Mia stretches, yawns, and suffers. "Errrrrr..." she groans. There was champagne. Lots of champagne. The Charleston, still thumping away in her head, rudely reminds her. Mia winces at the mocking sunshine and throws the quilted counterpane over her head, afraid to look at the clock. Still, she braves the sunlight for a quick peek.

Only 7 a.m. Still plenty of time to sleep off the morning hell of the previous night's heaven. It will be hours before Mme Duvallon and her young wards arrive in Nice. Wonderful travel experiences are all part of their curriculum. The girls will take a train from Geneva to Marseille and then charter aeroplanes to Nice. They will summer in Monaco, continuing their studies in a Mediterranean clime. Mme Duvallon is a long-time personal friend of Prince Louis II, and this villa was his gift to Madame.

Prepared to do nothing else but enjoy another two hours of unconscious bliss, Mia is rudely stirred a second time, this time by the pearl-handled candlestick telephone on the bedside table. "Hul--hullo?" Mia stammers, fumbling with the receiver.

"Bonjour, mon petite renard. Have you not even climbed out of bed yet?" comes the familiar voice on the other end.

"Bastien?"

"Oui. I came by at nine with the new designs, but no one answered the door."

"At nine? It's only..." The second hand on the clock is not moving. "Merde," Mia groans. "What time is it, Bastien? Quickly!"

"Nearly one, mon cherie," Bastien answers with a chuckle.

"Merde, merde, merde! Be here in five minutes! If I'm not out of the shower, let yourself in!"

"What about Hortense? Louise? Where are they?"

"Seriously, Bastien? You know as well as I do they're useless. Besides, I'm sure they're still soused!"

In two strides, Mia is in the bathroom, wondering if she even hung up the phone. After washing down two Aspirins, she steps into the tepid shower and scrubs herself back to life.

Bastien Morel enters the anteroom of Villa d'Or quietly and closes the large, ostentatious door behind him. "Allo?" his enquiry echoes through the belle époque mansion just before he spots Hortense and Louise passed out on the floor of the adjoining parlour. From what Bastien can see, the house appears to have been in rather a miserable state of neglect for a while. Gramophone records, unfinished shellfish hors d'oeurve, empty bottles of Pernod, knickers, and other odds and ends are strewn about the place. Bastien wrinkles his nose in distaste, deploring the stale odour of seafood that pervades the villa.

Mia, wrapped in a towel, sprints down the stairs to the landing, all business. "Bastien! I have exactly an hour before I have to be in Nice with the Fiat, and I still have a host of errands to run! What have you got?"

"Mme Duvallon will be tremendously pleased," Bastien says proudly, with raised eyebrows. "Our girls will not be seen in the Edwardian straitjackets of yore. Mme Vionnet is a generous woman and has agreed to let me stay in Monte Carlo to be Madame's personal couturier." The clothier holds out a display board of colourful design sketches. "As you can see, asymmetrical is the thing. Our hemlines are dropping, waistlines are rising, and the bias cut allows the fabric to cling more to the lady's contours."

Mia's jaw drops at the sight of Bastien's chic designs. "The girls will be absolutely atingle! That woman doesn't pay you enough, my dear Bastien."

"Where is your telephone? Might I put you through to her?" Bastien agrees. "Are you in such a hurry, mon petite renard, that you will not be able to try on a lovely violet evening dress I designed especially for you?" Bastien rattles a thin, white box.

"You didn't!" Mia exclaims, sprinting down the rest of the stairs. The doe-eyed young woman steps into the parlour to try it on at once.

"I had a feeling she would have brought her pupils back to Monaco by now," Bastien runs a finger along the top of a dusty rolltop desk. "That is why I had to be here first thing this morning, to let her know this year wouldn't mean another summer of prêt-à-porter antiques. This year I am here at her disposal."

"You're an angel, Bastien!" Mia calls from the other room.

"Tell me, petite renard, are you not Madame's personal assistant? Why are you not with her?"

"I was until last week. Hortense, Louise, and I return to the villa a week early for spring cleaning and to be sure everything is in order for the girls' arrival."

"Ah. I thought perhaps you came back early to gamble at the casino, sing at the night club, and throw wild parties here?"

Mia emerges from the next room in the violet dress, a frolicsome look upon her face. "Well, yes. That too."

Bastien laughs. "Now you had better hurry and make those errands of yours. I know a splendid drink for reviving young maids in their cups, so leave Hortense and Louise to me. Between the three of us, we will have this house presentable within an hour. Er, but you might want to take your time about getting the girls back. How many are there?"

Mia returns to the adjacent room and changes quickly into her chauffeur's livery. "Total? Four or five, I think. But today she may be arriving with only one or two. Most are on holiday with their families."

"Then off you go, petite renard," Bastien assures her, placing the driver's hat upon her head. "You leave Villa d'Or in capable hands."

"I owe you one, Bastien."

"Not at all. I am happy so long as you continue your Sultana Djari show, now that you are back in Monte Carlo."

"Certainly," Mia winks. "Though best not to mention it around here," she lowers her voice to a whisper. "Madame knows nothing about it, and I intend to keep it that way."