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.