Louise smiled. “To have a friend like you to help me, the luck is all mine.”

The Montespan raised a brow, looked at the date, and tossed it back into the dish.

The war was over, the treaty signed. It was time for new battles, ones that did not require weapons of the hand but rather weapons of the mind and were as important in their own way.

Louis arose from a restless night, dressed, and went to the War Cabinet room where his ministers were waiting. He walked around the table considering the plans that had been laid out for his consideration. Plans for a party. A party that was to have purpose much more serious than that of mere gaiety.

“Cassel will sit next to me…” said Louis. He glanced at Bontemps, “…and he will come, I assure you.”

“If he does not, Sire?” began Louvois.

Louis gave the War Minister a stern stare. “What then, Monsieur?”

“Then you can be assured that neither will de Havilland, de Menthon, Gagnac, all of the northern nobles who are clients of Cassel. You would be sitting alone, Sire.”

Louis stared. “How kind of you to remind me.” Then he picked up a paper to study it.

Colbert motioned Louvois to the door to speak privately. “Good God, man. Watch your tongue! Unless you are twice the idiot I already take you for.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought we won the war.”

“We could have,” said Philippe, strolling into the room, “if you only had let us. Sire.”

Louis looked up. “Official business, brother. Let the men do their work.”

“I think everyone knows full well the reason the war is over. You are standing in it. Right here.”

“Sire,” said Colbert. “Your brother has returned to court without remembering where he is.”

“Unlike you, Louvois,” said Louis, “my brother knows exactly where he is standing. Of that I’m sure.”

Philippe hoisted himself up on to the table and sat there, swinging his legs. “Three cheers, then! Let’s dance on the broken backs of your bravest men.”

Louis frowned. “Cease. Now.”

“Oh, you mean, halt! Now there’s a command!”

“Sire,” said Bontemps, “it’s clear your brother is not himself.”

Louis spoke slowly, evenly. “If not himself, then who is he?”

Philippe laughed sourly, “I am the sound of distant thunder!”

“Clear the room,” Louis ordered his ministers. “Leave us.”

The men hastened from the room, leaving Louis and Philippe alone. Apart. Staring at one another.

“Your first act on return is to shame me, brother?” Louis asked.

Philippe looked at the papers on the table. “You took my victory. So I take from you your pride.”

“Your victory?”

“Your pride.”

“Your victory?”

“And all you hold dear.”

Louis studied his brother, taking in the presence before him, balancing good and distant memories with these words of disloyalty and resentment. “You’re not well, brother.”