“You ignored my invitation,” said Benoit.

Sophie looked at him, at his handsome face in the moonlight, at his hopeful yet sad eyes. “I could not come. My duty called me elsewhere.”

“I want to believe you.”

“Please try.”

Benoit stepped close to Sophie, so close their bodies almost touched. “Follow me,” he said.

“No.”

“You want to. I can tell.”

“It can never be, between us.”

“I know. But come with me.” Then he reached out for her hand and she did not resist. She ran with him into a grove of roses, losing a shoe as she went.

Louis commanded Cassel to sit beside him on the dais, and silently, together, they watched the fire performers juggle, toss, and catch flaming batons and hoops.

At last Louis spoke, leaning casually on his elbow. “As children we’re told not to play with fire, but they seem to enjoy it.”

“I see no merit in it,” said Cassel. “No true skill.”

“A little burning is good for the soul, don’t you think?”

“Joan of Arc, France’s courageous heroine, might disagree with you,” said Cassel. “Or Lucifer.”

The King looked straight on at Cassel. “I fancy that in another life we might have been friends, Cassel.”

“I do not give myself to fancy. I have no time for it.”

“That gives me surprise.”

“I don’t care for those, either.”

“How unfortunate for you.”

There was a sudden BOOM! The partiers spun about, some gasping, others screaming, to find the source of the noise. And then overhead a huge, flaming flower exploded, sending out a sparkling shower against the black sky; the fireworks had begun and the guests applauded. Cassel made a face and rose from his seat.

“So soon?” asked Louis.

“I’ve seen burning paper before.” Cassel stepped from the dais and called to his servants, who waited at the periphery of the party. “Bring my carriage!” Then he stormed off.

As Cassel departed, Philippe wandered onto the dais, carrying two glasses of wine, and plopped down on the empty seat. “I thought he’d never leave. Here, drink with me.” He handed a glass to Louis and smiled.

“I am grateful you are here, brother,” said the King. “Truly I am.”

“And,” Philippe said, lifting his glass in an informal toast, “for once I am inclined to believe you.” Louis raised his own glass in answer to the gesture, and they drank together.

As fireworks exploded overhead, Benoit and Sophie watched from a bench at the edge of the orangery, protected by the night. She leaned into him and he into her. She lifted her face to his and he kissed her, deeply. And her soul burst with joy as bright as any firework.

Philippe put down his empty wine glass and looked up at the fireworks. His body was loose and his head light; it felt as if the chair below him were spinning. Another drink, he managed to think. I need more wine.