A grand view, he thought; it would have to suffice. And did Le Maitres plans spin out in even somewhat proper order, or yield success in half the measure he'd schemed, he would be worked so hard that a view might be all the satisfaction a harried aide might have.

Though it had taken a fair number of kicks and slaps, the house was ready for its new master's arrival. The jingle and rumble of the coach – and – four on the roundabout sand-shell drive brought out Hainaut, de Gougne, and the most docile, willing, and least threatening Blacks whom Hainaut had decided to employ. They had been sluiced down at the well in the back yard and hurriedly garbed in clean slop-clothing, to stand muster by the drive. Enticing aromas from the separate cooking shed wafted coach-ward, tall beeswax candles fluttered in the windows, and both closed lanthorns and open torches beamed welcoming cheer from the drive and the wide, deep veranda.

The coach rocked to a stop and an armed guard in the uniform of Naval Infantry leaped down from the boot to fold down the metal step and open the near-side door before springing to rigid attention, his musket unslung and held at Present Arms, his face a patient blank no matter that the senior passenger took half an hour to alight; and God help the man who innocently sprang to assist him!

The fingers of a left hand curled about the door frame, a brass tip on a stout ebony walking-stick, then a man's right boot emerged, blindly groping for the step, as someone grunted to shift his weight.

"Zut! Beurk! Ouf, aile! Merde alors! Horreur… une bete!" Weak cries of alarm sussurated from the aligned Blacks, who to a man crossed themselves or made warding signs against the Evil Eye, wailing "Le Diable!" and making Hainaut turn to cuff or curse them to worshipful silence.

Le Maitre-Le Capitaine-in Paris and Toulon Le Hideux but never in his or his minion's hearing-alit at last, standing on his own feet, surveying the house front with a suspicious scowl.