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Mansart had uttered the words, “My own dear little girl,” Honneure had been treated that way. She had even adopted their name and proudly called herself Honneure Mansart.

    “Here they are.” Roget pushed himself away from the wall and plucked the pipe from his mouth. “Hah, mon ami , your son looks more like you every day.”
    The senior Mansart smiled slowly and gazed proudly at Philippe. “He’s a good lad. He’ll be a good man.”
    “And your daughter,” Roget added as he climbed down into his boat. “What a beauty, fit for a king, I might say.” He winked. “She and the young Duc de Berry are of an age, you know. You should contrive to get her a position at Court. Who knows what might happen.”
    Standing on the platform, Philippe accepted the barrel Roget handed up to him, hefted it onto his shoulder, and passed it on to his father, who set it inside a storeroom.
    “Speaking of the Court,” Jeanne Mansart said eagerly, “what news is there?”
    Roget grunted as he handed another barrel up to Philippe. “The war with England is over, I suppose you know.”
    “A war that never should have been waged in the first place,” Paul Mansart said. “Thousands of lives lost, and now Canada, India, and Dunkirk as well. All because of that woman.”
    “Now, Paul.” Jeanne laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “Not in front of the children.”
    “If you mean me,” Honneure interjected, “and if you’re talking about Madame du Pompadour, I already know.”
    All eyes turned in her direction. Jeanne’s chin dropped and Paul’s eyes widened.
    “Madame Dupin tells me about the king sometimes when I help her in the garden. She said he has always listened more closely to his mistresses than his ministers.”
    “Honneure,” Jeanne exclaimed.
    Philippe’s eyes twinkled with suppressed mirth. “What else has Madame told you about the king and his mis—, uh, ministers?”
    “Well, things like Monsieur Choiseul attends mass with the latest saucy novel hidden in his missal, and Cardinal Richelieu takes milk baths—”
    “That will be enough, Honneure.” Color flooded Madame Mansart’s cheeks. It heightened when Roget roared with laughter.
    “I was right.” He choked. “You should send her to Court. She just might keep them all honest.”
    Paul attempted to hide his smile, but the corners of his mouth quivered. Under his wife’s stern glare, he said, “Perhaps, Honneure, you and your mother should see to that soup pot. You wouldn’t want to spoil dinner now, would you?”

    “Did I say something wrong?” Honneure said as her foster mother firmly closed the kitchen door.
    “Not wrong, Honneure, just … You shouldn’t repeat everything Madame Dupin tells you.” Cheeks still flaming, Jeanne turned to the bubbling soup pot herself.
    “Do you mean I should repeat some things but not others?”
    “Well … yes.”
    “But how am I supposed to know the difference?”
    Jeanne Mansart sighed deeply, hung her ladle on its hook beside the hearth, and turned slowly to the child she had considered her own since the first moment she had laid eyes on her. She walked around the table and took Honneure’s face in her hands.
    “Oh, Honneure, my dear, sweet girl, how do I answer you?” She looked into Honneure’s storm-gray eyes for a long moment. “You’ve always been so good, so dutiful and obedient and loving. I could not have asked for a more perfect child. You have never said an unkind word or committed a cruel act, and you have done nothing wrong now.”
    “But you said—”
    “I said you shouldn’t repeat everything you hear, and you very wisely pointed out to me how difficult it is to know how to choose.” Jeanne dropped her hands from Honneure’s face and laid them lightly on her shoulders. “You will learn as you grow older, I suppose, as we all do. For now … just be honest, as you always have been.”
    “You’re not angry with me?”
    “Oh, Honneure, no, of course not, dearest child.