Again Noelle kept her manner offhand, as if she were merely being polite. "I don't believe I've ever read Molière. Do you read many plays?" She thrust an overly large bite of omelette into her mouth.
"A great many recently," Constance responded casually. "I miss attending the theater. For the past few months I've principally been reading comedies: Shakespeare, Goldsmith, Sheridan, Molière."
"Molière. His name sounds French," Noelle muttered.
Constance took a bite of the fragrant omelette and nodded. "He is undoubtedly the greatest playwright France has ever produced. Oh, some will extol the tragedians: Racine, Corneille, Voltaire. But for my taste, Molière tells us more about the human spirit than all of them. Of course, we are very lucky to have his plays. It is really only by chance that Molière was in a position to write as he finally did."
"What do you mean?" Noelle could not entirely conceal her curiosity.
Constance touched her napkin to the corners of her mouth. "For most of his creative life, Molière had been touring the French provinces as an actor. He and his fellow actors performed tragedies, intrigues, and an occasional farce. Finally Molière began to write for the company himself. He wrote comedies that became very popular. Eventually he was invited to perform before Louis XIV. Alas, Molière made a mistake that was to prove almost fatal to his company. Instead of choosing the farces that his company did so well, he selected a tragedy for them to perform."
Constance took another sip of wine and consumed the last bit of her omelette. Noelle had stopped eating, so totally lost was she in the narrative.
"The performance was a disaster, of course," she continued. "The audience was bored. They shifted in their seats, coughed. Before the play was over, Molière knew he had failed to win the King's interest. But he took a bold step.
"As soon as the performance was ended, he stepped forward and addressed the King. He asked permission to perform one of his comedies that had been accepted so well in the provinces. Permission was granted and, needless to say, everyone was enchanted with the performance. Molière's success in Paris was assured."
"It's just like a fairy story." Noelle was barely aware she had spoken her thought aloud. "He must have been a courageous man to speak up as he did."
"I'm sure he was," Constance responded. "His later life bears testimony to that. Even with the King's patronage, the way was not always easy for him. In his best plays, he pokes fun at the rich and powerful as well as their sacred institutions. Several of his plays were declared immoral. One was even condemned as a sacrilege, and Catholics were warned they would be excommunicated if they attended. Of course, greatness like Molière's can never be repressed. I've always thought his death was so appropriate."
"What do you mean?"
Constance gestured to the maid to remove their plates and leave the room. "Molière was not a well man; he was plagued with consumption when he wrote The Imaginary Invalid. It is the story of Argan, a man who is always imagining himself the victim of some terrible disease. Molière died only a few hours after appearing as Argan. The poor man; he was completely at the mercy of his doctors for years. They were just as pompous and condescending then as they are now. He satirizes them most cleverly." A faint look of surprise crossed Constance's face. "But why am I telling you all this? You can read it for yourself. I'll give you my copy this evening."
Noelle felt as though she had been dashed in the face with cold water. She opened her mouth to reject Constance's offer, but no words came out. In a blinding flash she recognized too late that she had underestimated her opponent. She was the victim of a neatly set trap.
Constance had recognized the truth.
"You can't read, can you, Noelle? You've sat in that library with books open in front of you for four days, but you can't read a word."
The words were taunting, but Constance's manner was not. She spoke matter-of-factly. There was no pity on her face, no compassion, only a faintly quizzical expression.
Noelle lifted her small chin. "And what if I can't? Most people don't know how to read."
"But you're not most people, are you, Noelle? Beneath that rude manner of yours is a keen mind. Beginning tomorrow, I shall teach you to read. I want you in the library precisely at nine. If you are one minute late, I won't wait for you. Is that understood?"
"Why are you doing this for me?"
Constance opened her mouth to respond and then seemed to think better of it. Finally she shrugged and said, "I've been bored lately."
Moonlight splashed over the bed, touching the face of its occupant before spilling onto the blue French carpet. It was no use; she was too restless to sleep. Throwing the covers back, Noelle slipped from the bed and went to the window.
The trim grounds, washed in silver light, stretched in front of her before disappearing into a grove of budding elms. Softly she slid the window open and then knelt on the floor in front of it, resting her arms on the sill.
The spring air was chill; it smelled green, like the season. It was a silly fancy, and she smiled as she lay her cheek in the crook of her arm. The night was so clear that the stars seemed to be suspended just above her head on invisible cords. It was as though the heavens had been cracked open to admit her.
Was that what was happening? Was Constance Peale going to be the one to crack the heavens open for her?
She'd dreamed of being able to read for as long as she could remember, sensing that there was a world waiting to be unlocked if she only had the proper key. Even as a child her mind had been active, restless, ready to devour any new scrap of information that was put in its path. She craved more but was unable to satisfy her gnawing hunger because there was no one to teach her. Daisy herself could not read. As with many actresses of the time, she learned her parts with the aid of a reader, a person whose profession it was to recite an actor's lines until the part was memorized.
Noelle remembered a humid summer evening shortly after she was eleven. She was walking near the docks, trying to sell some battered walnuts, when she spied a grizzled old sailor sitting on a pile of rope, a tattered book open in his lap. Her curiosity driving her closer, she could see his lips moving soundlessly as he pored over the page in front of him. When he finally looked up and saw her staring at him, he offered to show her his book.
She could still remember his grimy finger with the misshapen knuckle pointing out letters to her; the excitement shooting through her when he offered to teach her more.
She also remembered her revulsion when his gnarled hand slipped under her skirt and moved upward along the inside of her calf. He drew back quickly enough when the point of her knife pressed against his throat. She never saw him again and, after that, she gave up her search for a teacher. Nothing came free, and she had no money to pay anyone.
Now all that had changed. The woman she had named her enemy seemed about to become her teacher. Reluctantly she acknowledged a growing respect for Constance. But Noelle's pride would not permit her to accept Constance's gift without giving something in exchange. Since she had no money, the payment could only be a token and it was obvious to Noelle exactly what that token must be. She must extend at least some measure of courtesy to Constance. No more dinner-table mischief or open rudeness. In the short time she had left in this house, she would do her best to forget the conversation she had overheard. She would check her insolence.
The short time she had left… Could she learn to read so quickly? She must. A chance such as this would never again present itself.
Being able to read was going to make all the difference for her. She would never have to go back to her life on the streets. No more living with the fear of being caught and imprisoned. No more hair dyes and rouge. Perhaps she could find work in a shop. Anything would be possible.