The Refugees | Page 7

he had so heart-felt a sense of his own dignity that he
could not realise that under any circumstances it might be compromised
in the eyes of others. So he sat, the master of France, yet the slave to
every puff of wind, for a wandering draught had set him shivering and
shaking. Monsieur de St. Quentin, the noble barber, flung a purple
dressing-gown over the royal shoulders, and placed a long many-curled
court wig upon his head, while Bontems drew on his red stockings and
laid before him his slippers of embroidered velvet. The monarch thrust
his feet into them, tied his dressing-gown, and passed out to the
fireplace, where he settled himself down in his easy-chair, holding out
his thin delicate hands towards the blazing logs, while the others stood
round in a semicircle, waiting for the grand lever which was to follow.
"How is this, messieurs?" the king asked suddenly, glancing round him
with a petulant face. "I am conscious of a smell of scent. Surely none of
you would venture to bring perfume into the presence, knowing, as you
must all do, how offensive it is to me."
The little group glanced from one to the other with protestations of
innocence. The faithful Bontems, however, with his stealthy step, had
passed along behind them, and had detected the offender.
"My lord of Toulouse, the smell comes from you," he said.
The Comte de Toulouse, a little ruddy-cheeked lad, flushed up at the
detection.
"If you please, sire, it is possible that Mademoiselle de Grammont may
have wet my coat with her casting-bottle when we all played together at
Marly yesterday," he stammered. "I had not observed it, but if it
offends your Majesty--"
"Take it away! take it away!" cried the king. "Pah! it chokes and stifles
me! Open the lower casement, Bontems. No; never heed, now that he is
gone. Monsieur de St. Quentin, is not this our shaving morning?"
"Yes, sire; all is ready."

"Then why not proceed? It is three minutes after the accustomed time.
To work, sir; and you, Bontems, give word for the grand lever."
It was obvious that the king was not in a very good humour that
morning. He darted little quick questioning glances at his brother and at
his sons, but whatever complaint or sarcasm may have trembled upon
his lips, was effectually stifled by De St. Quentin's ministrations. With
the nonchalance born of long custom, the official covered the royal
chin with soap, drew the razor swiftly round it, and sponged over the
surface with spirits of wine. A nobleman then helped to draw on the
king's black velvet _haut-de-chausses_, a second assisted in arranging
them, while a third drew the night-gown over the shoulders, and
handed the royal shirt, which had been warming before the fire. His
diamond-buckled shoes, his gaiters, and his scarlet inner vest were
successively fastened by noble courtiers, each keenly jealous of his
own privilege, and over the vest was placed the blue ribbon with the
cross of the Holy Ghost in diamonds, and that of St. Louis tied with red.
To one to whom the sight was new, it might have seemed strange to see
the little man, listless, passive, with his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the
burning logs, while this group of men, each with a historic name,
bustled round him, adding a touch here and a touch there, like a knot of
children with a favourite doll. The black undercoat was drawn on, the
cravat of rich lace adjusted, the loose overcoat secured, two
handkerchiefs of costly point carried forward upon an enamelled saucer,
and thrust by separate officials into each side pocket, the silver and
ebony cane laid to hand, and the monarch was ready for the labours of
the day.
During the half-hour or so which had been occupied in this manner
there had been a constant opening and closing of the chamber door, and
a muttering of names from the captain of the guard to the attendant in
charge, and from the attendant in charge to the first gentleman of the
chamber, ending always in the admission of some new visitor. Each as
he entered bowed profoundly three times, as a salute to majesty, and
then attached himself to his own little clique or coterie, to gossip in a
low voice over the news, the weather, and the plans of the day.
Gradually the numbers increased, until by the time the king's frugal

first breakfast of bread and twice watered wine had been carried in, the
large square chamber was quite filled with a throng of men many of
whom had helped to make the epoch the most illustrious of French
history. Here, close by the king, was the harsh but energetic Louvois,
all-powerful now since the death