"Garcon chef up here, vite!" Hainaut barked.

A younger, scrawnier noir trotted into the chamber, the leader's assistant, the sous-chef d'equipage. "Oui, bas?" he asked.

"Run tell your chef that all this goes downstairs to my master's bedchamber. Second-best from the other front room, move in here, for me. I'll take this room, comprendre:'"

"Uhh," this one answered, scratching his pate. "Too fast…"

"Dammit!" Hainaut snapped impatiently, seizing the man by his arm to lead him to the other bed-chamber, shoving him inside. "Furnishings of here, move to grand chamber. Furnishings in chambre grande you move below, comprendre, hein? Du verdammte dreckig Monstrositat?" he swore, unconsciously falling back on the bastard German of his youth.

"Exchange, oui, bas?" the Black supposed, in a sullen voice.

"Oui, damn you… exchange."

"Ah, mais oui… rapidement!" the slave beamed.

"Go do it, then… rapidement" Hainaut disgustedly sneered.

He strode back to the grand bed-chamber to savour his new digs, fanning with his hat some more, walking out on the wide balcony, where tall trees shaded him from the morning sun, where woven cane chaises and side-tables awaited, and a spectacular view presented itself. And he could have sworn that the temperature dropped a quick ten degrees or more, in obedience to the Trade winds.

He tipped trash from a cane chair and sat down, thinking it was a mortal pity that his grand new bed-chamber could never be used for sport, but his master was… touchy, when it came to seeing his aide taking pleasures under his very nose, while his own tastes were so… outre.