Etienne de Gougne could smirk, though, in his mousy little way, that the bulk of Le Capitaine'?, wrath would fall upon the person who'd chosen this abandoned mansion so blithely and carelessly, the despised Lieutenant de Vaisseau Jules Hainaut, for once, the swaggering poseur, that jumped-up lout, that…!

"God's Noodle, what a pig-sty!" Lt. Hainaut said from the doorway, making the little clerk "Eep" in sudden dread, drop his precious charts in a hollow, "bonking" jumble, his grips thudding to the floor, and making him spin about.

"Oh! Lieutenant, don't do that, I beg you," de Gougne said as he bent to gather his things; though secretly pleased to see the look of consternation on the handsome young sprig's face as he realised his error.

"Good Christ," Lt. Jules Hainaut breathed, taking in just how shabby the interior was; when it had looked so promising and grand in his too-brief visit the day before, when he'd stood on the veranda and had merely peeked in through the smutted window panes, assuming…!

"This won't do," Hainaut stated, shaking his head, "no, not at all. You'd better get our gang of noirs to muck all this out before Le Capitaine arrives, little mouse."

Ordering the timid clerk about always made Hainaut feel better. He stalked into the salon, elegant and expensive new boots drumming on the loose wood-parquet floor, savouring the creak-squeak of excellently made leather. His left hand grasped the hilt of his ornately chased smallsword, his right hand fisted to his hip, the arm akimbo, his mind scheming quickly on how to recover from this disaster.

This spacious salon on the east side of the house had lost its window panes, and the winds and rains had gotten in, along with a scattering of leaves, palm fronds, and red-brown, wooly furze off the tropical trees.