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.