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.