“Leave it,” Cornelius said.

Here at Willard, John thought, it was as if they were always surrounded by shadowy beings, the wild creatures never very far away—raccoons, deer, owls, skunks. Wherever the talk strayed, even as far away as Wall Street, it would come back to the not impossible owl, a link in the endless chain of natural happenings that every single person here, except perhaps Sybille, picked up as soon as he or she came in the door, even to the stuffed moose head, shade of Cornelius’s father’s pride as a hunter, that stared moodily down from the hall landing.

Christina appeared briefly to send Dorothy up to wake Mamzelle, while the others organized themselves to sing—what? “The Marseillaise,” “Il était une bergère”—suggestions poured in. But as Cathy ran downstairs with her guitar she had the final word.

“Au clair de la lune,” she said, “because it’s the only one I can play.”

She sat down on the little bench again and strummed a few chords while Christy gave a tentative toot and Olivia slipped in and opened the baby grand in the library and played the old song through once, then changed the key.

“Better, much better!” Christy called, and ended by standing beside her. So they all flocked into that room and gathered round the magnificent aunt.

“Au clair de la lune

Mon ami Pierrot

Prêtes-moi ta plume

Pour écrire un mot

Ma chandelle est morte

Je n’ai plus de feu

Ouvres-moi la porte

Pour l’amour de Dieu.”

Bruno’s rich baritone and Marianne’s alto sang out clear and loud among all the other voices.

“That was just a run-through—and not too bad,” Olivia said. “Now hush, and when we hear them coming down we’ll do it again.”

The suspense was terrific. But at last, just as Cathy got a fit of giggles, they heard Dorothy saying, “Now careful on the stairs, Mamzelle, they’re slippery!” and launched into the haunting old song again.

Cornelius, alone in the big room, listened to their voices with acute pleasure.

Mamzelle was surrounded, kissed, congratulated on her presence like an old princess, brought in to sit beside Cornelius, and given a glass of sherry.

“Yes, I’m quite overcome,” she said, sipping it. “Thank you, mes enfants, mille mercis pour cette attention—such an old woman.”

“And such an old man,” Cornelius murmured.

“Old?” Mamzelle laughed her musical, highly trained laugh. “You cannot be old while I am present. I am the old one.”

“You are looking very well, I think,” said Cornelius.