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

Considering how nearly every young Creole gentleman bristled and circled and named his friends at the
most trivial of slights, it wasn't surprising that Mayerling, Verret, Crocquere, and the other fencing
teachers would be on intimate terms with every medical man for fifty miles.

January shuddered. He knew several who would resort to just that, accompanied by massive purges and
a heavy dose of calomel—salts of mercury—for good measure.

"You think they'll accept a physician of color?"

The sword master appeared genuinely surprised. "It is of no concern to me what they accept. Jean
Bouille is my student. The American shall accept your ministrations or die of his wounds. Which, it is of
little interest to me. May I count upon you, sir?"

January inclined his head, hiding his amusement at the extent of the Prussian's imperial arrogance. "You
may, sir."

Mayerling produced his card, which January pocketed, and accepted one of January's in return.
Mayerling's said simply, Augustus Mayerling. Sword Master. January's was inscribed, Benjamin
Janvier. Lessons in Piano, Clavichord, Harp, and Guitar. Underneath the lines were repeated in
French.

"I can't find her anywhere," wailed Marie-Rose at twenty minutes until midnight, coming up while Minou
was flirting with Hannibal across the palmettos that screened the dais on both sides. Henri had returned
to the respectable purlieus of the establishment with promises to be back in time for the tableaux; even
the senior M. Peralta, pillar of rectitude that he was and assiduous in his attentions to Euphrasie Dreuze,
had been back and forth several times.

By the way the old man was watching the lobby outside the ballroom, January guessed he had no idea
where his son was. The boy was only seventeen. If he'd sent him home or banished him to the Theatre he
wouldn't be watching like that.

And Euphrasie Dreuze, quite clearly aghast at the possibility that her daughter might have whistled at least
some percentage of the Peralta fortune down the wind, was like a pheasant in a cage, flitting in and out
from ballroom to lobby in a fluffy scurry of satin and jewels. January dimly recalled his mother telling him
that Etienne Crozat, owner of the Banque Independent and stockholder in half a dozen others, had paid
Euphrasie Dreuze off handsomely upon his marriage. Her concern might, of course, stem entirely from
care for her daughter's welfare, but the woman's reputed fondness for the faro tables and deep basset
were probably the actual cause of the increasingly frenzied look in her eye.

When the Roman, Jenkins, returned from negotiations downstairs, he, too, loitered around the lobby with
an air of searching for someone, but at the moment January couldn't see him.

"It's just like her," sighed Minou, as Marie-Anne, Marie-Rose, and one of the Ladies of the
Harim—shedding an occasional peacock eye in her wake—scampered off after the next waltz to make
another canvass of the courtyard. "I asked Romulus to check the gambling rooms, but even Angelique
wouldn't have gone down there. Maybe vanishing like this is part of her plan."

"No woman wears a getup like that and disappears before the tableaux vivants," Hannibal pointed out.
He turned away to cough, pressing a hand briefly to his side to still it, and the candlelight glistened on the