"This is Claude Bichain," Orville lied. "I want to speak to Mlle. Jeannette Hitchcock," he said. "She may be on duty."
"If she's on duty, I can't call her."
"It's an emergency ... damn you!" he snapped out. "Important ... get it? Important!" He hated the guy.
"You'll have to wait ... I'll call you back, M. Bichain. Are you at the residence?"
Orville waited on the tapestry upholstered telephone chair; listening to the rain his mood began to adjust: drops were racing down the French doors: Claude was switching on lamps, tending a fire in one of the fireplaces. Firelight blurred the walls. It was an elegant room. 1788, he recalled. The Rondes had purchased the property from some member of their family. He couldn't remember who the builder was.
Both fireplaces were constructed of yellow glazed brick, their white mantels rested on rococo Caen stone pillars. The furniture, of several periods, blended well, touches of ormolu, marquetry, rosewood, mahogany.
The phone jangled.
"Hello ... hello ... is this M. Bichain? This is Jeannette Hitchcock."
"Hi, Jean?"
Orville had to bring himself round suddenly, snap into the present.