gentlemen, clad in shirts and breeches, or breeches alone, had just finished playing a partie; calling for wine, they gave their short-handled racquets to a servant and trooped up the stairs, there to be rubbed and dried in a private room before changing into fresh shirts and donning doublets, capes, hats, and swords.
Valentin beckoned to the master of the tennis court and explained what they wished. Would there be any difficulty, he asked, for them to play in the afternoon? It was their custom, he explained, to give a performance at two, since it was hard to get the good bourgeoisie to come out-of-doors at night.
“Howbeit,” said Chanteclair, always conciliatory, “if there are matches in the day, we shall be content with evening.”
“No, good masters,” said the proprietor, “you may have the afternoons.”
It was agreed that they should have the jeu de paume for up to a week if the audiences of Nevers proved receptive. The master of the tennis court was given an advance fee of seventy-five livres, the balance of payments to be agreed upon according to the moneys collected by the doorkeeper, a chore (for honesty’s sake) to be shared by Joseph and the proprietor’s servant.
“Have you a decorator?” asked the master of the court.
Valentin indicated Gaston. “Monsieur Floresse has that function in our company. If you can direct him to a worthy joiner in Nevers, he will see that a temporary stage is built to our needs.”
The proprietor frowned. “Can it be removed for morning tennis matches?”
“Mais certainement!” Valentin gestured with his arm to one end of the building. “There, Gaston? Will you put the shelf stage there?”
Gaston squinted up at the high windows. “No. By afternoon, the sun will be shining in that direction. Even with shutters or curtains…you do have something for the windows, Monsieur le Propriétaire?…it will be too bright. We would be better served with the stage at the other end.”
“I leave it to you,” said Valentin. “But one thing…” He pointed to the center line of the tennis court, just under the net. In the middle was a large drainpipe, used for eliminating rainwater and debris that might collect and covered now with a wide plank. “Put a new piece of wood there. Larger and stronger. That one does not look sturdy. I am minded of the time a musketeer from Périgord stamped in such anger at seeing Julius Caesar killed upon the stage that he broke the wood and fell into the drain.”
Chanteclair laughed. “I remember! There was such a riot in the pit that we could not go on with the play. Poor Caesar was not avenged that day!”
Gaston rummaged in a pocket. “Here are two crowns for your candle-snuffer, monsieur. Enough to buy candles for a week—unless he steals more than he is expected to. In which case I shall take a stick to him.”
Chanteclair found a printer to print up the handbills advertising their arrival, while Gaston set about his task.
In l
ess than a day the stage had been constructed. The back-cloths, with their painted villages and palaces and gardens, were hung from bars against the back wall, and the free-standing wings—lengths of painted canvas that had traveled rolled up—were backed with fresh strips of wood so that they might stand upright. There were several different wings waiting at each side, and out of view of the audience by reason of the permanent set of wings—representing two Greek columns—at the front of the stage. As the locale of the play changed, the back-cloth would be changed and new wings would be pushed into position; since all these shifts took place in full view of the audience, Gaston had hired several men from the town as scenemen, to see that the changes were made quickly. A large front curtain was placed even with the front wings, but once it was drawn it would stay that way until the conclusion of the play. An elaborate chandelier was hung from the ceiling over the center of the stage, and—as the tennis court was well ventilated and there would be no problem with smoke—a line of candles rimmed the edge of the stage. Gaston, as décorateur, had done his job well.
Now, thought Ninon, pacing backstage, pray God she could do her job well tonight!
Toinette peeked out between the curtains, then turned back, her eyes shining. “So many people! I could not count all the filled boxes, though I saw many a plumed hat and jeweled sword. I did not know there was such quality in Nevers! And the parterre…by my faith, there is hardly room for another soul to stand there, the pit is so crowded! And oh! the handsome soldiers! There was one musketeer who caught my eye…” She clasped her hands together in rapture.
Sébastien was of a more practical bent. “If the house is nearly full,” he said, counting on his fingers, “at forty sols for the parterre, double for the boxes and the paradis…”
“’Tis only more money for you to gamble away,” snapped Hortense.
“If I wish, my love, if I wish.”
“You’ll wind up in a pauper’s grave, and I shan’t weep over you!”
Sébastien shrugged and turned away, appraising Ninon with his eyes. “You look charming, ma chère,” he said, patting her on the cheek. “Are you afraid?”
“Only that I shall forget my lines.”
“You must not be. We shall help you. And you see…there is Colombe…” He indicated where Colombe perched on a stool behind one of the permanent wings, a copy of the play in one hand, a candle in the other.
“If you forget the words,” said Valentin sarcastically, coming up behind Sébastien, “we can arrange to cut some of the passages for you, to make it simpler.”
There was a high-pitched cackle and Ninon whirled about to see Chanteclair hobbling toward them, “Grandmère’s” spectacles on his nose. “The only thing that should be cut is your sharp tongue, villain!” he squeaked, frowning at Valentin and putting a comforting arm about Ninon. “You forget that ‘Grandmère’ saw your debut upon the stage. Shall I tell this charming child what a great bumbling oaf you were that day? Tripped over his own feet, he did, and…”
Valentin groaned. “‘Grandmère,’ you are like a fairy godmother in the old tales, but you sprinkle venom instead of moon dust. Eh bien. I grant you leave to cheer that trembling creature, but only if you hold your tongue.”
“No better way to give cheer,” said Chanteclair in his normal voice, and, sweeping Ninon into his arms, he kissed her resoundingly on the mouth. Lifting his lips from hers, he smiled down at her surprised face. “Have I restored your courage?”
It had been a kiss of warmth and friendship, not passion, and she was grateful. “You have restored my soul,” she whispered.
“Name of God,” growled Valentin impatiently. “It is well past two of the clock. Are we to wait till nightfall? Gaston…prologue…your place!”
Gaston cleared his throat and went through the curtains to address the audience. There was applause and the sound of stamping feet, then loud hisses and calls for silence, and at last a degree of quiet as the audience settled down. Gaston, in a loud voice, announced that they were to do a tragedy, Rinaldo and Armida, so it please the kind messieurs and their ladies, taking place in the fair city of Jerusalem. He begged his listeners to give the players due honor for their noble efforts with the benevolence of their silence, and pleaded their indulgence in the matter of an occasional lapse. He finished the prologue with an effusive tribute to Nevers and its citizens, bowed elaborately, pulled aside the front curtain, and withdrew.
Valentin made his entrance upon the stage, dressed as a tragic hero, with a short Roman tunic and brass breastplate. His long legs, in their flesh-colored hose, were muscular enough not to need the padding that many another actor employed. His helmet was bedecked with several large plumes, a sure sign to anyone familiar with the theater that a tragedy was being played. His appearance, so handsome and noble, caused a stir in the audience, not least among the women. From her place in the wings Ninon could see a flicker of disgust cross his face. Then he turned, lifted a dramatic arm to the painted sky, and began his “tirade.” He really was a superb actor—she had to grant him that—despite his obvious failings as a man, and as a human being.
So fascinated was she by his performance that she almost forgot to make her first entrance. Only Toinette, giving her a little shove, brought her to herself. She took a deep breath and swept out to the center of the stage. In the light of the candles her tinseled gown and false jewels sparkled brightly, but her own beauty—the luminous, creamy flesh, the halo of pink-red hair—outshone the costume. There was a chorus of oohs and aahs and scattered applause: to most audiences, even sophisticated Parisians, appearance was as important as performance on the stage.
She opened her mouth to recite her first line. To her horror, her voice cracked; she coughed and gasped, finishing the Alexandrine verse in a whisper. There were several catcalls from the listeners. Valentin smoothly responded with his verse, but when a voice shouted from the audience that they had forgotten to wind up their mechanical doll, Ninon’s mind went blank. She paced the length of the stage, hearing the boards creak loudly beneath her, praying that the verse would come back to her. Valentin still smiled, as required of his part, but his black eyes were like knives. She looked into the wings for help. On her stool Colombe flipped through the pages of the book that rested in her lap, making a gesture to indicate that she had lost the page, then looking helpless as the book slid off her lap to the floor and she was forced to maneuver candle and stool and ponderous belly to retrieve the book. Ninon whirled away from her, vowing never again to trust the bitch, and tried to think while the panic rose in her throat. The afternoon was hot, even with the sunlight curtained out; she could smell the foul odors of the audience—sweat and stale perfume and the remains of yesterday’s dinner on many a skirt and coat front.
She looked again into the wings. Colombe was still pretending to fumble with the book, but beyond her Chanteclair had put “Grandmère’s” spectacles back on his nose and was nodding in reassurance. The sight heartened her. Smiling her thanks, she felt Armida’s lines flooding back into her brain. She was the queen, she was the enchantress. She drew herself up and addressed Valentin, her voice strong and sure and regal.
The rest of the play went smoothly, and though she guessed that she was an indifferent tragedienne, there was some weeping in the audience when she died in the last scene.
The musical interlude came next. In spite of Valentin, Ninon had insisted on playing and singing a roundelay, which was poorly received, inasmuch as the lemonade sellers did a brisk business while she was performing. She hurried off the stage, ignoring Valentin’s sardonic “I told you so,” and went to change her costume while Sébastien and Marc-Antoine entertained with their songs.
In the changing room of the tennis court she surveyed her limited wardrobe. They were doing The Jealous Vicomte next, and it had been decided that she should wear her gray skirt and jacket, with a lacy chemise beneath. Now, looking down at herself, and the plainness of her garb, she was having second thoughts. Valentin had been ri
ght about her playing and singing; perhaps he was right about her assets as well. She stripped off her jacket and pulled the chemise to the edge of her shoulders, revealing a goodly show of bosom. She laced on her sleeveless jerkin, taking care that it rested under her breasts. Then she ran her fingers through her copper-colored hair and fluffed out the ringlets and curls. She nodded in satisfaction. If she was to play a saucy wench in the farce, why not look the part?
She found the playing of improvised comedy much easier than tragedy. Perhaps because she had a quick wit and a ready mind. And perhaps because she could be revenged upon Valentin for all his torments. She was never sure, when a particularly wicked jibe sprang to her lips, whether she was insulting the character or Valentin. The soggetto was nailed to the back of a wing piece, and there was a certain amount of frantic scurrying to and fro during the performance as one or another of the players forgot his lazzi or his next entrance and had to consult the outline.
Ninon and Valentin played beautifully together, tossing their lines back and forth with a crispness of delivery that had the audience howling with laughter. She even managed to catch Valentin by surprise. It was a silly bit of business. He was to ask for a box. She was to hand him a large box that, by a touch of a secret spring, was to explode before his eyes. He was to ask again, and again she would hand him an exploding box. On the third request, she was to hand him a small box, the contents of which were essential to the plot.
It went well at first. He asked for the box, leaped back when it exploded, and stumbled about dazedly. There were howls of glee from the audience. In a moment he had recovered himself. “Shameless hussy!” he roared, his eyes, behind his comic half-mask, raking her exposed bosom in disgust. “Give me the box!”
She turned and dimpled prettily at an overdressed nobleman who had been waving to her from the gallery. Damn Valentin and his accusing eyes! The actor in him expected her to exhibit her charms; the man resented it. “Shall I give him the box?” she asked slyly, making the audience conspirator to her plans. She turned back to Valentin. “Verily, I shall give you a box…a box about the ears!” She swung at him with all her might. His timing was perfect. He dropped to the floor, howling, just as her hand would have connected with his face. She bent over him, pretending to pummel him on the ground, while the audience roared with laughter.
Dreams So Fleeting Page 12
