The mule was so slow, it seemed hours before Mme Helvetius at last spied the sun breaking over the eastern cliff. And there, high on its perch above the river Seine, lay her destination: Le Valentinois. Tucked like an ostentatious jewel into its lavish setting of gardens and follies, plashing fountains and octagonal pools, the famous château was a bastion of extravagance that would rival a pasha’s palace.

Mme Helvetius felt the chill she felt whenever she came here, which was more often than she cared think of. Given the criticality of her mission, she was grateful she’d come in this attire, so she might eschew the carriage entrance and enter through the gardens where she wouldn’t be recognized. For Le Valentinois, despite its opulence, was known as the nest of gunrunners, speculators, thieves and spies—a notorious circle formed and fed upon war and crisis, of the sort they’d just come through in Europe.

This circle was ruled by the most dangerous man of all: the château’s wealthy, mysterious owner, Donatien le Ray de Chaumont. Given the importance of her message, she prayed she was not walking with open eyes into a trap. At whatever cost, she must deliver the message in private, before the household was stirring. She must get the message to Franklin at once—here in his private wing of the château.

Only Dr. Franklin would know what they must do—what action the club must take when it met tonight—that is, once he had deciphered the message in that song.

8:00 a.m.
Auteuil, France

One might be lonely in Paris, thought Abigail Adams with chagrin—but one could surely never be alone!

Wherever one tried to move, crowds of unwashed bodies closed in about one. The streets were a cesspool. No wonder the Parisians wore more lace around their necks than a Dutch tablecloth—within easy reach of their noses, to block the smell! Hadn’t her dear Mr. Adams fallen deathly ill each time he’d crossed the waters here from America?

And the women! There were forty thousand of them licensed as whores (she blushed even to think the word) who’d been sanctioned to “ply their craft” within the very city gates.

And the boxes! A horror she’d gleaned from the churchwardens themselves: boxes set out on designated street corners for women to drop their unwanted children into. An improvement, they said, upon the “old days” of the philosopher Rousseau, when babies had been left on church steps to die of exposure—some frozen so hard, they had to scrape their little bodies off the stones. O, iniquity!

After just a few days in Paris, Abigail felt, before exposing them further to this rotten decadence, she should take herself off with her own two children, Nabby and Johnnie, for a steam cleaning at a thermal spa.

So thank heavens, Abigail sighed in relief, from now on they would not have to spend another moment in the sordid sink. Her dear Mr. Adams had secured them a place in the country, at Auteuil.