Beatrice gave Chevalier a cold, challenging look as Chevalier waited for an answer. But then Beatrice turned her attention back to the crowd. “We’re from different denominations,” she said, “but we pray at the same altar – the church of the living France. Our prayer is for deliverance from the tyrant Louis, and for a new France to rise from the ashes.” She paused and looked at each man in turn. “A great moment is upon us. The King has a fever. His sickness grows. We must plan in this moment for our future. But I bring joyous news. We are not alone. We have powerful and wealthy friends, some already at court, and others abroad are watching closely. All stand ready to help.” Beatrice reached into the sleeve of her dress and removed a paper that had been sewn into the fabric fold. “A message of support from the Dutch Republic. William of Orange will soon be stadholder, commander of the armies and admiral of the sea. He vows here to support those who would move against King Louis. Not just with words but with money, materials, influence, and arms.”

“I’ve heard enough,” said Chevalier. “Thank you for the puppet show.”

Beatrice pointed at her cousin. “Chevalier de Lorraine! Don’t confuse the woman you have known with the woman you now see. You haven’t the faintest idea who you are dealing with. You stand to gain a great deal from our cause. A gathering in Paris awaits you. Canvass your supporters there. I know there are many.”

Chevalier glanced at the others then back at Beatrice. “I’m beginning to wonder whether we are related.”

Beatrice lifted her face to the rafters. “France will be born again, and Versailles will be a forgotten folly. The dream of a sick King. Divided we will fail, united there is nothing we cannot achieve. Long live the noble republic. Long live the true inheritors of France!”

Fabien galloped his horse along a winding road south of Paris, followed closely by two musketeers, and then reined the animal up in a weed-choked field. In the center of the field stood an abandoned abbey, its stone walls covered in vines. Fabien slid from his horse and motioned the musketeers to be silent but at the ready. Slowly, quietly, Fabien crept to the entrance and peered inside, ready to confront the traitors whose cipher he’d translated.

The abbey was empty.

Fabien spun about and stormed outside to his horse. “Someone has played tricks on us!”

Jacques was ushered into the King’s bedchamber by a footman. His eyes were narrowed and his steps uncertain. He looked from Bontemps to Claudine to Louis, sweating, waiting to be told what to do.

“Do not address the King unless he addresses you,” advised Bontemps.

Jacques nodded. Then Louis stirred in his bed and opened his eyes.

“Closer,” said the King.

“Sire,” said Bontemps, “your doctors forbid it.”