His Majesty, however, like mortals of inferior rank, did not touch on the accomplishment of his seventy-seventh year without sustaining many of the complaints and inconveniences of old age. For some time past not only had his teeth failed, but his digestion, despite of the regimen of iced fruits and sweetmeats, on which he was put by his physician Fagon, became unequal to its task. Everybody but himself and his doctor perceived the rapidity with which a change was approaching. In vain they swaddled him up in feather-pillows at night, to draw the gout from him through the pores of his skin; in vain they administered sage, veronica, cassia, and Jesuit-bark between meals, while they limited his potations to a little weak Burgundy and water, thereby affording some amusement to those present from the wry faces made by foreign lords and grandees who were curious to taste the king’s beverage. In vain they made him begin dinner with mulberries, and melons, and rotten figs, and strong soups, and salads. There is but one remedy for old age, and it is only to be found in the pharmacopœia, at the last chapter of the book. To that remedy the king was fast approaching—and yet hunting, fiddling, dining, promenades, concerts, and the whole round of empty Court gaiety went on all the same. The Marquise de Montmirail returned to her apartments at the palace with but little time to spare. It wanted but one hour from the king’s supper, and she must attend with the other ladies of the Court, punctual as clockwork, directly the folding-doors opened into the gallery, and his Majesty, in an enormous wig, should totter in at one end to totter out again at the other. Nevertheless, a good deal of decoration can be done in sixty minutes, when a lady, young and beautiful, is assisted by an attendant whose taste becomes chastened and her activity quickened by the superintendence of four distinct toilets every day. So the Marquise and Célandine between them had put the finishing touches to their great work within the appointed time. The former was going through a gratifying revision of the whole at her looking-glass, and the latter was applying to her mistress’s handkerchief that perfume of orange-flowers which alone his Majesty could endure, when a loud knocking at the outer door of the apartment suspended the operations of each, bringing an additional colour to the Marquise’s cheek, and a cloud of displeasure on the quadroon’s brow. “See what it is Célandine,” said the former, calmly, wondering in her heart, though it seemed absurd, whether this disturbance could relate in any manner to the previous events of the day. “It is the Abbé, I’ll be bound,” muttered Célandine, proceeding to do as she was bid; adding, sulkily, though below her breath, “He might knock there till his knuckles were sore if I was mistress instead of maid!”