A MONARCH IN DESHABILLE.
It was the morning after the guardsman had returned to his duties.
Eight o'clock had struck on the great clock of Versailles, and it was
almost time for the monarch to rise. Through all the long corridors and
frescoed passages of the monster palace there was a subdued hum and
rustle, with a low muffled stir of preparation, for the rising of the
king was a great state function in which many had a part to play.
A servant with a steaming silver saucer hurried past, bearing it to
Monsieur de St. Quentin, the state barber. Others, with clothes thrown
over their arms, bustled down the passage which led to the ante-chamber.
The knot of guardsmen in their gorgeous blue and silver coats
straightened themselves up and brought their halberds to attention,
while the young officer, who had been looking wistfully out of the
window at some courtiers who were laughing and chatting on the terraces,
turned sharply upon his heel, and strode over to the white and gold door
of the royal bedroom.
He had hardly taken his stand there before the handle was very gently
turned from within, the door revolved noiselessly upon its hinges, and a
man slid silently through the aperture, closing it again behind him.
"Hush!" said he, with his finger to his thin, precise lips, while his
whole clean-shaven face and high-arched brows were an entreaty and a
warning. "The king still sleeps."
The words were whispered from one to another among the group who had
assembled outside the door. The speaker, who was Monsieur Bontems, head
_valet de Chambre_, gave a sign to the officer of the guard, and led him
into the window alcove from which he had lately come.
"Good-morning, Captain de Catinat," said he, with a mixture of
familiarity and respect in his manner.
"Good-morning, Bontems. How has the king slept?"
"Admirably."
"But it is his time."
"Hardly."
"You will not rouse him yet?"
"In seven and a half minutes." The valet pulled out the little round
watch which gave the law to the man who _was_ the law to twenty millions
of people.
"Who commands at the main guard?"
"Major de Brissac."
"And you will be here?"
"For four hours I attend the king."
"Very good. He gave me some instructions for the officer of the guard,
when he was alone last night after the _petit coucher_. He bade me to
say that Monsieur de Vivonne was not to be admitted to the _grand
lever_. You are to tell him so."
"I shall do so."
"Then, should a note come from _her_--you understand me, the new one--"
"Madame de Maintenon?"
"Precisely. But it is more discreet not to mention names. Should she
send a note, you will take it and deliver it quietly when the king gives
you an opportunity."
"It shall be done."
"But if the other should come, as is possible enough--the other, you
understand me, the former--"
"Madame de Montespan."
"Ah, that soldierly tongue of yours, captain! Should she come, I say,
you will gently bar her way, with courteous words, you understand, but
on no account is she to be permitted to enter the royal room."
"Very good, Bontems."
"And now we have but three minutes."
He strode through the rapidly increasing group of people in the corridor
with an air of proud humility as befitted a man who, if he was a valet,
was at least the king of valets, by being the valet of the king. Close
by the door stood a line of footmen, resplendent in their powdered wigs,
red plush coats, and silver shoulder knots.
"Is the officer of the oven here?" asked Bontems.
"Yes, sir," replied a functionary who bore in front of him an enamelled
tray heaped with pine shavings.
"The opener of the shutters?"
"Here, sir."
"The remover of the taper?"
"Here, sir."
"Be ready for the word." He turned the handle once more, and slipped
into the darkened room.
It was a large square apartment, with two high windows upon the further
side, curtained across with priceless velvet hangings. Through the
chinks the morning sun shot a few little gleams, which widened as they
crossed the room to break in bright blurs of light upon the
primrose-tinted wall. A large arm-chair stood by the side of the
burnt-out fire, shadowed over by the huge marble mantel-piece, the back
of which was carried up twining and curving into a thousand arabesque
and armorial devices until it blended with the richly painted ceiling.
In one corner a narrow couch with a rug thrown across it showed where
the faithful Bontems had spent the night.
In the very centre of the chamber there stood a large four-post bed,
with curtains of Gobelin tapestry looped back from the pillow. A square
of polished rails surrounded it, leaving a space some five feet in width
all round between the enclosure and the bedside. Within this enclosure,
or _ruelle_, stood a small round table, covered over with a white
napkin, upon which lay a silver platter and an enamelled cup, the one
containing a little Frontiniac wine and water, the other bearing three
slices of the breast of a chicken, in case the king should hunger during
the night.
As Bontems passed noiselessly across the room, his feet sinking into the
moss-like carpet, there was the heavy close smell of sleep in the air,
and he could near the long thin breathing of the sleeper. He passed
through the opening in the rails, and stood, watch in hand, waiting for
the exact instant when the iron routine of the court demanded that the
monarch should be roused. Beneath him, from under the costly green
coverlet of Oriental silk, half buried in the fluffy Valenciennes lace
which edged the pillow, there protruded a round black bristle of
close-cropped hair, with the profile of a curving nose and petulant lip
outlined against the white background. The valet snapped his watch, and
bent over the sleeper.
"I have the honour to inform your Majesty that it is half-past eight,"
said he.
"Ah!" The king slowly opened his large dark-brown eyes, made the sign of
the cross, and kissed a little dark reliquary which he drew from under
his night-dress. Then he sat up in bed, and blinked about him with the
air of a man who is collecting his thoughts.
"Did you give my orders to the officer of the guard, Bontems?" he asked.
"Yes, sire."
"Who is on duty?"
"Major de Brissac at the main guard, and Captain de Catinat in the
corridor."
"De Catinat! Ah, the young man who stopped my horse at Fontainebleau.
I remember him. You may give the signal, Bontems."
The chief valet walked swiftly across to the door and threw it open. In
rushed the officer of the ovens and the four red-coated, white-wigged
footmen, ready-handed, silent-footed, each intent upon his own duties.
The one seized upon Bontem's rug and couch, and in an instant had
whipped them off into an ante-chamber, another had carried away the
_en cas_ meal and the silver taper-stand; while a third drew back the
great curtains of stamped velvet and let a flood of light into the
apartment. Then, as the flames were already flickering among the pine
shavings in the fireplace, the officer of the ovens placed two round
logs crosswise above them, for the morning air was chilly, and withdrew
with his fellow-servants.
They were hardly gone before a more august group entered the
bed-chamber. Two walked together in front, the one a youth little over
twenty years of age, middle-sized, inclining to stoutness, with a slow,
pompous bearing, a well-turned leg, and a face which was comely enough
in a mask-like fashion, but which was devoid of any shadow of
expression, except perhaps of an occasional lurking gleam of mischievous
humour. He was richly clad in plum-coloured velvet, with a broad band
of blue silk; across his breast, and the glittering edge of the order of
St. Louis protruding from under it. His companion was a man of forty,
swarthy, dignified, and solemn, in a plain but rich dress of black silk,
with slashes of gold at the neck and sleeves. As the pair faced the
king there was sufficient resemblance between the three faces to show
that they were of one blood, and to enable a stranger to guess that the
older was Monsieur, the younger brother of the king, while the other was
Louis the Dauphin, his only legitimate child, and heir to a throne to
which in the strange workings of Providence neither he nor his sons were
destined to ascend.
Strong as was the likeness between the three faces, each with the
curving Bourbon nose, the large full eye, and the thick Hapsburg
under-lip, their common heritage from Anne of Austria, there was still a
vast difference of temperament and character stamped upon their
features. The king was now in his six-and-fortieth year, and the
cropped black head was already thinning a little on the top, and shading
away to gray over the temples. He still, however, retained much of the
beauty of his youth, tempered by the dignity and sternness which
increased with his years. His dark eyes were full of expression, and
his clear-cut features were the delight of the sculptor and the painter.
His firm and yet sensitive mouth and his thick, well-arched brows gave
an air of authority and power to his face, while the more subdued
expression which was habitual to his brother marked the man whose whole
life had been spent in one long exercise of deference and
self-effacement. The dauphin, on the other hand, with a more regular
face than his father, had none of that quick play of feature when
excited, or that kingly serenity when composed, which had made a shrewd
observer say that Louis, if he were not the greatest monarch that ever
lived, was at least the best fitted to act the part.
Behind the king's son and the king's brother there entered a little
group of notables and of officials whom duty had called to this daily
ceremony. There was the grand master of the robes, the first lord of
the bed-chamber, the Duc du Maine, a pale youth clad in black velvet,
limping heavily with his left leg, and his little brother, the young
Comte de Toulouse, both of them the illegitimate sons of Madame de
Montespan and the king. Behind them, again, was the first valet of the
wardrobe, followed by Fagon, the first physician, Telier, the head
surgeon, and three pages in scarlet and gold who bore the royal clothes.
Such were the partakers in the family entry, the highest honour which
the court of France could aspire to.
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
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.
During the half-hour or so which had been occupied in this manner there
had been a constant opening and closing of the chamber door, and a
muttering of names from the captain of the guard to the attendant in
charge, and from the attendant in charge to the first gentleman of the
chamber, ending always in the admission of some new visitor. Each as he
entered bowed profoundly three times, as a salute to majesty, and then
attached himself to his own little clique or coterie, to gossip in a low
voice over the news, the weather, and the plans of the day. Gradually
the numbers increased, until by the time the king's frugal first
breakfast of bread and twice watered wine had been carried in, the large
square chamber was quite filled with a throng of men many of whom had
helped to make the epoch the most illustrious of French history.
Here, close by the king, was the harsh but energetic Louvois,
all-powerful now since the death of his rival Colbert, discussing a
question of military organisation with two officers, the one a tall and
stately soldier, the other a strange little figure, undersized and
misshapen, but bearing the insignia of a marshal of France, and owning a
name which was of evil omen over the Dutch frontier, for Luxembourg was
looked upon already as the successor of Conde, even as his companion
Vauban was of Turenne. Beside them, a small white-haired clerical with
a kindly face, Pere la Chaise, confessor to the king, was whispering his
views upon Jansenism to the portly Bossuet, the eloquent Bishop of
Meaux, and to the tall thin young Abbe de Fenelon, who listened with a
clouded brow, for it was suspected that his own opinions were tainted
with the heresy in question. There, too, was Le Brun, the painter,
discussing art in a small circle which contained his fellow-workers
Verrio and Laguerre, the architects Blondel and Le Notre, and sculptors
Girardon, Puget, Desjardins, and Coysevox, whose works had done so much
to beautify the new palace of the king. Close to the door, Racine, with
his handsome face wreathed in smiles, was chatting with the poet Boileau
and the architect Mansard, the three laughing and jesting with the
freedom which was natural to the favourite servants of the king, the
only subjects who might walk unannounced and without ceremony into and
out of his chamber.
"What is amiss with him this morning?" asked Boileau in a whisper,
nodding his head in the direction of the royal group. "I fear that his
sleep has not improved his temper."
"He becomes harder and harder to amuse," said Racine, shaking his head.
"I am to be at Madame De Maintenon's room at three to see whether a page
or two of the _Phedre_ may not work a change."
"My friend," said the architect, "do you not think that madame herself
might be a better consoler than your _Phedre_?"
"Madame is a wonderful woman. She has brains, she has heart, she has
tact--she is admirable."
"And yet she has one gift too many."
"And that is?"
"Age."
"Pooh! What matter her years when she can carry them like thirty?
What an eye! What an arm! And besides, my friends, he is not himself a
boy any longer."
"Ah, but that is another thing."
"A man's age is an incident, a woman's a calamity."
"Very true. But a young man consults his eye, and an older man his ear.
Over forty, it is the clever tongue which wins; under it, the pretty
face."
"Ah, you rascal! Then you have made up your mind that five-and-forty
years with tact will hold the field against nine-and-thirty with beauty.
Well, when your lady has won, she will doubtless remember who were the
first to pay court to her."
"But I think that you are wrong, Racine."
"Well, we shall see."
"And if you are wrong--"
"Well, what then?"
"Then it may be a little serious for you."
"And why?"
"The Marquise de Montespan has a memory."
"Her influence may soon be nothing more."
"Do not rely too much upon it, my friend. When the Fontanges came up
from Provence, with her blue eyes and her copper hair, it was in every
man's mouth that Montespan had had her day. Yet Fontanges is six feet
under a church crypt, and the marquise spent two hours with the king
last week. She has won once, and may again."
"Ah, but this is a very different rival. This is no slip of a country
girl, but the cleverest woman in France."
"Pshaw, Racine, you know our good master well, or you should, for you
seem to have been at his elbow since the days of the Fronde. Is he a
man, think you, to be amused forever by sermons, or to spend his days at
the feet of a lady of that age, watching her at her tapestry-work, and
fondling her poodle, when all the fairest faces and brightest eyes of
France are as thick in his _salons_ as the tulips in a Dutch flower-bed?
No, no, it will be the Montespan, or if not she, some younger beauty."
"My dear Boileau, I say again that her sun is setting. Have you not
heard the news?"
"Not a word."
"Her brother, Monsieur de Vivonne, has been refused the _entre_."
"Impossible!"
"But it is a fact."
"And when?"
"This very morning."
"From whom had you it?"
"From De Catinat, the captain of the guard. He had his orders to bar
the way to him."
"Ha! then the king does indeed mean mischief. That is why his brow is
so cloudy this morning, then. By my faith, if the marquise has the
spirit with which folk credit her, he may find that it was easier to win
her than to slight her."
"Ay; the Mortemarts are no easy race to handle."
"Well, heaven send him a safe way out of it! But who is this gentleman?
His face is somewhat grimmer than those to which the court is
accustomed. Ha! the king catches sight of him, and Louvois beckons to
him to advance. By my faith, he is one who would be more at his ease in
a tent than under a painted ceiling."
The stranger who had attracted Racine's attention was a tall thin man,
with a high aquiline nose, stern fierce gray eyes, peeping out from
under tufted brows, and a countenance so lined and marked by age, care,
and stress of weather that it stood out amid the prim courtier faces
which surrounded it as an old hawk might in a cage of birds of gay
plumage. He was clad in a sombre-coloured suit which had become usual
at court since the king had put aside frivolity and Fontanges, but the
sword which hung from his waist was no fancy rapier, but a good
brass-hilted blade in a stained leather-sheath, which showed every sign
of having seen hard service. He had been standing near the door, his
black-feathered beaver in his hand, glancing with a half-amused,
half-disdainful expression at the groups of gossips around him, but at
the sign from the minister of war he began to elbow his way forward,
pushing aside in no very ceremonious fashion all who barred his passage.
Louis possessed in a high degree the royal faculty of recognition.
"It is years since I have seen him, but I remember his face well," said
he, turning to his minister. "It is the Comte de Frontenac, is it not?"
"Yes, sire," answered Louvois; "it is indeed Louis de Buade, Comte de
Frontenac, and formerly governor of Canada."
"We are glad to see you once more at our _lever_," said the monarch, as
the old nobleman stooped his head, and kissed the white hand which was
extended to him. "I hope that the cold of Canada has not chilled the
warmth of your loyalty."
"Only death itself, sire, would be cold enough for that."
"Then I trust that it may remain to us for many long years. We would
thank you for the care and pains which you have spent upon our province,
and if we have recalled you, it is chiefly that we would fain hear from
your own lips how all things go there. And first, as the affairs of God
take precedence of those of France, how does the conversion of the
heathen prosper?"
"We cannot complain, sire. The good fathers, both Jesuits and
Recollets, have done their best, though indeed they are both rather
ready to abandon the affairs of the next world in order to meddle with
those of this."
"What say you to that, father?" asked Louis, glancing, with a twinkle of
the eyes, at his Jesuit confessor.
"I say, sire, that when the affairs of this world have a bearing upon
those of the next, it is indeed the duty of a good priest, as of every
other good Catholic, to guide them right."
"That is very true, sire," said De Frontenac, with an angry flush upon
his swarthy cheek; "but as long as your Majesty did me the honour to
intrust those affairs no my own guidance, I would brook no interference
in the performance of my duties, whether the meddler were clad in coat
or cassock."
"Enough, sir, enough!" said Louis sharply. "I had asked you about the
missions."
"They prosper, sire. There are Iroquois at the Sault and the mountain,
Hurons at Lorette, and Algonquins along the whole river _cotes_ from
Tadousac in the East to Sault la Marie, and even the great plains of the
Dakotas, who have all taken the cross as their token. Marquette has
passed down the river of the West to preach among the Illinois, and
Jesuits have carried the Gospel to the warriors of the Long House in
their wigwams at Onondaga."
"I may add, your Majesty," said Pere la Chaise, "that in leaving the
truth there, they have too often left their lives with it."
"Yes, sire, it is very true," cried De Frontenac cordially. "Your
Majesty has many brave men within your domains, but none braver than
these. They have come back up the Richelieu River from the Iroquois
villages with their nails gone, their fingers torn out, a cinder where
their eye should be, and the scars of the pine splinters as thick upon
their bodies as the _fleurs-de-lis_ on yonder curtain. Yet, with a
month of nursing from the good Ursulines, they have used their remaining
eye to guide them back to the Indian country once more, where even the
dogs have been frightened at their haggled faces and twisted limbs."
"And you have suffered this?" cried Louis hotly. "You allow these
infamous assassins to live?"
"I have asked for troops, sire."
"And I have sent some."
"One regiment."
"The Carignan-Saliere. I have no better in my service.
"But more is needed, sire."
"There are the Canadians themselves. Have you not a militia? Could you
not raise force enough to punish these rascally murderers of God's
priests? I had always understood that you were a soldier."
De Frontenac's eyes flashed, and a quick answer seemed for an instant to
tremble upon his lips, but with an effort the fiery old man restrained
himself. "Your Majesty will learn best whether I am a soldier or not,"
said he, "by asking those who have seen me at Seneffe, Mulhausen,
Salzbach, and half a score of other places where I had the honour of
upholding your Majesty's cause."
"Your services have not been forgotten."
"It is just because I am a soldier and have seen something of war that I
know how hard it is to penetrate into a country much larger than the
Lowlands, all thick with forest and bog, with a savage lurking behind
every tree, who, if he has not learned to step in time or to form line,
can at least bring down the running caribou at two hundred paces, and
travel three leagues to your one. And then when you have at last
reached their villages, and burned their empty wigwams and a few acres
of maize fields, what the better are you then? You can but travel back
again to your own land with a cloud of unseen men lurking behind you,
and a scalp-yell for every straggler. You are a soldier yourself, sire.
I ask you if such a war is an easy task for a handful of soldiers, with
a few _censitaires_ straight from the plough, and a troop of
_coureurs-de-bois_ whose hearts are all the time are with their traps
and their beaver-skins."
"No, no; I am sorry if I spoke too hastily," said Louis. "We shall look
into the matter at our council."
"Then it warms my heart to hear you say so," cried the old governor.
"There will be joy down the long St. Lawrence, in white hearts and in
red, when it is known that their great father over the waters has
turned his mind towards them."
"And yet you must not look for too much, for Canada has been a heavy
cost to us, and we have many calls in Europe."
"Ah, sire, I would that you could see that great land. When your
Majesty has won a campaign over here, what may come of it? Glory, a few
miles of land Luxembourg, Strassburg, one more city in the kingdom; but
over there, with a tenth of the cost and a hundredth part of the force,
there is a world ready to your hand. It is so vast, sire, so rich, so
beautiful! Where are there such hills, such forests, such rivers?
And it is all for us if we will but take it. Who is there to stand in
our way? A few nations of scattered Indians and a thin strip of English
farmers and fishermen. Turn your thoughts there, sire, and in a few
years you would be able to stand upon your citadel at Quebec, and to say
there is one great empire here from the snows of the North to the warm
Southern Gulf, and from the waves of the ocean to the great plains
beyond Marquette's river, and the name of this empire is France, and her
king is Louis, and her flag is the _fleurs-de-lis_."
Louis's cheek had flushed at this ambitious picture, and he had leaned
forward in his chair, with flashing eyes, but he sank back again as the
governor concluded.
"On my word, count," said he, "you have caught something of this gift of
Indian eloquence of which we have heard. But about these English folk.
They are Huguenots, are they not?"
"For the most part. Especially in the North."
"Then it might be a service to Holy Church to send them packing. They
have a city there, I am told. New--New--How do they call it?"
"New York, sire. They took it from the Dutch."
"Ah, New York. And have I not heard of another? Bos--Bos--"
"Boston, sire."
"That is the name. The harbours might be of service to us. Tell me,
now, Frontenac," lowering his voice so that his words might be audible
only to the count, Louvois, and the royal circle, "what force would you
need to clear these people out? One regiment, two regiments, and
perhaps a frigate or two?"
But the ex-governor shook his grizzled head. "You do not know them,
sire," said he. "They are stern folk, these. We in Canada, with all
your gracious help, have found it hard to hold our own. Yet these men
have had no help, but only hindrance, with cold and disease, and barren
lands, and Indian wars, but they have thriven and multiplied until the
woods thin away in front of them like ice in the sun, and their church
bells are heard where but yesterday the wolves were howling. They are
peaceful folk, and slow to war, but when they have set their hands to
it, though they may be slack to begin, they are slacker still to cease.
To put New England into your Majesty's hands, I would ask fifteen
thousand of your best troops and twenty ships of the line."
Louis sprang impatiently from his chair, and caught up his cane.
"I wish," said he, "that you would imitate these people who seem to you
to be so formidable, in their excellent habit of doing things for
themselves. The matter may stand until our council. Reverend father,
it has struck the hour of chapel, and all else may wait until we have
paid out duties to heaven." Taking a missal from the hands of an
attendant, he walked as fast as his very high heels would permit him,
towards the door, the court forming a lane through which he might pass,
and then closing up behind to follow him in order of precedence.