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

film of sweat that rimmed the long fjords of his retreating hairline.

"No," retorted Minou. "But if she's not back in another few minutes Agnes is going to have to fix her
daughters' hair, and everybody knows Agnes is just dreadful at that sort of thing. And now we can't find
Clemence either. If Henri comes back and so much as speaks to another woman, have a waiter slip
some mysterious potion to him to render him unconscious, would you, p'tit?"

"You'll need a sledge to get him home."

"I'm sure Monsieur Froissart will oblige. Why does everything have to go wrong at these affairs?" She
fluttered away again, sleeves billowing like white and gold sails.

"I don't know why she'd take an hour and a half at it," said Hannibal, plucking at the strings again, and
turning a key. "Any of the girls down in the Swamp— the Glutton or Railspike or Fat Mary—can have
you begging for mercy inside five minutes. Seven, if you're dead to start with." He coughed again.

"Maybe that's the reason they're working the Swamp instead of having some banker buy them a house
on Rue des Ursulines?"

"Surely you jest, sir." The fiddler grinned, and drained the last of his second bottle of champagne.
"Though I'd trade a week's worth of opium to see what the Glutton would wear to one of these balls."

"What I'd trade for," remarked January, beginning to sort through his music and his notes for which
tableau would be first, "is to know where they could have gone for an hour and a half. The building's
filled. If Peralta Pere and Phrasie Dreuze are that puzzled, it's got to mean they've asked in the courtyard
and the gambling rooms whether anyone saw the two of them leave." He reached up and took the empty
bottle from Hannibal's unsteady grasp.

"Easy," said Hannibal. "They could have gone through the passageway to the Theatre. Those boxes
above the stage are curtained. Angelique's white enough to pass. It's not easy to tup a woman in a gown
like that --twelve petticoats at the least, not to speak of the wings --in a box, but it can be done, if you
don't mind leg cramps."

"Peralta would know that," pointed out January.

"And there's lot o' competition for them boxes," added Uncle Bichet, who had been following the entire
intrigue with interest.

Minou strode over to them from the direction of the lobby doors, Agnes Pellicot at her heels, like a pair
of infuriated daffodils. January saw both of them look automatically in the direction of Euphrasie Dreuze,
seated in the triple bank of spindly gilt chaperones' chairs with two of her cronies, fanning herself with
what looked like an acre of ostrich plumes and watching the archways into the lobby with a wild and
distracted eye.

"I have done what I can," announced Agnes, her protuberant brown eyes flashing grimly. "Whore and
bitch she might be, but she can fix hair. How such a woman could have been so . . ." She gave up with a
gesture. "This is the big chance for Marie-Anne and Marie-Rose to be seen, to be admired at their best.
If that conceited light-skirt doesn't turn up . . ."

"I'll move her tableau to last." January shifted the Rossini aria he'd arranged as Angelique's music in