“To get what he wants. It will be his child on a Monday, and mine on a Tuesday, depending on his needs, his mood, his whim, his health, or which way the wind is blowing. You are not giving him a child.” He turned back and pointed a finger at his wife. “You are giving us a club for him to beat us with.”

Louvois, in the long blue jacket and tall black boots of his high military rank, sat astride his horse by the east wing of the palace, a cold wind stirring dust around him. Four guards stood with him at the ready. Nearly one hundred builders had gathered yet again to protest their conditions. Some stood on the ground; others clung to the scaffolding at various heights. Their faces were set and their eyes cold.

“His Majesty understands that you feel you have not been shown the respect you merit,” Louvois called out. “You are mistaken. Without you, France would not exist. There will be more wars to fight and battles to be won. But as you stood side by side on the fields of Flanders, the King asks you now to stand side by side again, here at Versailles.”

The builders did not reply. The tension in the air was as thick as the rain-threatening clouds overhead.

“Who is your leader?” said Louvois.

The young builder who had tried to prevent the builder from jumping stepped forward. Louvois thought he recognized the man as having been one of many sergeants in the King’s army. “We have no leader. We speak with one voice.”

“If you do not return to work, I shall have you hanged.”

“Kill me,” said the sergeant, “and two more shall take my place.”

Louvois’ horse shifted his feet; Louvois shifted his approach. “I understand your complaints. I was at Cambrai and Compiegne –”

“Yes,” said the sergeant. “I saw you. In a tent on the far horizon two leagues behind the rear guard.”

Louvois’ jaw tightened at this, but he let the sergeant finish.

“Tell the King that we will fight for him again. Build for him again. And show trust and loyalty again. But first the King must show us that he is a man who will honor his promises.” The striking men nodded, and the motion, in unison, looked almost to be a silent declaration of war.

Freezing rain drenched the forests of Versailles and the main road to the palace. In the middle of the icy mud a carriage had been stopped. A masked man stood with his musket aimed at the driver. Another masked man, bearing his own firearm, yanked open the carriage door and climbed inside where an exciseman sat, eyes wide with expectation.

The masked man pulled the cloth down from his face. It was Montcourt. “Your money!” he shouted.

The exciseman, the same one Montcourt had approached in the whorehouse with his plan, sat mute.

Montcourt made a face and whispered, “Now you say –”