Julie’s cheeks turned red. “I’m not worried about being disappointed.”

“The French think Americans are very demanding. I’ve fixed up our room especially for you.”

“In that case, you might never get rid of me,” Julie said.

“Let us make a quick tour of the house,” Madame suggested. “So you will learn where everything is.”

The furnishings looked to be a hundred years old or more—tall cabinets and rustic benches, grand framed art pieces and age-pocked mirrors. The formal dining room featured hunting trophies—wild boar and deer—a stuffed fox, and a family of stuffed sage hens, all slightly moth-eaten and threadbare. Julie shuddered visibly.

“I was always afraid of them when I was small,” Papa said to Julie. He turned to Madame. “I hope you didn’t feel obligated to keep them on my account.”

She beamed. “Do you mean to say we could be rid of them?”

“By all means. I’ll help you, once I’m rested up.”

She clasped her hands in delight. “My daughter-in-law, Edithe, has always wanted to redecorate. She’s very talented at things of that sort.”

“This is the piano I learned to play,” Papa said. “It still sits in the same corner of the music room.”

“Do you play, still?” asked Martine.

“Poor Henri just arrived,” said Renée. “Don’t make him perform like a monkey.”

Papa simply smiled and took a seat on the bench, then tapped out a familiar folk tune, one he sometimes played on his piano at home. “Do you know this one?” he asked Martine as his fingers bounced over the keys.

Within moments, everyone was singing “Dis-moi, Janette.” Camille stood back, enjoying the extraordinary moment. She caught Julie’s eye, and they shared a look—We’re not in Kansas anymore. Julie shrugged and sang along, familiar with the song from a young age. At the end, Papa gave an exaggerated bow.

“We have loved having the piano,” said Madame. “I hope you’ll treat us to more once you’re rested up.” She pointed out a solarium and a library, inviting them to explore at will. Then she led the way to the grand central stairway and took them along the uneven, creaky corridor to the upper stories. The bedrooms—a dozen in all—had tall ceilings and windows of wavy glass. The plumbing and electricity showed their age, but that only made it easier to imagine what it had been like in the past. There was a dormitory-like nursery for the kids, and Julie and Martine would share a sunny room with a balcony. “A balcony?” Julie said. “Seriously?”

Martine nodded, looking remarkably like her grandmother. “We’re very grand here, eh?”

“That settles it, then. I’m really never leaving.”

Camille let out a secret sigh of relief. It was good to see Julie making a friend again. She already looked brighter and more eager than she had in a long time. She had shed her troubles as if they were a heavy winter coat.

“Which was your room when you were a boy, Papi?” asked Julie.