“The nobles behave as if this were their home. They do not know how to address members of the royal family or each other, how to eat at dinner, how to be at Versailles. I want everyone to know their place and status. I want every minute of every day structured. From now on, everyone must abide by the same set of rules.”

“Including the King?”

“Especially the King. And who better to control the King than his brother?”

Philippe stood and shook bathwater from his arms. “Could you not give me a task which would add to the glory and reputation of France?”

“I just did.”

The noise in the salon was deafening, with nobles gambling, laughing, drinking, and grabbing one another as unabashedly as would the lowest of commoners. Louis passed through the room, seeking Rohan. The Montespan came up to him but Louis brushed her aside. Those nobles who were sober enough bowed as the King passed. The others sat about in bleary-eyed stupors.

“Where is Rohan?” Louis asked.

No one answered.

“Where is Rohan?” the King shouted.

“Behind you, Sire.”

Louis turned. “Come, I need a friend tonight.” He grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses from a passing servant and led Rohan out from the noise and bright light.

They went outside and sat on a marble bench behind the palace, looking out through the frosted moonlight at the gardens. Guards stood at a distance.

“Everything use to be so free of fog and thicket,” said Louis. “We knew who we were, what we wanted, where we were going, and who our enemies and friends were. But now…”

“There is no turning back?”

Louis shook his head. “The path is too narrow for turning. Every decision taken is a stride forward and cannot be revoked.”

Rohan unstopped the wine bottle and filled the glasses. “What is your greatest fear?”

“To be alone.”

“You will never be alone.”

Louis looked at Rohan fondly, and lifted his glass for a toast. “Spoken like a true friend. To the things and people we left behind.”

“And to a brighter future,” said Rohan. Both drank deeply under the canopy of night. Then Rohan put his left arm around Louis’ shoulder, and his little finger began tapping a soft, arrhythmic staccato.

9 Winter 1670

9

WINTER 1670

The scene was serenity itself – the King strolling a garden pathway, past towering statues and elegant fountains gone silent with the season, white winter clouds streaking the ice-blue sky – and Bontemps watched on with awe and love. Yet responsibilities trumped the beauty of the moment, and he hurried to Louis and bowed.

“Good morning, Sire. It is time.”

Louis sighed and gave the garden a look of longing. “Of course.”

“Any news?” he asked as they strolled back to the palace through evergreen hedges and rows of winter roses.