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 in a
sudden, choking grunt, and abruptly ceased. His eyelids rolled slowly
back, like an owl's, revealing pale blue eyes, which fixed themselves
first upon the ceiling, then upon Anselme. Instantly he sat up, puffing
and scowling, his hands shuffling his papers.

"A thousand devils! Anselme, why am I interrupted?" he grumbled
querulously, still half-asleep. "What the plague do you want? Have you
no thought for the King's affairs? Babylas"--this to his secretary--"did
I not tell you that I had much to do; that I must not be disturbed?"

It was the great vanity of the life of this man, who did nothing, to
appear the busiest fellow in all France, and no audience--not even that
of his own lackeys--was too mean for him to take the stage to in that
predilect role.

"Monsieur le Comte," said Anselme, in tones of abject self-effacement,
"I had never dared intrude had the matter been of less urgency.
But Madame the Dowager of Condillac is below. She begs to see Your
Excellency instantly."

At once there was a change. Tressan became wide-awake upon the instant.
His first act was to pass one hand over the wax-like surface of his
bald head, whilst his other snatched at his wig. Then he heaved himself
ponderously out of his great chair. He donned his wig, awry in his
haste, and lurched forward towards Anselme, his fat fingers straining at
his open doublet and drawing it together.

"Madame la Douairiere here?" he cried. "Make fast these buttons, rascal!
Quick! Am I to receive a lady thus? Am I--? Babylas," he snapped,
interrupting himself and turning aside even as Anselme put forth hands
to do his bidding. "A mirror, from my closet! Dispatch!"

The secretary was gone in a flash, and in a flash returned, even as
Anselme completed his master's toilet. But clearly Monsieur de Tressan
had awakened in a peevish humour, for no sooner were the buttons of
his doublet secured than with his own fingers he tore them loose again,
cursing his majordomo the while with vigour.

"You dog, Anselme, have you no sense of fitness, no discrimination? Am
I to appear in this garment of the mode of a half-century ago before
Madame la Marqui