Louis, in his innate selfishness, had been so accustomed to regard every event entirely from the side of how it would affect himself, that it had never struck him that his long-suffering family, who had always yielded to him the absolute obedience which he claimed as his right, would venture to offer any opposition to his new resolution.  He was surprised, therefore, when his brother demanded a private interview that afternoon, and entered his presence without the complaisant smile and humble air with which he was wont to appear before him.

Monsieur was a curious travesty of his elder brother.  He was shorter, but he wore enormously high boot-heels, which brought him to a fair stature.  In figure he had none of that grace which marked the king, nor had he the elegant hand and foot which had been the delight of sculptors.  He was fat, waddled somewhat in his walk, and wore an enormous black wig, which rolled down in rows and rows of curls over his shoulders.  His face was longer and darker than the king’s, and his nose more prominent, though he shared with his brother the large brown eyes which each had inherited from Anne of Austria.  He had none of the simple and yet stately taste which marked the dress of the monarch, but his clothes were all tagged over with fluttering ribbons, which rustled behind him as he walked, and clustered so thickly over his feet as to conceal them from view.  Crosses, stars, jewels, and insignia were scattered broadcast over his person, and the broad blue ribbon of the Order of the Holy Ghost was slashed across his coat, and was gathered at the end into a great bow, which formed the incongruous support of a diamond-hilted sword.  Such was the figure which rolled towards the king, bearing in his right hand his many-feathered beaver, and appearing in his person, as he was in his mind, an absurd burlesque of the monarch.

“Why, monsieur, you seem less gay than usual to-day,” said the king, with a smile.  “Your dress, indeed, is bright, but your brow is clouded.  I trust that all is well with Madame and with the Duc de Chartres?”

“Yes, sire, they are well; but they are sad like myself, and from the same cause.”

“Indeed! and why?”

“Have I ever failed in my duty as your younger brother, sire?”

“Never, Philippe, never!” said the king, laying his hand affectionately upon the other’s shoulder.  “You have set an excellent example to my subjects.”

“Then why set a slight upon me?”

“Philippe!”

“Yes, sire, I say it is a slight.  We are of royal blood, and our wives are of royal blood also.  You married the Princess of Spain; I married the Princess of Bavaria.  It was a condescension, but still I did it.  My first wife was the Princess of England.  How can we admit into a house which has formed such alliances as these a woman who is the widow of a hunchback singer, a mere lampooner, a man whose name is a byword through Europe?”