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