Fanning himself some more, Lt. Hainaut paced about in the foyer, admiring the gloss of his boot-toes, testing the formerly shiny Cuban mahoghany inlaid parquet. With a preparatory sigh of disappointment, Hainaut went to the double doors of the west-side salon, which were barely ajar; pocket doors, which hissed into their recesses barely at a touch, of the finest craftsmanship.

"Ah! Better!" he cheered. Drapes still hung, the windows were still glazed, chandeliers were still whole, and the furniture was worn but useable; in point of fact, this second salon was jam-packed with a jumble of furniture, as if two or three other mansions had been looted and the contents stored in this one! And behind the salon was a room of equal spaciousness, filled with several sets of dining room furnishings. Hainaut doubted there would be plates, cutlery, or serving pieces in there, but they'd brought their own, enough to serve for a few weeks 'til another "warehouse" of confiscated goods could be "shopped."

"Garcon chef!" Hainaut barked over his shoulder, to summon the "head boy" of the work-gang they had been loaned. "Ici, vite!"

"Oui, bas?" he answered when he came.

"This salon will be my master's private office," Hainaut said, briskly rubbing his hands in relief. "That dining room, there. Clean it out. It will become Le Maitres bed-chamber, comprendre? Office, here… bed-chamber, there, hein?"

"Oui, bas. Je comprend," the solidly built man responded.

"Send garcons above-stairs. Surely, there's bed furniture. Find best, and fetch it down, to… there," Hainaut instructed, pointing up, then to the dining room. "Bedding and such… comprendre literies, hein?" he said in pidgin French, since he hadn't heard passable French from the island Blacks since stepping ashore; they uttered a soft, and liquid, Creole patois.