A Free Man of Color - Barbara Hambly [5]
“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 René Dubonnet would generally agree. “If it’s no trouble for Monsieur Janvier, ma chère. 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 plaçée 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