“O, mon Dieu, ou est Franklin? Et qui sont ces dames-là?”

A bit more commotion from within—raised voices, the sound of a door opened and banged shut, then a moment of silence. Franklin stepped up his painful gait along the corridor. All at once, Anne-Catherine Helvetius came hurtling down the hall toward him, her idiotic straw hat askew. In her flush of excitement, she nearly collided with him.

Grasping her by the arms, Franklin said, “My beloved friend…” But then he caught a whiff of her. “What is that interesting aroma—a new eau de parfum?”

Helvetius glared up at him in fury.

“My milkmaid’s dress! I am en camouflage!” she said, trying to keep her voice down. “That cafard of a mule. I have been on his back for hours. And now this—a roomful of women. You never entertain so early—and so many guests! I do not wish to intrude, but this is of great urgency, mon ami…”

“Au contraire, my beloved madame,” Franklin assured her, “you’re always a welcome guest. I pray you’ll join us for an early dinner.” Casting an eye again at her attire, he added with amusement, “I am sorry to inform you, however, madame, that no cows will be available for milking—we were not planning to hold our meal alfresco!”

“Canaille!” cried Mme Helvetius, stamping her foot.

“Madame! Your language!” Franklin cautioned with a saucy grin.

With her next words, he looked as though he’d been seized with an attack of kidney stones, on top of the gout.

“Faites attention!” she told Franklin, sotto voce, lest prying ears overhear: “Le message est arrivé!”

“The message!” he nearly cried aloud. “Then we should not be seen here…”

Just then came the distant sound of the library door closing, followed by clicking footsteps approaching.

“My colleagues arrive,” whispered Franklin. “What is the message?”

“C’est encodé!” Mme Helvetius whispered back, her silvery eyes enormous.

“Of course it’s encoded!” snapped Franklin, pulling in irritation at the long tail of his own hair that clung to his shoulder. “What is it?”

When Anne-Catherine stood on tiptoe and put her lips to Franklin’s ear, he caught another whiff of her attire—earthy, like a barnyard, but not altogether rank.

“‘Frère Jacques,’” Mme Helvetius whispered.

The silence was broken only by the footsteps approaching the corner, where they would soon be exposed, huddled together here in the open hall.

“A name?” Franklin whispered back. “No other clue? Just ‘Brother Jacques’?”

“Non, non, mon ami,” she breathed in impatience. “C’est une chanson!”

“A song is the message?” said Franklin in confusion. But when Mme Helvetius hummed the first notes under her breath, he said, “Ah, I see—very clever!” With a quick pat on her rump, he said, “Make haste. To the salon, by the far door. I shall join you.”

In swift comprehension, she vanished into the east hall just a moment before Adams and Jefferson rounded the corner. With his colleagues close at heel, Franklin entered the salon just as Mme Helvetius appeared breathlessly through a door at the opposite side of the crowded room. All the guests and family members turned to greet Franklin. Though his own heart was beating like a Mohican drum, he shot Mme Helvetius a confident smile across the room. He knew exactly what he must do.