Bontemps shrugged.

“Ha,” said Chevalier with a hitch of his lip. “He cannot hear. His ears are old.”

Bontemps spoke calmly, evenly. “I do not speak for the King. But the Queen is unwell. I imagine we shall be here until she recovers.”

“Why should we even listen to you, Bontemps?” asked Philippe. “A servant who sleeps like a dog at the foot of another man’s bed. What kind of man does that?”

Philippe and his friends laughed. Then Philippe noticed Chevalier winking at one of the more handsome members of the entourage and his smile faltered.

Bontemps paused then said, “A faithful one, Monsieur.”

Louis, followed by his guards, entered the large grove where orange trees were set in large, silver pots. There was still much work to be done to make it as beautiful as Louis had envisioned, but the gardeners were busy, cutting diseased branches from the trees and tossing them onto a small bonfire. As soon as the gardeners saw the King, they fell to their knees. Louis gestured for them to rise and continue their work. Then he turned to Jacques, who was supervising the process by giving orders and referring to a paper in his hand.

“Tell me about our work here,” Louis said.

Jacques pointed to one of the orange trees. “I make it my business to discern the provenance of every tree Your Majesty receives. This one…” he consulted the paper, “…came first from the botanic gardens at Montpelier. That one from the university at Strasbourg. Before that, Arabia, China.” He looked squarely at the King. “To know the seed is to know the root. To know the root is to know the tree and the fruit that comes thereafter. So I burn the sick and preserve the purse. And the King shall have his orange blossom.”

Louis nodded with satisfaction and some new ideas. And not far away, in the shade of an ivy-covered arbor, a noble from court had stopped to listen. He turned to his companion and said, “If we do not have proof of our title and provenance, then we have nothing.”

Fresh from wandering among the flowers and hedges, Philippe and his dandy friends settled in Philippe’s apartment to sample new perfumes. As a lone chambermaid swept along the walls, the men sat on chairs and divans, sniffing silk handkerchiefs and passing them about.

“And this,” said Philippe, holding up a cloth embroidered with gold thread, “is the latest scent. Carmelite and lavender.” He held the handkerchief to Chevalier, who put it to his nose and sniffed appreciatively. Another man suddenly leapt up, grabbed the handkerchief, and the men fell into a laughing, tangled game of tag, each one snatching for the cloth, tickling, shoving. The man with the cloth flapped it in the air, dropped it, and ran from the room, followed by the others, leaving Philippe standing alone, chuckling. He picked up the handkerchief.

Then he heard a soft sob from the corner.