The noble Cassel, a middle-aged man of cunning and strength, stepped forward into the light. He considered his visitor with hooded, unreadable eyes.

“What do you wish from me, Montcourt?” he asked at last.

Montcourt looked up as the footman made the last stroke with the razor. “In a downpour one seeks shelter under the largest tree. Here, in the north, there is no one stronger, no one more powerful or resolute than the mighty oak, Cassel. I am a refugee from this royal deluge and seek protection, my lord. I am your servant.”

“Servant,” said Cassel. He snapped his fingers and Montcourt stood.

Several nobles appeared from shadows and stood by Cassel. They considered Montcourt with pity, fear, and loathing.

“Here is your King’s new law,” Cassel said to the nobles. “Stripping a true noble of all dignity. Defiling the reputation of a man whose family forms the bedrock of our country. Not long ago, we all knew where we stood but now…now we must prove ourselves. Sing for our suppers!”

The nobles grumbled agreement.

“This causes me great pain. As you know, the King has always had my respect. But now he says, ‘I am France.’ But I say, ‘It is we who are France.’ Our friend Montcourt’s condition is a message. And soon he shall have his reply.”

A footman brought cologne and sprayed Montcourt’s body to mask the ripe smell. A second footman combed his hair.

“This playground in the woods,” said Cassel. “The King obsesses over it. He sees Versailles and nothing else. Were we to remove this new distraction perhaps the King will forget himself. Then Versailles can return to the weeds, the King to Paris, and we to our lands and our lives.”

Mike placed a pistol on the table by the fire.

Montcourt looked at the weapon then at Cassel. “You would persuade the King by force?”

“He’s lost his mind. No other appeal to reason will work. You wish my protection, Montcourt?”

“I serve your lordship with my life.”

Cassel nodded slowly. “Indeed you will.”

A line of commoners stood before a table on a terrace in Versailles’ ever-expanding gardens. Jacques sat at the table, giving serious consideration to those who wanted employment as gardeners. Behind them, the royal hunting lodge was being transformed into the King’s palace, with countless sections of scaffolding clinging to the exterior walls and pallets loaded with massive marble bricks on the ground being hoisted up to the bricklayers.

An elderly man in rags stepped forward, nodding hopefully, his old eyes squinting. Jacques inspected the man’s hands.

“I need men who can dig, not men I should plant!” scoffed Jacques. He held up his remaining hand. “This hand killed ten men at the Battle of Saint Gotthard.” He smacked the skinny man hard across the face and the man scurried off.