Retired again in Philippe’s apartment, Chevalier sat at the desk and held up a napkin. “Napkin,” he said.

Philippe, whose mind was clearly elsewhere, paced back and forth. “What of them?’

Chevalier unfolded the napkin and placed it on his lap. “At dinner last night I saw the Count of Evremonde using his napkin to polish his teeth. We must construct rules for napkin use.”

Philippe went to the window and crossed his arms. Chevalier knew that look all too well. “She may be your wife,” he said, “and she may be a good woman. But she’s not a good wife.”

“And am I a good husband?”

Chevalier tossed the napkin onto the desk. “You allow her to eat away at your mind. Yes, she is returned from England. But don’t go see her, I beg you. If you do, the whole nightmare will begin again.”

Philippe slammed his fist against the sill and stormed out of the room.

Henriette sat at the table in her outer chamber, her head bowed with exhaustion. Claudine, dressed as Doctor Pascal in dark clothing and mustache, instructed Sophie. “Your mistress must be given only bouillon with sorrel and rosemary for a week.”

“Of course,” said Sophie.

Claudine turned to Henriette. “You need sleep and repose.”

Henriette nodded.

Suddenly the door slammed open. Henriette gasped as Philippe stalked in, his face tight and red. “Both of you! Get out!” he shouted.

Sophie scampered into an anteroom and Claudine quickly packed her case and exited. Then Philippe turned on Henriette. “You! You chose to see him before you saw me!”

Henriette wiped her hair back from her face. “He came to greet me. My husband did not.”

Philippe stood, breathing hard, looking at his wife. At last his face softened. “You are right. I’m sorry.”

“I understand.”

For long moments they considered one another, their unspoken thoughts a silent song of regret and uncertainty. Then Philippe walked up to Henriette and put his hand on her cheek. “Do you forgive me?”

Henriette closed her eyes. “Always. Though sometimes I truly believe you would be happier if I were suddenly not here anymore.”

“I cannot live without you.”

“Nor can you live with me.”

He was descending the winding staircase to his office when he heard the voice behind him. “Monsieur Marchal?”

Fabien turned to find Beatrice following. “I’d hoped I might see you. I wonder whether I might have a word with you?”

“Of course.”

Beatrice’s smile looked as if it had been nailed on. She was nervous. That was fine. That was good. “I had conceived the notion you were upset with me.”

“Why should I be upset with you?”

“Because I lied about who I am.”