Saint Martins Summer | Page 4

silver
fleurs-de-lys were swept from the doorway, and the master of Monsieur
de Tressan's household, in a well filled suit of black relieved by his
heavy chain of office, stepped pompously forward.
The secretary dropped his pen, and shot a frightened glance at his
slumbering master; then raised his hands above his head, and shook
them wildly at the head lackey.
"Sh!" he whispered tragically. "Doucement, Monsieur Anselme."
Anselme paused. He appreciated the gravity of the situation. His
bearing lost some of its dignity; his face underwent a change. Then
with a recovery of some part of his erstwhile resolution:
"Nevertheless, he must be awakened," he announced, but in an
undertone, as if afraid to do the thing he said must needs be done.
The horror in the secretary's eyes increased, but Anselme's reflected
none of it. It was a grave thing, he knew by former experience, to
arouse His Majesty's Seneschal of Dauphiny from his after-dinner nap;
but it was an almost graver thing to fail in obedience to that black-eyed
woman below who was demanding an audience.
Anselme realized that he was between the sword and the wall. He was,
however, a man of a deliberate habit that was begotten of inherent
indolence and nurtured among the good things that fell to his share as
master of the Tressan household. Thoughtfully he caressed his tuft of
red beard, puffed out his cheeks, and raised his eyes to the ceiling in
appeal or denunciation to the heaven which he believed was
somewhere beyond it.
"Nevertheless, he must be awakened," he repeated.

And then Fate came to his assistance. Somewhere in the house a door
banged like a cannon-shot. Perspiration broke upon the secretary's brow.
He sank limply back in his chair, giving himself up for lost. Anselme
started and bit the knuckle of his forefinger in a manner suggesting an
inarticulate imprecation.
My Lord the Seneschal moved. The noise of his slumbers culminated in
a sudden, choking grunt, and abruptly ceased. His eyelids rolled slowly
back, like an owl's, revealing pale blue eyes, which fixed themselves
first upon the ceiling, then upon Anselme. Instantly he sat up, puffing
and scowling, his hands shuffling his papers.
"A thousand devils! Anselme, why am I interrupted?" he grumbled
querulously, still half-asleep. "What the plague do you want? Have you
no thought for the King's affairs? Babylas" - this to his secretary - "did
I not tell you that I had much to do; that I must not be disturbed?"
It was the great vanity of the life of this man, who did nothing, to
appear the busiest fellow in all France, and no audience - not even that
of his own lackeys - was too mean for him to take the stage to in that
predilect role.
"Monsieur le Comte," said Anselme, in tones of abject self-effacement,
"I had never dared intrude had the matter been of less urgency. But
Madame the Dowager of Condillac is below. She begs to see Your
Excellency instantly."
At once there was a change. Tressan became wide-awake upon the
instant. His first act was to pass one hand over the wax-like surface of
his bald head, whilst his other snatched at his wig. Then he heaved
himself ponderously out of his great chair. He donned his wig, awry in
his haste, and lurched forward towards Anselme, his fat fingers
straining at his open doublet and drawing it together.
"Madame la Douairiere here?" he cried. "Make fast these buttons,
rascal! Quick! Am I to receive a lady thus? Am I - ? Babylas," he
snapped, interrupting himself and turning aside even as Anselme put
forth hands to do his bidding. "A mirror, from my closet! Dispatch!"

The secretary was gone in a flash, and in a flash returned, even as
Anselme completed his master's toilet. But clearly Monsieur de Tressan
had awakened in a peevish humour, for no sooner were the buttons of
his doublet secured than with his own fingers he tore them loose again,
cursing his majordomo the while with vigour.
"You dog, Anselme, have you no sense of fitness, no discrimination?
Am I to appear in this garment of the mode of a half-century ago before
Madame la Marquise? Take it off; take it off, man! Get me the coat that
came last month from Paris - the yellow one with the hanging sleeves
and the gold buttons, and a sash - the crimson sash I had from
Taillemant. Can you move no quicker, animal? Are you still here?"
Anselme, thus enjoined, lent an unwonted alacrity to his movements,
waddling grotesquely like a hastening waterfowl. Between him and the
secretary they dressed my Lord the Seneschal, and decked him out till
he was fit to compare with a bird of paradise for gorgeousness of
colouring if