Bontems had poured on the king's hands a few drops of spirits of wine,
catching them again in a silver dish; and the first lord of the
bedchamber had presented the bowl of holy water with which he made the
sign of the cross, muttering to himself the short office of the Holy
Ghost. Then, with a nod to his brother and a short word of greeting to
the dauphin and to the Due du Maine, he swung his legs over the side of
the bed and sat in his long silken night-dress, his little white feet
dangling from beneath it--a perilous position for any man to assume,
were it not that 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