Barbara Hambly - Benjamin January 1 - A Free Man of Color

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A Free Man of Color
by Barbara Hambly
Praise for Barbara Hambly's A Free Man of Color
"A smashing debut novel. In lush detail Hambly recreates the world of the demimonde and the Mardi Gras balls, the
plight of slaves, and the intricate social structure of a city that for generations has strictly adhered to rules unique to
New Orleans. Ben is a wonderful character, strong and tempered by personal grief, smart and courageous. ... A rich
story with well-drawn characters, memorable action scenes, and a sense of place so strongly rendered that it
surrounds the reader."—Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
"A vivid depiction of an exotic bygone time." —The Sunday Oregonian, Portland
"Magically rich and poignant ... In scene after scene researched in impressive depth and presented in the cool, clear
colors of photography, Hambly creates an exotic but recognizable environment for January's search for justice."—
Chicago Tribune
"A richly detailed, telling portrait of an intricately structured racial hierarchy, which was to leave its mark on
everyone."—Booklist
"A smashing debut novel. This is a rich, exciting story with both substance and spice that is sure to please any
palate."—Star Tribune, Minneapolis
"A fascinating look at a fascinating city in a fascinating time in our history."—The Purloined Letter
"Barbara Hambly has crafted a most sparkling gem. . . . Readers are transported back to a distinctive time and place and
introduced to a most unusual protagonist. . . . New Orleans vivdly comes alive. . . . January is a fascinating hero, one
who should be heard from soon again."--KING FEATURES SYNDICATE
"Subtly planting clues along the way, Hambly crafts a tale of intrigue set against a class-conscious Louisiana society
and the many different definitions of 'black.' " --The Detroit News
"A Free Man of Color, Hambly's first mystery, will add substantially to her acclaim. . . . This book is very good,
indeed."—The Washington Times
"An astonishing tour de force. Hambly's re-creation of pre-Civil War New Orleans has the ring of eyewitness
testimony. This tense and absorbing drama is full of clever twists, chilling dangers, and unexpected acts of redeeming
grace. If you read only one historical mystery this year, let it be this one." --MARGARET MARON
"Hambly weds her vivid imagination with her gift for accurate and telling period detail. The result is a jewel-like novel
that glitters with multiple facets. . . . Unique."—BookPage
"A wonderful glimpse of history with an intriguing mystery at its center . . . Fascinating." —The Montgomery
Advertising & Alabama Journal
Look for the second Benjamin January novel of suspense
Fever Season
by Barbara Hambly
Coming in hardcover in July 1998 from Bantam Books
A Free Man of Color
Barbara Hambly
BANTAM BOOKS
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This edition contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition. NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
A FREE MAN OF COLOR A Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam hardcover edition published July 1997
Bantam paperback edition / June 1998
For Brother Ed
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1997 by Barbara Hambly.
Cover art copyright © 1998 by Jason Seder.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 96-44942.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE
In any work of fiction dealing with the American South, a writer runs into the problem of language and
attitudes —specifically not only words and phrases but outlook, upbringing, and unspoken assumptions,
which, though widely held and considered normal at the time, are appalling today.
The early 1830s were a time of great change in America. President Andrew Jackson's view of
democracy was very different from the eighteenth-century vision of the country's founders. Civil War and
Reconstruction lay a generation in the future, and the perception of blacks— by the whites and by the
blacks themselves—was changing, too.
In New Orleans for most of the nineteenth century, it would have been as offensive to call a
colored—that is, mixed-race—man or woman "black," as it would be today to call a black person
"colored." Both words had connotations then that they do not have now; both words are freighted now
with history, implications, and inferences unimaginable then.
I have tried to portray attitudes held by the free people of color toward the blacks—those of full or
almost-full African descent, either slave or free—and toward the Creoles—at that time the word meant
fully white descendants of French and Spanish colonists—as I have encountered them in my research.
Even a generation ago in New Orleans, the mothers of mixed-race teenagers would caution their children
not to "date anybody darker than a paper bag." Light skin was valued and dark skin discredited, and a
tremendous amount of energy went into making distinctions that seem absurdly petty today. An intricate
hierarchy of terminology existed to categorize those of mixed race: mulatto for one white, one black
parent; griffe or sambo for the child of a mulatto and full black; quadroon for the child of a mulatto and
a full white; octoroon for a quadroon's child by a full white; musterfino or mameloque for an octoroon's
child by a full white. (I've seen alternate meanings for griffe, sambo, and musterfino, so there's evidently
some question about either what the records were talking about, or whether the people at that time used
the same words for the same things.)
White Creoles, by the way, had an intricate hierarchy of words to categorize each other as to social
standing and how long their families had been prominent in New Orleans society, so they evidently just
liked to label things. Americans, of course, simply did not count.
I have not attempted to draw parallels to any modern situation or events. I have tried to construct a story
from a historical setting, using the attitudes and outlooks —and, of necessity, terminology—of that time
and place. I have attempted, to the best of my ability, neither to glamorize nor to conceal. The territory is
touchy for those who have suffered, or whose families have suffered, from the prejudices and
discrimination that once was— and still is to some extent—commonplace. To them I apologize if I have
inadvertently offended. My goal is, as always, simply to entertain.
ONE
Had Cardinal Richelieu not assaulted the Mohican Princess, thrusting her up against the brick wall of the
carriageway and forcing her mouth with his kisses, Benjamin January probably wouldn't have noticed
anything amiss later on.
Now, THERE's a story for the papers. January considered the tangle of satin and buckskin, the crimson
of the prelate's robe nearly black in the darkness of the passageway save where the oil lamp that burned
above the gate splashed it with gory color, the grip of the man's hand on the woman's buttocks and the
way her dark braids surged over his tight-clenched arm. Certainly the American papers: Cardinal
Richelieu Surprised with Leatherstocking's Sister. It was a common enough sight in the season of
Mardi Gras, when the February dark fell early and the muddy streets of the old French town had been
rioting since five o'clock with revelers—white, black, and colored, slave and free, French and
American—bedizened in every variation of evening costume or fancy dress. God knew there were
women enough yanking men off the high brick banquettes into doorways and carriage gates and public
houses on Rue Royale and Rue Bourbon and all over the old quarter tonight. He wondered what Titian
or Rembrandt would have made of the composition; he was turning politely to go when the woman
screamed.
The fear in her voice made him swing around, just within the arch of the gate. The oil lamp's light must
have fallen on his face, for when she screamed a second time, she cried his name.
"Monsieur Janvier!"
A stride took him to the grappling forms. He seized His Eminence by the shoulder and tossed him clear
out of the carriageway, across the brick banquette, over the dark-glittering stream of the open gutter and
into the oozy slops of Rue Ste.-Ann with a single throw—for January was a very big man—making sure
to cry as he did so in his most jovial tones, "Why, Rufus, you old scamp, ain't nobody told you . . . ?"
Timing was everything. He'd learned that as a child.
Even as his victim went staggering into the jostle of carriages, he was bounding after him, catching the
man's arm in a firm grip and gasping, "Oh, my God, sir, I'm terribly sorry!" He managed to yank the
enraged churchman out of the way before both could be run down by a stanhope full of extremely
Cooperesque Indians. "I thought you were a friend of mine! My fault entirely!" Richelieu was
pomegranate with rage and thrashing like a fish on a hook, but he was also a good half foot shorter than
January's six-foot three-inch height and hadn't spent nine years carrying cadavers—and occasionally
pianofortes—on a daily basis. "I do beg your pardon!"
January knew the man would hit him the moment he let go and knew also that he'd better not hit back.
He was correct. It wasn't much of a blow, and at least Richelieu wasn't carrying a cane, but as the
scarlet-masked villain flounced back across the gutter and disappeared into the dark maw of the gate
once more, January was surprised by his own anger. Rage rose through him like a fever heat as he tasted
his own blood on his lip, burning worse than the sting of the blow, and for a time he could only stand in
the gluey street, jostled on both sides by gaudy passersby, not trusting himself to follow.
I've been in Paris too long, he thought.
Or not long enough.
He picked up his high-crowned beaver hat, flicked the mud from it—it had fallen on the banquette, not in
the gutter—and put it back on.
The last time he'd let a white man strike him, he'd been twenty-four. An American sailor on the docks
had cuffed him with casual violence as he was boarding the boat to take him to Paris. He'd thought then,
Never again.
He drew a long breath, steadying himself, willing the anger away as he had learned to will it as a child.
Welcome home.
Music drifted from the pale, pillared bulk of the Theatre d'Orleans immediately to his right, and a mingled
chatter of talk through the carriageway to the courtyard of the Salle d'Orleans that had been his goal. The
long windows of both buildings were open, despite the evening's wintry cool—not that New Orleans
winters ever got much colder than a Normandy spring. That was something he'd missed, all these past
sixteen years.
In the Theatre, the Children's Ball would just be finishing, the main subscription ball getting ready to
begin. The restless, fairy radiance of the newfangled gaslights falling through the windows and the warmer
amber of the oil lamps on their chains above the intersection of the Rue Ste.-Ann and Rue Royale,
showed him proud, careful mamas clothed as classical goddesses or Circassian maids, and watchful
papas in the incongruous garb of pirates, lions, and clowns, escorting gorgeously costumed little boys and
girls to the carriages that awaited them, drawn up just the other side of the gurgling gutters and tying up
traffic for streets. With the Theatre's long windows open he could hear the orchestra playing a final
country dance—"Catch Fleeting Pleasures"—and he could identify whom they'd got to play: That had to
be Alcee Boisseau on the violin and only Philippe Decoudreau could be that hapless on the cornet.
January winced as he picked up his music satchel from beside the wall where he'd dropped it in his
excess of knight-errantry, wiped a trace of blood from his lip and thought, Let's not do that again. The
Mohican Princess was long gone, and January hoped, as he made his way toward the lights and voices of
the courtyard that lay behind the Salle d'Orleans' gambling rooms, that Richelieu had gone into the
gambling rooms or upstairs to the Salle as well. The colored glimmer of light from the courtyard, slanting
into the dark of the passageway, showed him a couple of green-black cock feathers from the woman's
headdress lying on the bricks at his feet
The woman had called his name. She had been scared.
Why scared?
To any woman who would come unaccompanied to the Blue Ribbon Ball at the Salle d'Orleans, being
thrown up against the wall and kissed by a white man was presumably the point of the evening.
So why had she cried out to him in fear?
Colored lanterns jeweled the trees in the court, and the gallery that stretched the length of the Salle's rear
wall. In the variegated light, Henry VIII and at least four of his wives leaned over the gallery's wooden
railings, laughing amongst themselves and calling down in English to friends in the court below. January
didn't have to hear the language to know the Tudor monarch was being impersonated by an American.
No Creole would have had the poor taste to appear with more than one woman on his arm. A curious
piece of hypocrisy, January reflected wryly, considering how many of the men at the Blue Ribbon Ball
tonight had left wives at home; considering how many more had escorted those wives, along with sisters,
mothers, and the usual Creole regiments of cousins, to the subscription ball in the Theatre, directly next
door.
Both the Salle d'Orleans and the Theatre were owned by one man—Monsieur Davis, who also owned a
couple of gambling establishments farther along Rue Royale—and were joined by a discreet passageway.
Most of those gentlemen at the subscription ball tonight would slip along that corridor at the earliest
possible moment to meet their mulatto or quadroon or octoroon mistresses. That was what the Blue
Ribbon Balls were all about.
Ayasha, he recalled, had hardly been able to credit it when he'd recounted that aspect of New Orleans
life. None of the ladies in Paris had. "You mean they attend balls on the same night, with their wives in
one building and another with their mistresses a hundred feet away?quot;
And January, too, had laughed, seeing the absurdity of it from the vantage point of knowing he'd never go
back again. There was laughter in most of his memories of Paris. "It's the custom of the country," he'd
explained, which of course explained nothing, but he felt an obscure obligation to defend the city of his
birth. "It is how it is."
Allowing a white man to strike him without raising a hand in his own defense was the custom of the
country as well, but of that, he had never spoken.
Why would she struggle? And who was she, that she'd known his name?
He paused beneath the gallery, his hand on the latch of the inconspicuous service door that led to offices,
kitchen, and service stair, scanning the court behind him for sight of that deerskin dress, that silly
feathered headdress that more resembled a crow in a fit than anything he'd actually seen on the Choctaws
or Natchays who came downriver to peddle file or pots in the market.
Most of the women who came to the quadroon balls came with friends, the young girls chaperoned by
their mothers. Women did come alone, and a great deal of outrageous flirting went on, but those who
came alone knew the rules.
Above him, one of Henry VIII's wives trilled with laughter and threw a rose down to a tobacco-chewing
Pierrot in the court below. The gaudy masks of the wives set off their clouds of velvety curls, chins and
throats and bosoms ranging from palest ivory through smooth cafe-au-lait. In London, January had seen
portraits of all the Tudor queens and, complexion aside, none of the originals had been without a
headdress. But this was one of the few occasions upon which, licensed by the anonymity of masks, a free
woman of color could appear in public with her hair uncovered, and every woman present was taking full
and extravagant advantage of the fact.
The French doors beneath the gallery stood open. Gaslights were a new thing—when January had left in
1817 everything had been candlelit—and in the uneasy brilliance couples moved through the lower lobby
and up the curving double flight of the main stair to the ballroom on the floor above. As a child January
had been fascinated by this festival of masks, and years had not eroded its eerie charm; he felt as if he
had stepped through into a dream of Shelley or Coleridge where everything was more vivid, more
beautiful, soaked in a crystalline radiance, as if the walls of space and time, fact and fiction, had been
softened, to admit those who had never existed, or who were no more.
Marie Antoinette strolled by, a good copy of the Le Brun portrait January had seen in the Musee du
Louvre, albeit the French queen had darkened considerably from the red-haired Austrian original.
January recognized her fairylike thinness and the way she laughed: Phlosine Seurat, his sister Dominique's
bosom friend. He couldn't remember the name of her protector, though Dominique had told him, mixed
up with her usual silvery spate of gossip—only that the man was a sugar planter who had given Phlosine
not only a small house on Rue des Ramparts but also two slaves and an allowance generous enough to
dress their tiny son like a little lace prince. At a guess the Indian maid was another of his sister's friends.
He looked around the courtyard again.
There were other "Indians" present, of course, among the vast route of Greek gods and cavaliers,
Ivanhoes and Rebeccas, Caesars and corsairs. The Last of the Mohicans was as popular here as it was
in Paris. January recognized Augustus Mayerling, one of the town's most fashionable fencing masters,
surrounded by a worshipful gaggle of his pupils, and made a mental note to place bets with his sister
when he saw her on how many duels would be arranged tonight. In all his years of playing the piano at
New Orleans balls, January had noticed that the average of violence was lower for the quadroon balls,
the Blue Ribbon Balls, than for the subscription balls of white society.
And even on this night of masks, he noted that those who spoke French did not mingle with those who
spoke English. Some things Carnival did not change.
He'd laughed about that, too, in Paris, back when there'd been reason to laugh.
Don't think about that, he told himself, and opened the service door. Just get through this evening. I
wonder if that poor girl . . . ?
She was standing in the service hall that led to the manager's tiny office, to the kitchen and the servants'
stair.
At the sound of the opening door she whirled, her face a pale blur under the mask and the streaks of war
paint. She'd been watching through the little door that led into the .corner of the lobby, and for a moment,
as she lifted her weight up onto her toes, January thought she'd flee out into the big room, into which he
could not follow. He noted, in that instant, how absurdly the cheap buckskin costume was made, with a
modern corset and petticoat beneath it, and a little beaded reticule at her belt. Her dark plaits were a nod
to Monsieur Cooper, but she wore perfectly ordinary black gloves, much mended, and black slippers
and stockings, splashed with mud from the street.
She seemed to lose her nerve about the lobby and turned to flee up the narrow stair that led to the
upstairs supper room and the little retiring chamber beside it, where girls went to pin up torn flounces.
January said, "It's all right, Mademoiselle. I just wanted to be sure you were all right."
"Oh. Of course." She straightened her shoulders with a gesture he knew—he'd seen it a hundred times,
or a thousand, but not from an adult woman .... "Thank you, Monsieur Janvier. The man was . . .
importunate." She was trying to sound calm and a little arrogant, but he saw from the way the gold
buckskin of her skirt shivered that her knees were still shaking. She nodded to him, touched her absurd
headdress, loosing another two cock feathers, and started to walk past him toward the courtyard again.
It was well done and, he realized later, took nerve. But when she came close January got a better look at
what he could see of her face and knew then where he had seen that squaring of the shoulders, those full
lips; knew where he had heard that voice.
"Mademoiselle Madeleine?"
She froze, and in the same moment realization took hold of him, and horror.
"Mademoiselle Madeleine?"
Her eyes met his, her mouth trying for an expression of cool surprise and failing. She was a woman now,
wasp-waisted with a soaring glory of bosom, but the angel-brown eyes were the eyes of the child he
remembered.
She moved to dart past him but he put his body before the door, and she halted, wavering, tallying
possible courses of action, even as he'd seen her tally them when her father would come in after the piano
lessons and ask whether she would like a lemon ice before her dancing teacher arrived.
Mostly, January remembered, she would ask, "Might we play another piece, Papa? It's still short of the
hour."
And old Rene Dubonnet would generally agree. "If it's no trouble for Monsieur Janvier, ma chere. Thank
you for indulging her—would you care for some lemon ice as well, when you're done, Monsieur?"
Not an unheard-of offer from a white Frenchman to his daughter's colored music master, but it showed
more than the usual politeness. Certainly more politeness than would be forthcoming even from a
Frenchman these days.
He realized he didn't know what her name was now. She must be all of twenty-seven. If she hadn't
spoken he might not have known her, but of course she had known him. He and the waiters in their white
coats and the colored croupiers in the gaming rooms were the only men in the building not masked.
All this went through his mind in a moment, while she was still trying to make up her mind whether to
deny that she knew him at all or to deny that she was the child who had played modern music with such
eerie ferocity. Before she could come to a decision he gestured her to the empty office of the Salle's
master of ceremonies and manager, one Leon Froissart, who would be safely upstairs in the ballroom for
some time to come. Had he been in Paris January might have taken her arm, for she was trembling. But
though she must be passing herself as an octoroon—and there were octoroons as light as she— as a
black man he was not to touch her.
Only white men had the privilege of dancing, of flirting with, of kissing the ladies who came to the Blue
Ribbon Balls. The balls were for their benefit. A man who was colored, or black, freeborn or freedman
or slave, was simply a part of the building. Had he not lost the habit of keeping his eyes down in sixteen
years' residence in Paris, he wouldn't even have looked at her face.
She left a little trail of black cock feathers in her wake as she preceded him into the office. The room was
barely larger than a cupboard, illumined only by the rusty flare of streetlights and the glare of passing
flambeaux that came in through the fanlight over the shutters; the cacophony of brass bands and shouting
in the street came faintly but clearly through the wall.
She said, still trying to bluff it through, "Monsieur Janvier, while I thank you for your assistance, I ..."
"Mademoiselle Dubonnet." He closed the door after a glance up and down the hall, to make sure they
were unobserved. "Two things. First, if you're passing yourself as one of these ladies, some man's placee
or a woman looking to become one, take off your wedding ring. It makes a mark through the glove and
anyone who takes your hand for a dance is going to feel it."
Her right hand flashed to her left, covering the worn place in the glove. She had big hands for a
woman—even as a little girl, he remembered, her gloves had always been mended on the outside edge,
as these were. Maybe that was what had triggered the recollection in his mind. As she fumbled with the
faded kid he went on.
"Second, this isn't anyplace for you. I know it isn't my place to say so, but why ever you're here—and I
assume it's got something to do with a man—go home. Whatever you're doing, do it some other way."
"It isn't . . ." she began breathlessly, but there was guilty despair in her eyes, and he held up his hand for
silence again.
"Some of these ladies may be as light as you," he continued gendy, "but they were all raised to this world,
to do things a certain way. They mostly know each other, and they all know the litde tricks—who they
can talk to and who not. Who each other's gentlemen are and who can be flirted with and who left alone.
Even the young girls, with their mothers bringing them here for the first time for the men to meet, they
know all this. You don't. Go home. Go home right now."
She turned her face away. She had always blushed easily, and he could almost feel the color spreading
under the feathered rim of the mask. He wondered if she'd grown up as beautiful as she'd been when he
taught her pianoforte scales, simple bits of Mozart, quadrilles and the rewritten arias on which he got his
students used to the flow and the story of sound. She had a wonderful ear, he recalled; those hands that
tore out the sides of her gloves could span an octave and two. He remembered how she'd attacked
Beethoven, devouring the radical music like a starving woman eating meat, remembered the distant,
almost detached passion in her eyes.
Horns blatted and drums pounded in the street, as a party of maskers rioted by. Someone yelled "Vive
Bonaparte! A bas les americains!" What was it now? Ten years? Twelve years since the man's death?
And he was still capable of starting riots in the street. "Salaud!" "Crapaud!" "Atheiste!" "Orleaniste . . . !"
He saw the quicksilver of tears swimming in her eyes.
"I'm telling you this for your own protection, Mademoiselle Dubonnet," he said. "If nothing else, I know
these girls. They gossip like cannibals cutting up a corpse. You get recognized, your name'll be filth. You
know that." He spoke quietly, as if she were still the passionate dark-haired child at the pianoforte, who
had shared with him the complicity of true devotees of the art, and for a moment she looked away again.
"I know that." Her voice was tiny. From his pocket January drew one of the several clean handkerchiefs
he always carried, and she took it, smudging her war paint a little in the process. She drew a deep
breath, let it go, and raised her eyes to his again. "It's just that . . . there was no other way. My name is
Trepagier now, by the way."
"Arnaud Trepagier?" His stomach felt as if he'd miscalculated the number of steps on a stairway in the
dark.
He'd heard his sister's friends gossip about the wives and the white families of the men who bought them
their houses, fathered their children, paid for their slippers and gowns. For any white woman to come,
even masked, even protected by the license of Carnival, to a Blue Ribbon Ball was hideous enough. But
for the widow of Arnaud Trepagier to be here, dressed like Leatherstock-ing's worst nightmare less than
two months after her husband's body had been laid in the Trepagier family crypt at the St. Louis
cemetery . . .
She would never be received anywhere in the parish, anywhere in the state, again. Her husband's family
and her own would cast her out. The Creole aristocracy was unforgiving. And once a woman was cast
out, January knew, whether here or in Paris, there was almost nothing she could do to earn her bread.
"What is it?" he asked. She had never been stupid. Unless she had fallen in love with intense and crazy
passion, it had to be something desperate. "What's wrong?"
"I have to speak with Angelique Crozat."
For a moment January could only stare at her, speechless and aghast. Then he said, "Are you crazy?'
He'd only been back in New Orleans for three months, but he knew all about Angelique Crozat. The free
colored in their pastel cottages along Rue des Ramparts and Rue Claiborne, the French in their
close-crowded town houses, and the Americans in their oak-shaded suburbs where the cane fields had
been—the slaves in their cramped outbuildings and attics—knew about Angelique Crozat. Knew about
the temper tantrums in the cathedral, and that she'd spit on a priest at Lenten confession last year. Knew
about the five hundred dollars' worth of pink silk gown she'd ripped from bosom to hem in a quarrel with
her dressmaker, and the bracelet of diamonds she'd flung out a carriage window into the gutter during a
fight with a lover. Knew about the sparkle of her conversation, like bright acid that left burned holes and
scars in the reputations of everyone whose name crossed her lips, and the way men watched her when
she passed along the streets.
"I must see her," repeated Madame Trepagier levelly, and there was a thread of steel in her voice. "I
must"
The door opened behind them. Madeleine Trepagier's eyes widened in shock as she stepped around
Froissart's desk, as far from January as the tiny chamber would permit. January's mind leaped to the
soi-disant Cardinal Richelieu, and he turned, wondering what the hell he would do in the event of another
assault—in the event that someone guessed that Madame Trepagier was white, alone here with him, to
say nothing of the woman she was seeking.
But it was only Hannibal Sefton, slightly drunk as usual, a wreath of flowers and several strings of
iridescent glass Carnival beads looped around his neck. "Ball starts at eight." His grin was crooked under
a graying mustache, and with alcohol the lilt of the well-bred Anglo-Irish gentry was stronger than usual in
his speech. "Like as not Froissart'll fire your ass."
"Like as not Froissart knows what he can do with my ass," retorted January, but he knew he'd have to
go. He'd been a performer too long not to begin on time, not only for the sake of his own reputation but
for those of the other men who'd play in the ensemble. Managers and masters of ceremonies rarely asked
who was at fault if the orchestra was late.
He turned back to Madame Trepagier. "Leave now," he said, and met the same quiet steeliness in her
eyes that he had seen there as a child.
"I can't," she said. "I beg you, don't betray me, but this is something I must do."
He glanced back at Hannibal, standing in the doorway, his treasured fiddle in hand, and then back at the
woman before him. "I can leave," offered Hannibal helpfully, "but Froissart'll be down here in a minute."
"No," said January, "it's all right."
Madeleine Trepagier's face was still set, scared but calm, like a soldier facing battle. She'd never survive,
he thought. Not if La Crozat guessed her identity ....
"Listen," he said. "I'll find Angelique and set up a meeting between you at my mother's house, all right? I'll
send you a note tomorrow."
She closed her eyes, and some of the tension left her shoulders and neck; she put out a hand to the
corner of the desk to steady herself. She too, realized January, had heard everything there was to hear
about Angelique Crozat. A deep breath, then a nod. Another black cock feather floated free, like a slow
flake of raven snow.
"All right. Thank you."
They left her in the office, Hannibal checking the corridor, right and left, before they ducked out and
hastened up the narrow, mildew-smelling flight of the service stair. In the hall January retrieved another
cock feather from the bare cypress planks of the floor, lest Richelieu happen by and be of an observant
bent. With luck once the music started everyone would be drawn up to the ballroom, and Madame
Trepagier could slip away unnoticed. It shouldn't be difficult to hire a hack in the Rue Royale.
Didn 't I tell myself fifteen minutes ago, 'Let's not do this again'? An interview with Angelique
Crozat—spiteful, haughty, and so vain of the lightness of her skin that she barely troubled herself to treat
even free colored like anything but black slaves—a clout in the mouth from Cardinal Richelieu promised
to be mild in comparison. At least being struck was over quickly.
"Who's the lady?" asked Hannibal, as they debouched into the little hall that lay between the closed-up
supper room and the retiring parlor.
"A friend of my sister's." The parlor door was ajar, showing the tiny chamber drenched in amber
candlelight, its armoire bulging with costumes for the midnight tableaux vivants and two girls in what
was probably supposed to be classical Greek garb stitching frantically on a knobby concoction of blue
velvet and pearls.
"In case you've forgotten, that kind of tete-a-te'te's going to get you shot by her protector, and it
probably won't do her any good, either."
They passed through an archway into the lobby at the top of the main stair. The open stairwell echoed
with voices from below as well as above, a many-tongued yammering through which occasional words
and sentences in French, Spanish, German, and Americanized English floated disembodied, like leaves
on a stream. Pomade, roses, women, and French perfumes thickened the air like luminous roux, and
through three wide doorways that led into the long gas-lit ballroom, only the smallest breath of the night
air stirred.
Hannibal paused just within the central ballroom door to collect a glass of champagne and a bottle from
the bucket of crushed New England ice at the buffet table. One of the colored waiters started to speak,
then recognized him and grinned.
"You fixin' to take just the one glass, fiddler?"
Hannibal widened coal-black eyes at the man and passed the glass to January, ceremoniously poured it
full and proceeded to take a long drink from the neck of the bottle.
"Oh, for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene.
摘要：

AFreeManofColorbyBarbaraHamblyPraiseforBarbaraHambly'sAFreeManofColor"Asmashingdebutnovel.InlushdetailHamblyrecreatestheworldofthedemimondeandtheMardiGrasballs,theplightofslaves,andtheintricatesocialstructureofacitythatforgenerationshasstrictlyadheredtorulesuniquetoNewOrleans.Benisawonderfulcharacte...

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