The masked ball was long over and the palace slept, but not Rohan. He sat at his desk, staring at the portrait of young Louis on the wall. His eyes were narrowed and his hand tight around his half-filled goblet. Beneath his bed was a duffle bag, packed for a trip. Rohan lifted the glass, held it up to the portrait in a mock toast, and then drank the last of the wine. He pulled a small dagger from beneath the chair cushion and hid it in the stocking of his right foot. With a deep breath he got up, nodded at the portrait once more, and left the room.

Louis lay awake in his bed next to Marie-Therese, who was sleeping soundly with her face against the pillow. She had come to his chamber through the secret door, reminding him that he had promised to visit her yet had not, refusing to be ignored. Their lovemaking had been warm and affectionate but now, with Marie-Therese slumbering beside him and Bontemps asleep on his cot, Louis’ thoughts were of Henriette. She had fainted at the masked ball and was now in bed with her husband. Philippe’s concern was touching and genuine but Louis envied his brother this night of intimate care. Yes, Henriette needed rest. Several weeks, maybe, or a month. Whatever it would take, Louis would insist on it, yet that she was with Philippe stung his heart. Louis closed his eyes, thinking of her fragile beauty, her soft voice, and her courage as Marie-Therese sighed quietly in her dreams.

Moments later, or hours – through the haze of night it was impossible to know – there was a creaking upon the floorboards. Startled awake, Louis saw Henriette standing near his bed in a pool of pale moonlight. Her eyes were as wide and white as alabaster stones, her body thin and trembling beneath her sweat-soaked nightgown. Blood trickled from her nose and the corners of her mouth.

“Help me,” she gasped.

“My God!” shouted Louis.

The King’s cry wakened both Bontemps and Marie-Therese. Bontemps leapt from his cot and the Queen flew from the bed to throw her arms around Henriette. Louis stared, horrified. Henriette! My dearest! What is wrong?

Henriette slipped through Marie-Therese’s arms to the floor. “My King!” the Queen cried.

Louis regained his wits. “Fetch my doctor, Bontemps! Now!”

Bontemps nodded at the footman, who raced from the room. As the door slammed shut on one end of the room, the secret door opened on the other. Philippe appeared, panting, his face streaked with blood. “Henriette!” He knelt and gathered his wife from the Queen’s arms. “I…I followed a trail of blood. Of her blood on my pillow, in our room, across the floor…!”

Louis moved to his brother and his love, both crumpled on the floor, one barely alive, the other weeping with fear. He reached out his hands to touch them both.