"When the King has selected the wig which he is pleased to wear, St.
Quentin puts away the others; and then, His Majesty placing his wig
on his august head with his own royal hands, he indicates to me by a
signal that he is ready for the curtains to be undrawn. As soon as I
have undrawn the curtains, there is the familiar _entrée_. This is
attended by the Princes of the Blood, and by His Majesty's
physicians. Then I pour into the hands of my Sovereign a few drops
of spirits of wine, and the Duke d'Aumont,[8] first Lord of the
Bedchamber, offers the holy water. Now His Majesty rises, and I
present his slippers. After putting on his dressing-gown, if it be
winter, His Majesty goes to the fire. The first _entrée_ follows.
The King shaves on alternate days. Monsieur De St. Quentin has the
high honor of removing the royal beard, and washing with spirits of
wine and water our Sovereign's august chin. I hold the glass, while
His Majesty wipes his face with a rich towel. Then, while His
Majesty's dresses, the _grande entrée_ takes place. His Most
Christian Majesty is assisted in dressing by the Grand Master of the
Robes, Monsieur d'Aumont, a Marquis (graciously chosen by the
Sovereign), Monsieur De St. Quentin, my humble self, three valets,
and two pages. Thus, as you will see, many attendants of the Crown
are allowed the felicity of approaching near to the person of our
most illustrious Master."
"Too many cooks spoiling the broth, I should say," was the
translator's comment. "Fancy ten people helping a fellow to put his
coat on!"
"His Majesty's shoes and garters are clasped with diamonds. At this
point the king condescends to breakfast. On an enamelled salver a
loaf is brought by the officers of the buttery, and a folded napkin
on another: the cup-bearer presents to the Duke d'Aumont a golden
cup, into which he pours a small quantity of wine and water, and the
second cup-bearer makes the assay. The goblet, carefully rinsed and
replenished, is now presented to His Majesty upon a golden saucer.
The napkin is offered by the first Prince of the Blood present at the
_entrée_. His Majesty then intrusts to my hands the reliquary which
he wears about his neck, and I carefully pass it to one of the lower
attendants, who carries it to the royal closet, and remains there in
charge of it. The royal shirt is then presented--by the Grand Master
of the Robes, if no person of more distinction be present; but if any
more august persons have attended the _entrée_, it is passed on till
it reaches the first Prince of the Blood. I assure you, on frosty
winter days, I have known it perfectly cold on reaching His Majesty
(though always carefully warmed), the persons of distinction through
whose hands it had to pass being so numerous."
"Ah! 'Pride costs more than hunger, thirst, or cold,'" observed Mr.
Philip Ingram. "That is a copy I had set me ages ago. But what a
very cool proceeding!"
"When His Majesty's lace cravat is presented, he is pleased himself
to indicate the person who shall have the honor of tying it. Then I
bring him the overcoat which he wore on the previous day, and with
his own august hands he removes from the pockets such articles as he
is pleased to retain. Lastly, Monsieur De St. Quentin presents to
him, on an enamelled salver, two handkerchiefs laced with superb
point. Now His Majesty returns to his _ruelle_[9] for his private
devotions. Two cushions are placed there, upon which His Majesty
condescends to kneel. Here he prays aloud, all the Cardinals and
Bishops in the chamber following his royal accents in lower tones."
"I hope he learns his prayers by heart, then, or all his Cardinals
following will put him out abominably!" was the interpolation this
time.
"Oh dear, Philip!" murmured Celia, "it reminds me of Daniel and
Darius."
"'Save of thee, O King?'[10] No, he is a little better than that."
"Our Sovereign," pursued Monsieur Bontems, "now receives the envoys
of foreign powers, not one of which powers is worthy to compete with
our august Master."
"I say, draw that mild!" objected Mr. Philip Ingram.
"Then he passes into his cabinet, and issues his orders for the day;
when all retire but the Blood, and a few other highly distinguished
persons. After an interval of repose, His Majesty attends mass."
"How sadly he must want his repose!"
"After mass, and a visit to the council-chamber, at one o'clock His
Majesty dines. This is either _au petit couvert_, or _au grand
couvert_; the _grands couverts_ are rare. His Majesty commonly dines
alone in his own cabinet, at a small table, three courses and a
dessert being served. Monsieur de St. Quentin announces the repast,
and His Majesty takes his seat. If the Grand Chamberlain be there,
he waits on the Sovereign; when he is absent, this is the privilege
of Monsieur de St. Quentin. Another interval of repose ensues before
His Majesty drives out. He frequently condescends at this time to
amuse himself with his favorite dogs. Then he changes his dress, and
drives or hunts. On returning, he again changes his attire, and
after a short period in his cabinet, repairs to the apartments of
Madame de Maintenon, where he remains until ten, the hour of supper.
At a quarter past ten His Majesty enters the supper-room, during
which interval the officers have made the assay"--
"What is the assay?" asked Celia of Philip, who repeated the question.
"The assay," said Monsieur Bontems, condescending to explain, "is the
testing of different matters, to see that no attempt has been made
upon the most sacred life of His Majesty. There is the assay of the
plates, which are rubbed with bread and salt; the knife, the fork,
the spoon, and the toothpicks, which will be used by our Sovereign.
All these are rubbed with bread and salt, afterwards eaten by the
officers of the assay, to make sure that no deleterious matter has
been applied to these articles. Every dish brought to the royal
table is tested by the officers ere it may be set before His Majesty,
and the dishes are brought in by the comptroller-general, an officer
of the pantry, a comptroller of the buttery, and an equerry of the
kitchen, preceded and followed by guards, whose duty it is to prevent
all manner of tampering with the meats destined for the King."
"Poor man!" said Celia, compassionately; "I am glad to be beneath all
that caution and preparation."
"This done," proceeded Monsieur Bontems, "the house-steward enters,
with two ushers bearing flambeaux. Then comes His Most Christian
Majesty. All the Princes and Princesses of France are already
standing round the table. His Majesty most graciously desires them
to be seated. Six nobles stand at each end of the table. When His
Majesty condescends to drink, the cup-bearer cries aloud, 'Drink for
the King!' whereupon the officers of the cellar approach with an
enamelled goblet and two decanters. The cup-bearer pours out, the
officers taste. The cup-bearer presents the goblet to the Sovereign,
and as he raises it with his illustrious hand to his august lips, the
cup-bearer cries aloud, 'The King drinks!' and the whole company bow
to His Majesty."
"What a tremendous bore it must be!" was Mr. Philip's comment. "How
can the poor fellow ever get his supper eaten?"
"His Majesty commonly begins supper with three or four platesful of
different soups. Some light meat follows--a chicken, a pheasant, a
partridge or two--then a heavier dish, such as beef or mutton. The
King concludes his repast with a few little delicacies, such as
salad, pastry, and sweetmeats.[11] When he wishes to wipe his hands,
three Dukes and a Prince of the Blood present him with a damp napkin;
the dry one which follows I have the honor to offer. His Majesty
usually drinks about three times during supper."
"How much at a time?" inquired Philip, with an air of deep interest.
"Sir," replied Monsieur Bontems, gravely, "His Majesty's custom in
this respect somewhat varies. The goblet holds about half-a-pint,
and the King rarely empties it at a draught."
"A pint and a quarter, call it," said Philip, reflectively.
"After supper, His Majesty proceeds to his bedchamber, where he
dismisses the greater number of his guests; he then passes on to his
cabinet, followed by the Princes and Princesses. About midnight he
feeds his dogs."
"Does he feed them himself?"
"Sir, there are occasions upon which those indescribably happy
animals have the honor of receiving morsels from His Majesty's own
hand. The King now returns to his bed-chamber, and the _petit
coucher_ commences. An arm-chair is prepared for him near the fire,
and the _en-cas_ is placed upon a table near the bed. This is a
small repast, prepared lest it should be His Majesty's pleasure to
demand food during the night. It is most frequently a bowl of soup,
a cold roast fowl, bread, wine, and water."
"And how many Dukes are required to give him those?"
"Sir, my humble services are esteemed sufficient."
"He appears to be much less august at some moments than others,"
satirically remarked the translator.
"When our Sovereign enters his chamber, he hands to me his watch and
reliquary, and delivers to Monsieur d'Aumont his waistcoat, cravat,
and ribbon. Two valets and two pages assist us in the removal of the
garments honored by His Majesty's wear. When the King is ready, I
lift the candle-stick, and deliver it to the nobleman indicated by my
Sovereign for that unparalleled honor. All persons now quit the
chamber save the candle-bearer, the physician, and myself. His
Majesty selects the dress which he will wear the next morning, and
gets into bed."
"Can he get into bed by himself? I should have thought it would have
required five Dukes and ten Marquises to help him."
"After the physician has visited his august patient, he and the
candle-bearer retire; I close the curtains, and, turning my back to
the royal couch, with my hands behind me, await the pleasure of my
Sovereign. It is to me that he delivers the wig, passing it outside
the curtain with his own illustrious hand. I now extinguish the
candles, light the night-lights, and take possession of the
watch-bed."
"I wonder if you don't occasionally faint under such a weight of
honor--and bother," observed Mr. Philip Ingram, not to Monsieur
Bontems. "Well, now we have got His Most Christian Majesty in bed,
let him stay there. Monsieur Bontems, I am unspeakably indebted to
you for your highly-interesting account, and shall never forget it as
long as I live. I beg you will not allow me to detain you further
from the company, who are earnestly desirous of your enchanting
conversation, though less sensible of your merits than I am."
Monsieur Bontems laid both hands upon his heart, and made three bows.
"Sir, I beg you will not depreciate your high qualities. Sir, I take
the utmost delight in conversing with you."
And the head-valet of the chamber allowed himself to be absorbed
among the general throng.
"Well, is he not a comical specimen?" said Philip to Celia. "He
often makes me laugh till I am exhausted; and the beauty of it is
that he never finds out at what one is laughing. And to think who it
is that they worship with all these rites--an old man of
seventy-four, with one foot in the grave, who has never been any
better than he should be. Really, it reminds one of Herod Agrippa
and them of Tyre and Sidon!"[12]
"'Thou shalt honor the face of the old man,'"[13] whispered Celia,
softly.
"My dear," said Philip, "I don't complain of their honoring him. Let
them honor him as much as they like--he is their King, and they ought
to do. But what we have just heard is not honoring him, to my
thinking--it is teasing and worshipping him. I assure you I pity the
poor fellow with all my heart. He must have a most uncomfortable
time of it. No, if I were to envy any man, it would not be Louis
XIV."
"Who would it be, Philip?" asked Celia, with a smile.
"Simeon Stylites, perhaps," said Philip, drily. "I would quite as
soon be the one as the other!"
"I don't know who he was," replied Celia.
"A gentleman of the olden time, who worked out his salvation for
forty years on the top of a tall pillar," was the answer, accompanied
by an expression of countenance which Celia had seen before in
Philip, and could not understand. "Are you tired?" he added,
suddenly.
"Scarcely, yet," she answered; "it is all so new to me. But what
time is it, Philip?"
Philip pulled out a watch about three inches in diameter.
"Ten minutes to one."
"Do you mean to say it is one o'clock in the morning?" asked Celia,
in a voice of unmitigated amazement and horror.
"It certainly is not one o'clock in the afternoon," replied Philip,
with much gravity.
"I had no idea how late it was! Let me go, Philip, please do."
And Celia made her escape rather hastily. But Lady Ingram was not
justified in saying that nobody would miss her, as she would have
seen if she had noticed the lost and _ennuyé_ look of Mr. Philip
Ingram after the disappearance of Celia.
[1] Antoine Nompar de Caumont, Marquis de Peguilin and Duke de
Lauzun: born about May 1633; imprisoned from 1671 to 1681; created
Duke 1692; married, May 21, 1695, Geneviève Marie de Durfort,
daughter of Maréchal de Lorges; died November 19, 1723, aged ninety.
[2] Pauline, daughter of François d'Adhémar, Count de Grignan, and
Françoise Marguerite de Sévigné: born at Paris, 1674; married,
November 29, 1695, Louis Marquis de Simiane; died July 3 or 13, 1737.
[3] Anne Marie Louise, eldest daughter of Gaston Duke of Orleans and
Marie de Montpensier, in her own right Duchess de Montpensier,
Princess de Dombes, and Countess d'Eu, cousin of Louis XIV., was born
at the Louvre, May 29, 1627, and died at Paris, April 5, 1693; buried
in the Bourbon vault at St. Denis, whence her coffin was exhumed with
the rest at the Revolution, and her remains flung into a deep pit dug
in the Cour des Valois, outside the Cathedral. On the Restoration,
these bones were dug up from their desecrated grave, and were
reverently re-buried within the sacred precincts; but as it was
impossible to distinguish to whom they had belonged, they were
interred in two vaults made for the purpose. The engagement of
Mademoiselle with the Duke de Lauzun is one of the saddest stories
connected with the hapless Royal House of France--none the less sad
because few can see its sadness, and perceive but foolish vanity in
the tale of the great heart crushed to death, with no guerdon for its
sacrifice.
[4] Marie Anne Louise Benedetto, daughter of Henri III., Prince of
Condé, and Anna of Mantua: born November 8, 1676; married, March 19,
1692, Louis Auguste, Duke du Maine, legitimated son of Louis XIV.;
died 1753.
[5] Marie Victoire Sophie de Noailles: born at Versailles, May 6,
1688; married, February 22, 1723, Louis Alexandre Count de Toulouse,
brother of the Duke du Maine.
[6] Charles, Duke de Berry, was the youngest son of the _Grand
Dauphin_ (son of Louis XIV.) and Marie Anna of Bavaria: he was born
August 31, 1686, and died at Marly, May 4, 1714, probably by poison
administered by his own wife, Louise of Orleans.
[7] Nearly all the members of the Royal House of France, from Anne of
Austria and her son Louis XIV. downwards, have been enormous eaters.
[8] Messrs. d'Aumont, St. Quentin, and Bontems are real persons, and
this account of the private life of Louis XIV. is taken from
authentic sources.
[9] _Ruelle_, the space between the bed and the wall, at the head of
the bed. The _ruelle_ played an important part in etiquette, only
persons especially favored being admitted.
[10] Dan. vi. 7.
[11] "He was a very gifted eater. The rough old Duchess of Orleans
declares, in her Memoirs, that she 'often saw him eat four platesful
of different soups, a whole pheasant, a partridge, a plateful of
salad, mutton hashed with garlic, two good-sized slices of ham, a
dish of pastry, and afterwards fruit and sweetmeats.'"--_Dr. Doran's_
"_Table Traits_," p. 421.
[12] Acts xii. 20-23.
[13] Lev. xix. 32.
VII.
THE NIGHT BOSWITH DIED.
"Thou art not weary, O sweet heart and glad!
Ye are not weary, O ye wings of light!
Ye are not weary, golden-sandalled feet
And eyes lift up in Heaven. Were we with thee,
We never should be weary any more.
So sleep, sweet love, and waken not for us.
Ah! wake not at my cry, which is of earth,
For thou these twenty years hast been of Heaven.
Still not thy harp for me: I will wail low,
That my voice reach thee not beyond the stars.
Only wait for me, O my harper! since
When thou and I have clasped hands at the gate,
We never shall be weary any more."
"O Patient! I am very sorry to have kept you up so late as this--I
had no idea that you would wait for me!" exclaimed Celia, as,
hastening into her bedroom, she found Patient quietly at work beside
the fire.
"I should have done that, Madam, at whatever hour you had returned,"
was Patient's answer, as she helped Celia to unclasp her topaz and
diamond ornaments, and put them away carefully in their cases. "I
thought you were early; my Lady often does not quit her assemblies
till day-dawn."
"You see," responded Celia, a little apologetically, awaking to the
fact that Patient had not expected her for another hour or two, "I am
so little accustomed to these things. I never was up at such an hour
as this before."
"All the better for you, Madam," said Patient, quietly.
"You do not like these assemblies?"
"I have nothing to do with them, Madam."
"But if you had," persisted Celia, looking for Patient's opinion as a
sister in the faith.
But Patient seemed scarcely willing to impart it.
"You command me to answer you, Madam?" she said.
"I want to know, Patient," replied Celia, simply.
"'What concord hath Christ with Belial?'" answered Patient. "Madam,
when I was but a young maid, I looked on the world as divided into
many sects--Covenanters, Independents, Prelatists, Anabaptists, and
the like, and I fancied that all who were not Covenanters (as I was)
must needs be more or less wrong. Methinks I am wiser now. I see
the world as divided into two camps only, and the army wherein I
serve hath but one rallying-cry. They that believe, and they that
believe not--here are the camps, 'What think ye of Christ?'--that is
the rallying-cry. I see the Church as a great school, holding many
forms and classes, but only one Master. And I think less now of a
fellow-scholar sitting on another form from mine, and seeing the
other side of the Master's face, if I find that he heareth His voice,
and followeth Him. Madam, what think you all those great ladies
down-stairs would say, if you asked them that question--'What think
ye of Christ?'[1] Poor souls! they never think of Him. And with
them in the enemy's camp I have nought to do, so long as they remain
there."
"But may we not win them over to our side?" queried Celia.
"Ah! my dear young lady!" answered Patient, rather sadly, "I have
seen that question lead many a disciple astray who did run well.
When a man goes over to the enemy's ground to parley, it ends at
times in his staying there. Methinks that it is only when we carry
the Master with us, and when we go like the preachers to the poor
savages in the plantations, that we have any hope of doing well.
'Tis so easy to think, 'I go there to please God,' when really we
only go to please ourselves."
Patient remained silent for a few minutes, but said presently--
"The Sabbath afore the harrying of Lauchie, Madam, which was
Communion Sabbath, Mr. Grey preached a very rich discourse from that
word, 'He hath made with me an everlasting covenant.'[2] After,
fencing the tables, he spake from that other word of Paul, 'Ye are
Christ's.'[3] And in speaking on one head--he dividing his discourse
into thirty-seven points wherein believers are Christ's--he said one
word which hath stuck in mine heart since then. 'We are all vastly
readier,' quoth he, 'to try to follow the Master in the few matters
wherein He acted as God, and therefore beyond us, than in the
multitude wherein He did act as our ensample. For an hundred who
would willingly follow unto the Pharisee's feasting, there is scarce
one who is ready to seek out sinners, saying unto them, "Go, and sin
no more."'[4] Whereupon he took occasion to reprove them among his
flock that were of too light and unstable a nature, loving overmuch,
gadding about and taking of pleasure. I was then a young maid, and
truly was somewhat exercised with that discourse, seeing that I loved
the customs yearly observed among us on the 1st day of November,
which the Papistical folk called Hallowe'en."
"What customs, Patient?"
"Divers light and fantastical vanities, Madam, which you were no
better to hear tell of,--such like as burning of nuts with names to
them, and searching of eggs brake into glasses, for the discovering
of fortunes: which did much delight me in my tender age, though now I
know that they be but folly if not worse. Moreover, they would throw
apples in tubs of water, and the laddies and lassies, with their
hands tied behind, would strive to reach them by mouth, and many
other siccan fooleries."
"It sounds rather amusing, Patient."
"So it might be, Madam, for we bairns which were of too small age for
aught less foolish. But for us, who are members of Christ's body,
and have heard His voice and followed Him, what have we to do with
the deeds of this weary and evil world, which we cast off when we
arose to follow Him? Maybe I had better not have said this unto you,
Madam, seeing that (saving your presence) you are yet but a young
maid, and youth is naturally desirous of vain delights. When you are
a little further on in the way, the Lord will teach it you Himself,
even as He hath taught me."
"To tell you the truth, Patient, while I quite see with you in the
main, I think you a little severe in the particular."
"I do not doubt it, Madam. The Lord knoweth how to deaden your heart
unto this world, and He can do it a deal better than I. But if you
be His (the which I doubt not), it must needs be."
"I have scarce a choice now," said Celia, in a low voice, feeling
doubtful how far she ought to make any remark to Patient which might
seem to reflect on Lady Ingram.
"That I perceive, Madam," answered Patient, in the same tone.
"Only--if you will condescend to pardon the liberty I take in saying
it--take heed that the pleasing and obeying of man clash not with the
pleasing and obeying of God. 'For all that is in the world--the lust
of the flesh, and the lust of the eye, and the pride of life--is not
of the Father, but is of the world.'"[5]
"Patient, there is one thing which I feel very much here--the want of
a Protestant service."
"I used to feel that very sore, Madam. Not that I miss it not now,
'specially at times: yet scarce, me thinks, so sadly as I once did.
At first I was much exercised with that word, 'Forsake not the
assembling of yourselves together;'[6] and I marvelled whether I
ought to remain in this place. But I began to think that it was not
I that had forsaken mine own land, but the Lord which hath caused me
to be cast out thence; I having, moreover, passed a solemn word to my
dear Lady when she lay a-dying, that I would not leave Master Edward
his lone in this strange land while he was yet a bairn. Then me
thought of some words of Mr. Grey in that last sermon he ever
preached. 'A soldier,' quoth he, 'hath no right to choose his
position.' So now, seeing that since the Dragonnades, as they called
the persecution here, there is no worship permitted to be had, and
also that the Lord, and not I, hath placed me here, I am content.
Every Sabbath, ay, every day, He preacheth unto me in the Word, and
there is no finer discourse than His."
"What persecution, Patient?" asked Celia, as she lay down on her
pillow. "This King hath never been a persecutor, hath he?"
"Ay hath he, Madam. The morn, if it please you, I will tell you some
stories of the Dragonnades. My Lady hath given me further work to do
for you; and if you think meet, I can bring my sewing into your
closet as aforetime."
"Pray do, Patient: I like your stories. Good-night."
"Good-night, Madam, and the Lord be with you!"
"Your very obedient servant, Mrs. Celia Ingram," observed Mr. Philip,
lounging into his sister's boudoir the next morning. "I hope your
early rising has done you no harm."
"I rose at my usual hour, which is six."
"I rose at _my_ usual hour, which is nine."
"O Philip!" cried Celia, laughing.