“The noble Beauvais shares our intent,” said Montcourt. “We have exchanged letters on the subject.”

“Be that as it may, Beauvais does what he will. He has nearly as much money as the King. Should we persuade Beauvais, we have half the nobles in France.”

“At the banquet, then.”

“You’re a braver man than I, Montcourt.”

Montcourt huffed. “We’ve our tinder. But now one of us must strike the flint. If it is to be me, so be it.”

They entered the arena of the banquet and stood among the crowd, watching and waiting for the King, at his table, to speak.

At last Louis rose. His gaze swept the gathering. “I believe,” he announced, “that very soon we shall have a revolution in our country. The world knows France to be masters of the battlefield. But one glimpse around this glorious banquet will tell you. Soon, it is our textile mercers and master tailors who shall transform the world. Our fashions will be revered just as much for beauty, elegance, refinement, and grace.” The crowd murmured their approval. “Many of you,” Louis continued, “mentioned at the carousel your desire to acquire one of the fine emerald rings on display. This was never possible because I had bought every single one – I wished you all to have one as a gift at this very special evening.”

As the crowd applauded, footmen handed emerald rings to everyone in attendance. Sophie put her ring on her finger and, giggling, compared it to those of her young friends. Beatrice slipped her ring onto her own finger, unaware that Fabien was watching her intently.

The King swept his arm in the direction of the orange grove. “I hope you are enjoying the orange blossoms. I can trace the root stock back to the ancient citrus plantations of Arabia. Which reminds me. Montcourt. How is your mother?”

Everyone fell silent and stared at Montcourt.

Montcourt caught his breath. He steeled himself. “Dead, Sire. Gone six weeks.”

“I see you didn’t have time to change clothes after the funeral.”

Muffled laughter erupted around the audience.

“These are not my mourning clothes,” said Montcourt.

“Neither are they evening clothes. Nor even French clothes. One look at your cuffs would tell you that. Now, your father, the Baron, inherited his title from his grandfather, no?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Yet this was a title originally bequeathed to his grandmother, the Baroness of Saint-Maur. She married no higher than seigneur.”

“Seigneur Charles de Saint-Maur no less, Sire.”

“A farmer’s son might call himself Charles de Saint-Maur if that is indeed where he was born. You father was a common man with a fiefdom, a vassal to his overlord, the true noble, the Grand Seigneur.”

Dread crawled up Montcourt’s throat. He glanced at Louvois who was watching the King.