“Sending a woman!” said Louvois. “And if she stays in England, what then?”

The Montespan dropped her handkerchief then picked it up, moving slowly as if trying to hear the conversation. Colbert hitched his head, indicating Louvois to continue on, away from the lady’s ears.

“At any rate,” he said as they turned a corner, “we can be sure that His Majesty is motivated by the soundest of reasons.”

Every sound outside his prison cell caused Chevalier to flinch and stare in dread at the door. The day before, a man whose face was cloaked by a large hood and whose voice was deep and raspy had spoken through the bars of the door, threatening slow death by evisceration should Chevalier give up any information due to fear or torture. And now, each thumping or clattering beyond his cell brought to mind images of the man and his gutting knife or Fabien and his torture tools. In either case, he would suffer greatly. This morning, as the key rattled and the door swung open, Chevalier, chained to the wall by his ankle, tucked his head and prepared for the worst.

“Tell me,” came the voice. “Are you faithful to my brother?”

Chevalier looked up. Louis stood there on the filthy straw, wrinkling his nose at the stink and at the mice who scampered two and fro.

“Sire,” gasped Chevalier. “He is always in my thoughts.”

“Give me one reason I should spare you the axe.”

Chevalier swallowed hard. “I cannot, Sire. I’ve betrayed you. I allowed myself to be led astray. I beg forgiveness.”

Louis kicked at the bent pan that held Chevalier’s moldy dinner. “Give me the name of the man who led you astray, then.”

“I cannot, Sire, on my honor.”

“Your honor? What a novel concept.”

Chevalier rose on his knees. “I swear, Sire, I never set eyes on him. I don’t know who he is or what he wants.”

“Did you think you were helping my brother in plotting against me?”

“No, Sire. I acted without thought, through fear alone.”

Louis sniffed. “I’ve killed mice with more courage than you. My brother deserves better. Now the question is, what to do with you?”

Chevalier bowed his head, waiting for the answer, but it did not come. And he was left alone with the stench and the vermin and the dread.

Claudine heard Fabien stir on the pallet on the kitchen floor. He grunted and reached for his eyes, only to find the bandages securely in place. Then she looked back through the magnifying glass at the foul-smelling sample in a petri dish.

“I hear you there. What are you doing?” Fabien asked.

“Examining your vomit.”

“Is it the same poison that killed your father?”

“I’m not certain. It’s very similar. Whoever created it knew what he was doing.”

“He?”

“What about your antidote?”

“I administered it while you were unconscious.”