Free Ran Away by Barbara Hambly Page B

that this sunburnt young gentleman, whose eyes seemed so much older than his face and who bore himself with the unmistakable carriage of the old aristocracy, must be newly-returned to Paris. His plain black coat was new and exquisitely tailored – just home, from wherever he’s been, and tricked out by his welcoming family . Thus its color was a deliberate comment on the brilliant hues of the men around him. Church? That would make him a younger son.
    But there was something in his expression that rebuked the fashionable young Abbés and Chevaliers who crowded around the stylish Bishops in attendance at the ball.
    ‘Arnoux de Longuechasse.’ Jeannot knocked the moisture from his flute again. ‘The Marquis’ brother. I played for the family Wednesday night – whilst the rest of you lot were amusing the riff-raff at the Opera – a little affaire to welcome him home from Constantinople. Most elevated. Gluck and Salieri  . . .  None of your opera airs and waltzes for the Abbé.’
    ‘Constantinople?’
    ‘Attached to the Ambassador’s suite. Almoner or something. Holier than the College of Cardinals all rolled into one. But the Marquis’ valet tells me Arnoux made his name teaching French to the ladies of the Sultan’s harem.’
    A gigue followed, and another minuet. It was only in the houses of these ancient families that these court dances were still performed, when everyone else in Paris was doing the waltz. At intervals January glanced from his music to sweep the ballroom with his eye: the place was ablaze with a thousand francs’ worth of beeswax candles, and the young Abbé de Longuechasse was easy to spot in his sober garb. Sabid remained in the ballroom, watching the dancers, though he did not himself dance. The Abbé was gone the first two times January looked for him, but on the third occasion – after the minuet – he was in conversation with Sabid again, presenting him to his brother the Marquis  . . . 
    Which is why his face was familiar. January had played at the balls given by Louis-Antoine du Plessis-Vignerot, Marquis de Longuechasse, a score of times. The Marquis bowed stiffly, but did not offer snuff, nor accept that which al-Muzaffar extended to him in a golden box.
    The du Plessis-Vignerots, January knew, were among the most Ultra of the Ultras, clinging haughtily to the old ways. January noted with amusement that the Marquis and his wife likewise snubbed both the wealthy business gentlemen invited by Madame de Bellegarde and the assorted counts and barons whose titles had been created by Napoleon. When, much later in the evening, Daniel ben-Gideon reappeared beside the orchestra, January asked him if the Abbé de Longuechasse had by any chance taught any other ladies besides those of the Sultan’s household.
    The banker’s son flung up his hands in mock dismay. ‘You don’t expect he’d answer that question – or any question I addressed to him – do you? I should be lucky if he didn’t fling Holy Water at me.’
    ‘He didn’t fling it at Sabid,’ pointed out January.
    ‘He probably didn’t bring any with him tonight, then,’ retorted ben-Gideon. ‘The whole family suspects the Banque de France is part of a plot against the Pope and thinks the King should bring back the Inquisition. They’ll barely speak to Protestants, let alone a money-grubbing Jew. I’m surprised His Holiness the Abbé consented to lend his countenance to the ball here tonight.’
    January watched the Marquise de Longuechasse – a stout woman without a trace of the jolliness commonly attributed to stout women – herd her far-traveling young brother-in-law in the direction of the Comtesse de Villeneuf and her marriageable daughter. ‘Perhaps he’s under duress.’
    The banker laughed. ‘Perhaps he is. And I must say he’s a most handsome young man, despite the sunburnt look. A shocking waste. Half the family’s in Holy Orders; the only aunt that survived the Revolution is an abbess, and all