The driver shouted something unintelligible and with a violent jerk the wagon took off. The monk was tossed back against the barrels. Hoof beats followed the wagon, and then boom! The wagon shuddered and fell to its side. The monk rolled over and struck the corner of the bench. Blood poured down through his hair.

A man appeared at the window and looked down at the monk. A man with aquiline features, dark brows, and an impassive face.

Montcourt stared at the helpless monk, raised his musket to the window, and blew the monk’s face away.

Bontemps caught up with the King and Colbert as they stood admiring the fountain of Bacchus, a striking, enormous figure now situated in a pool around which new trees had been planted.

“Majesty?” Bontemps said, wiping his brow. “As requested, it is done.”

Louis smiled. “I’ve received word that my good friends, the Parthenays, are riding to Versailles from their estates in the south.”

Bontemps brightened. “Little Francoise is coming?”

“With her husband and family.”

“How time has flown,” said Bontemps.

The King nodded and began walking. “The Parthenays are well-regarded in the south. A strong influence. As a favor to me they are coming here to submit their noble credentials as an example to the rest. We’ll ensure the Gazette reports on this. Perhaps also strike a medal, Colbert? The political arithmetic must augur great things to come.”

“‘The great nobles of the south submit their credentials to the King,’” said Colbert. “That should do it.”

“Or better this,” said Louis. “‘The King receives the credentials from nobles of the south.’”

Ahead was a cart filled with manure at the edge of a newly dug section of the gardens, and Jacques was overseeing the unloading of the smelly mass.

“That’s a lot of shit,” called the King.

“The finest shit from His Majesty’s horses at the Louvre,” said Jacques.

“Sire,” he continued, but then he looked away and went silent.

“Speak,” said the King, moving closer. “What is on your mind?”

“On my way through the woods I found an old man cooking a rat by a stream. I thought he was a tramp.”

“But you recognized him?”

“From your father’s court. He fought for Constantin of Auvergne.”

Louis’ smile faded as he remembered. “During the Fronde,” he said. “Oh, had they been successful…”

“You’d be dead.”

“One day,” said Louis, “I would like very much to know more about my father.” Then, with a wave of his hand, he took a meandering, tree-lined path alone. Down he went to the pool. Down to the pool house where he knew Henriette was waiting.

And she was there, waiting in the changing room with her ladies in the outer hall again. She came to him and placed her head against his chest. He ran a finger through her wet hair and turned her face up to his. So beautiful, he thought. My dearest.