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that she had supped tête-à-tête, it would make it clear to him that she wasn’t quite ready to talk of marriage. She nodded her head in agreement and allowed the vicomte to lead her down the corridor to his rooms. They were exceedingly fine: the small antechamber was well-furnished though sparsely lit, its several candles casting a burnished glow on a little table set for supper. Rouge frowned as the vicomte closed the door. “The table is set and waiting. What if I had refused?”  
    “I had many persuasive arguments.” The smile had left his face.  
    “And I had more.” A soft voice from a dim corner of the room. Rouge whirled about to face the speaker. She recognized him at once. The Marquis de Torcy, the king’s foreign minister. He had come to his post honorably: his grandfather had been the great Colbert, who had helped Louis reshape France thirty years before. A man of about thirty-five, with a calm, implacable manner, Torcy sat at a small writing desk. He put down the pen with which he had been addressing a sealed packet, sprinkled sand on the wet ink, shook it off, and rose to his feet. “Thank you, Albret,” he said, handing the vicomte the letter. They bowed to one another, and Albret left the room, going out by a small door carved into the paneling. “Forgive my subterfuge,” said Torcy. “I do not wish the court to know we’re together.” He smiled and drew out a chair for her. “Mademoiselle? You were promised supper, I think.”  
    “You and I?” she asked coldly. “And what of Madame de Torcy, your wife?” She hadn’t thought the marquis was given to casual liaisons.  
    “Don’t be a fool, Mademoiselle de Tournières,” he snapped. “Sit down. I’ve invited you for supper and a little chat. Nothing more.”  
    She glanced down at the table. The food looked and smelled delectable. And she was famished. She nodded and took the chair he proffered, noticing with curiosity that the table had been fully set, so there was no need for servants. And indeed, no servants were in sight. “And Albret,” she said. “His attentions this evening. Was that also arranged by you?”  
    He poured her some wine. “I wished to see you alone. But I didn’t want you to be seen coming to my chamber. Albret makes an excellent stalking-horse. What is more natural than that the court should think a charming coquette like you has made a new conquest? Of course, Albret has…far more interest in his own sex than in yours—a not uncommon vice in this court, alas! But he’s delighted to play the part of a devoted lover. He doesn’t risk forming an attachment to you, and madame his mother will think her son has regretted the error of his past ways. You and I can thus meet here whenever it’s necessary.” He gestured toward a platter of spiced beef. “Please.”  
    Rouge filled her plate. Her curiosity was piqued, but nothing could dull her hunger pangs. She ate in silent contentment for a few minutes, then looked across the table at him. “Why should we meet?” she asked, stopping to take a drink of wine.  
    “What do you know about the politics of France? In particular, her traffic with Spain?”  
    “Not a great deal. I know that the two royal houses are connected by blood and marriage several times over. Both the king’s mother and his wife were Spanish.” She frowned, thinking. “And King Charles of Spain married our beloved king’s niece, n’est-ce pas ? But still we go to war with Spain and her allies. In the Low Countries, in Franche-Comté, in Steinkirk…” Tintin had fought his last battle at Steinkirk.  
    He nodded. “Yes.Still we go to war. And might again, God forfend. Spain has been a thorn in our side for a hundred years. She surrounds us with her holdings in the Netherlands, Italy, Savoy. She makes treaties with Austria and the Empire, alliances with the German princes. We have fought her,” he laughed softly, “and intermarried with her, in hopes of keeping the