He found Henriette seated at her dressing table as Sophie combed her hair into long twisted tendrils that hung down around her shoulders. A guard announced Louis’ arrival and Henriette immediately stood and Sophie retreated to an adjoining room. The King approached Henriette and put his hand on her stomach. As she moved to put her hand over his, he pulled his away. The corners of her eyes tightened with disappointment.

“We cannot continue as we have done,” he said.

Henriette nodded sadly. “I understand. We are yours to own and discard as you see fit.”

“I’ve never done either so far as you are concerned.”

“His Majesty hides behind words but his sense is clear,” she said gently.

“The child you carry is a symbol of doubt,” he said. “A doubt I do not myself wish to bear. Would you want me to own you to the exclusion of all others? To the exclusion of my brother?”

Tears welled in Henriette’s eyes. “I cannot answer that. Forgive me.”

He walked away, feeling the task done and yet feeling no better for it.

A house in the village of Versailles had been converted into a makeshift hospital. Rohan was directed there by an old pig farmer guiding his cart filled with squealing piglets through the town square. Rohan approached the house, his cloak wrapped around him, his breath fogging the air. The door creaked when he opened it, and he stepped inside.

The front room was filled with wounded soldiers, some on the dirt floor, others on benches, waiting their turns to be treated, massaging bad legs, holding broken arms, touching gashed heads that had healed poorly. Claudine, the doctor’s daughter, was probing a bloated abscess on one warrior’s shoulder.

“You tend these men?” Rohan asked, stopping just inside the door. Claudine looked over and nodded. “What do they suffer from?”

“Gastric fever. Gangrene. Crushed limbs that cannot heal.”

Rohan took several steps closer to the line of soldiers along the wall.

Claudine shook her head. “I wouldn’t advise you approach them, my lord.”

Rohan stopped. “Why not?”

“There may be a miasma. A pollution in the air.”

“These are brothers-in-arms,” said Rohan. “I shall take the risk.” He walked up to a young soldier who sweated with fever.

“Drummer Brebant, unless I’m mistaken,” Rohan said. “We took the town of Rochefort together.”

The soldier ran his forearm across his eyes, and then smiled. “Lord Rohan!”

Rohan leaned down. “You are in pain?”

The soldier nodded.

“All of France feels your suffering.”

The soldier’s smile faded. “And the King?”

“The King, too.”

Before the soldier could say more, Rohan moved on to the next wounded man and then the next, sharing sympathy and words declaring the King’s compassion.