"Barbara Hambly - Benjamin January 1 - A Free Man of Color" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hambly Barbara)

satins of fifty years ago interpose himself between William Granger and Jean Bouille, who were squared
off with canes gripped clubwise in their hands.

"I do not forget myself!" screamed Bouille. "Nor who I am. I am a gentleman! This canaille has insulted
me in public, and I will have my satisfaction!"

Granger inclined his head. His accent was a flatboat man's twangy drawl but his French was otherwise
good. "When and where you please, sir. Jenkins . . ."

The Roman soldier stepped forward, putting up anervous hand to steady his laurel wreath as he inclined
his head.

"Would you be so good as to act for me?"

"Only think!" wailed Monsieur Froissart. "I beg of you, listen to Monsieur Peralta's so sensible words!
Surely this is a matter that can be regulated, that can be talked of in other circumstances."

The city councilman sneered contemptuously and lifted his cane as if fearing his opponent would turn tail;
Granger returned the look with a stony stare and spat in the direction of the sandbox. Froissart looked
frantically around him for support, and at the same moment January felt a touch on his shoulder. It was
Romulus Valle, the ballroom's majordomo.
"Maybe you best get another set started, Ben?" The elderly freedman gestured at the eager faces
crowding to see more of the drama. "Give these good people something else to think about?"

January nodded. If there was one thing that could distract Creoles from the prospect of a duel, it was a
dance. Jacques and Uncle Bichet took their places; though Hannibal's hands shook a little as he picked
up fiddle and bow, there was nothing unsteady about the way he sliced into the most popular jig and reel
in their repertoire. Sets were forming even as Froissart and the senior Monsieur Peralta shepherded the
combatants out into the lobby and presumably down to the office.

And let's hope, thought January dourly, that our bonny Galen and la belle dame sans merci didn't
decide the office was a more private venue for their tete-a-tete than the parlor. That would be all
it needs, for Galen's father to find the pair of them coupling like weasels on the desk.

Cross passes. Footing steps. Casting off and casting back, and swooping into the grand promenade.

"I'm going to strangle that woman!" Dominique had changed into her costume for the tableaux, and, as
Guenevere, had dispensed with the corsets and petticoats of modern dress, unlike at least four of the
assorted Rebeccas and Juliets circulating in the crowd. Without them she looked startlingly sensual, thin
and fragile and very reminiscent of the girls of January's young manhood in their high-waisted, clinging
gowns. He had never adjusted to the sight of women in the enormous petticoats and mountainous sleeves
of modern dress.

"Not only does she disappear without helping Marie-Anne and Marie-Rose—and after making them
wear those frightful dresses in the first place, and Agnes is ready to spit blood!—but because I'm
hunting high and low for her I miss the only real excitement of the evening!"

"She'll be in the parlor," pointed out January mildly. "She still has to fix her wings."

"Ben, I looked in the parlor. It was the first place I looked. And in the supper room. And it would have