“I agree, my dear. You were once someone to talk to, of course. When you had the affection of the King. But now that it’s gone, I don’t suppose I know why anyone would speak to you at all.” And without waiting for a reply, Chevalier vanished within the sea of troubled nobles.

There was a soft scratching sound, a rustling that woke Claudine on her pallet in the corner of the King’s bedchamber. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes to find Louis at his desk, his head resting in the palm of one hand and scribbling on paper with the other. Stunned, she scrambled up and shook Bontemps, who was asleep on his cot. He woke immediately.

“Sire!” said Bontemps, pulling himself to his feet. “We rejoice at your recovery!”

Claudine felt Louis’ forehead and she gasped. “The fever has broken.”

Louis put down the pen and looked up at her. “Where is your father?”

Claudine took a shuddering breath.

“She gave up her father for you, Sire,” said Bontemps. “He was killed by a poison we believe was meant for you.”

Louis’ eyes narrowed. “Was this poison responsible for my fever?”

“I do not think so,” said Claudine.

“The court must know nothing of my condition.”

“But surely,” said Bontemps. “Your brother must be informed.”

“Send for Rohan. I wish to see him. And my tailors. I want some new clothes.” Louis wrote a few more words then handed the paper to Bontemps. “As for the rest of the court, this is the only message I wish you to convey.”

Quickly and obediently, Bontemps left the King’s apartment and summoned the King’s Cabinet and Circle to the War Cabinet room to share the message. Fabien and Rohan were the only ones not in attendance.

“I am saddened to report that His Majesty’s health has not improved,” Bontemps reported. “He has passed on instructions for government to continue under his word.”

“How can he make decisions in such a condition?” asked Colbert.

“The King wishes that France be informed immediately of his condition so that they might offer their prayers.”

The Queen and Henriette covered their faces and wept. The men struggled against their own tears.

Bontemps watched them all then added, “His Majesty would also have the court learn a new dance.”

Philippe gaped. “A dance?”

“It is one he has composed himself in his moments of peace. To raise our spirits in anticipation of his recovery.” Bontemps held up the paper on which Louis had written the dance and the others gathered close to have a look. “Monsieur Lully is to create a melody.”

Claudine stood in her father’s clinic, sobbing over his body as it lay on the examination table. Once so vital and busy in life, Masson was now as many of his patients had been. Cold. Dead. Decaying flesh on a slab.