The house itself was undeniably grand. Its spirit was that of Louis XIV, the Sun King—large, baroque, powerful. One entered through handsome iron gates into a courtyard with wings, known as pavillons, on each side. The hall and broad staircase were of pale, polished stone. In the high, handsome rooms, on parquet floors and Aubusson carpets, Louis XIV formal chairs, lacquered cabinets and heavy boulle desks, their brass inlay softly gleaming, lay like stately ships at anchor. Marble tabletops dimly reflected the sunlight, which entered respectfully into the aristocratic quiet of the house. Ancestral portraits—sad, baroque generals, bland rococo courtiers—reminded today’s de Cygnes that not only the deity, but their ancestors, also saw all that they did and expected—whether or not they could be good—that they should at least uphold the family honor.

The grandest family mansions of the aristocracy were known as hôtels. And had his title been just a little higher up the ladder of nobility, the vicomte might almost have called his house the Hôtel de Cygne.

And yet, despite the severe, masculine grandeur of the house, Roland was very happy there. From his earliest childhood, the big, silent rooms had the familiar peace of holy places. The stately armchairs with their ornate wooden arms and tapestry seats were like so many ancient aunts and uncles. And the sometimes daunting portraits were his grandparents, his friends, for whom he felt a deep and primitive urge to protect and defend.

Above all, although it was only sparsely populated, his home was full of affection.

His father, who hadn’t remarried so far, was always kind. His old nanny had also remained with them, providing an endless fund of warmth, and effectively running the house for his father. There were only a small staff of six required to keep the place going, but most of them had been with the vicomte all their lives, and Roland thought of them as practically his family, too. And there was Father Xavier, like a favorite uncle, who never failed to look in every week or so.

But he often thought of his mother, and kept a little photograph of her on the table by his bed, and kissed it every night after he had said his prayers.

Only one thing worried Roland. He was fifteen now. It was time to be thinking of a career. And he still didn’t know what he wanted to do.