One of the dies jokingly offered to give the hostess a profile gift. At first I was going to decline, but then I remembered something from my past life that brought a smile to my face. Lucy even tightened her grip a little, warningly, but — Ostap was carried away.
— If you can provide me with a rge sheet of paper and some paints, I'd be happy to... — was my reply.
Then I was shocked. Mme. Michelle Lully, one of the "gossipy dies," calmly pulled out a magic wand, made a few casual passes, baited a few little things. Then, after a moment's thought, she "bzed" magic and transformed them one by one into the desired items — paints, paper, and a few brushes. Seeing my shock, Madame Lully smiled indulgently and crified that she was a master of transfiguration, and eternal transfiguration was normal for her.
Yes... I'd missed the ring. Half an hour ter, the first explosion of ughter broke the avanche. On paper, I'd drawn a cartoon image of a superhero.... superheroine: a pretty woman in colorful tights, a chic evolving cape, puffy hair, huge eyes in which golden stars burn, standing in a pathos pose with her weapon — a rge fountain pen from which all sorts of rainbows, candy, stars, unicorns, and so on, spread. A purely childish, funny caricature.
When I "let go" a bit, I was even afraid that I might have offended the hostess, but Lucy quickly calmed me down, saying that the audience appreciated the joke, and Sophie promised to hang the caricature in the most prominent pce. In the course of further communication, we walked a lot, smiled (the caricature allowed us to rex a little and "catch the wave"), joked.
I was introduced to the current French dueling champion, Baptiste Yann, a cssy, handsome blond with a neat ponytail of ptinum hair. His wife, a femme fatale brunette, requested a simir gift for her husband, and those who heard supported the woman, including the arriving duelist's second wife, the deputy director of Beauxbaton. This time, I portrayed an overwhelming tall man with Batiste's features, with a sinister battle staff in his hands, emitting a fiery dragon, and red rays from his eyes.
The tall man bared his rge teeth, threatening to simply gnaw his opponent, while the huge two-handed weapon hanging behind his back could cut through the rock. The duelists' wives grinned condescendingly, and Batiste shook my hand with a big smile.
Lucy deftly wrapped up the rest of the "petitioners" by expining that it wasn't my party, that I wasn't hired as a jester, and that there weren't any more influential and interesting people in the audience to put on a show for.
After about three hours, when I had apparently had time to talk to every adult in the room, I was mercifully released. After a light refreshment of "crackers with melted cheese," I took a gss of light white wine and disappeared onto a wide balcony overgrown with some kind of wicker pnt.
He leaned against the stone railing and took a deep breath, not noticing who else was there. I decided not to disturb her: if she was hiding here, it meant she wanted to rest, and I was tired of talking. We spent some time in silence, and then I felt the growing tension of my "neighbor". I looked at her out of the corner of my eye and determined the correct address.
— If I am disturbing you, mademoiselle, I can leave you ...
The girl was silent for a few seconds, looking at me, and then she spoke carefully, softly.
— You do not disturb me, Monsieur. — Short pause. — But I am obliged to know how you feel.... — said the blonde, her silver hair pulled back in a ponytail just below her shoulders, tense and cautious.
— I appreciate your attention, mademoiselle, and I hasten to assure you that I am well. — I pause for a sip of wine diluted with apple juice. — I'm just a little tired. How are you feeling?
— I'm fine, thank you.
Silence again, only this time I didn't feel the blonde's tension. I had no particur desire to talk — I had already talked enough, and now that I had fulfilled the "program", I had the full moral right to take a break, to put my thoughts in order, at least superficially. There are too many names and biographies.
Sophie Erran, for example, is a sorceress of the sixth generation who married the third son of a fairly wealthy businessman's family. They lived without problems for ten years, gave birth to a girl, and then there was a big scandal. At the same time, it was discovered that the writer's husband had a woman on the side who was already in her seventh month of pregnancy. Sophie herself brought a "gift" from Belgium and was three months pregnant at the time of the "explosion".
They separated more or less appropriately. The husband owned a few shops in his family's network, which Sophie did not cim. The woman herself, as a promoted author, has a steady income, plus rge savings in banks, as she is printed in many pces in the world.
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