Anselme paused. He appreciated the gravity of the situation. His
bearing lost some of its dignity; his face underwent a change. Then
with a recovery of some part of his erstwhile resolution:

"Nevertheless, he must be awakened," he announced, but in an
undertone, as if afraid to do the thing he said must needs be done.

The horror in the secretary's eyes increased, but Anselme's reflected
none of it. It was a grave thing, he knew by former experience, to
arouse His Majesty's Seneschal of Dauphiny from his after-dinner
nap; but it was an almost graver thing to fail in obedience to that
black-eyed woman below who was demanding an audience.

Anselme realized that he was between the sword and the wall. He
was, however, a man of a deliberate habit that was begotten of
inherent indolence and nurtured among the good things that fell to
his share as master of the Tressan household. Thoughtfully he
caressed his tuft of red beard, puffed out his cheeks, and raised
his eyes to the ceiling in appeal or denunciation to the heaven
which he believed was somewhere beyond it.

"Nevertheless, he must be awakened," he repeated.

And then Fate came to his assistance. Somewhere in the house a door
banged like a cannon-shot. Perspiration broke upon the secretary's
brow. He sank limply back in his chair, giving himself up for lost.
Anselme started and bit the knuckle of his forefinger in a manner
suggesting an inarticulate imprecation.

My Lord the Seneschal moved. The noise of his slumbers culminated