The moment her son had left her, Madame de Chazeul rose and began to dress herself in haste; but although she grumbled at her sleepy maids for their slowness, and called them by many an unpleasant name, which indeed she was not a little accustomed to shower upon every one who approached her, when her eager impatience prompted; yet the strong spice of coquetry which remained with her, as a relic of former passions, did not suffer her to conclude the arrangement of her dress without the aid of the various cosmetics she was accustomed to employ, and many a touch of that pigment which had obscured the real colour of her skin for years. Thus, from the dawn of day, what between her conversation with Chazeul, and her devotion to the toilet, at least an hour and a half had passed away before she was ready habited, in deep mourning, to appear in the hall of the castle. "Now, call Martin to me," said the lady as soon as the whole structure was complete; "be quick for once, jade. You will drive me mad this morning, with your idle sloth." "The boy Philip, Madam, is waiting in the ante-room," replied the soubrette; "would you please to see him first, or Martin?" "Why, in the name of Satan, did you not tell me he was here?" demanded Madame de Chazeul. "Call him in, hussy." "He has just come, Madam," said the girl, willing to justify herself; "he put his head in as I went for the wimple." But the Marchioness did not always confine the punishment of offences to the tongue; and she pushed the girl rudely by the shoulder, exclaiming, "Call him in, I say!" The maid ran to the door, and shouted, "Philip, Philip! my lady says, come in." The boy instantly approached with the book in his hand, saying, "Here, Madam, are the Hours. I suppose they are the right ones, for the old woman would get them herself. I should have been back a long while ago, but she kept me waiting in the hall, and--" Snatching the book from him as he came near, the Marchioness exclaimed, "Hold your tongue, little miscreant. How dare you go for anything without my orders?" "Why, Madam, you sent me orders to go," replied the page; "at least, father Walter told me so." "He is a liar, and you are another, I believe," cried the Marchioness, struggling with the clasps, which for a moment or two resisted all her efforts. "Ah, Mathurine could not open it either," observed the page in a natural tone. "Did she try?" demanded his mistress turning upon him vehemently. "Yes, that she did," was his reply, "for at least five minutes; but she could not get it open." "Perhaps you can do it," said Madame de Chazeul holding out the book to him, and fixing her eye upon his face. The boy took it, laid down his hat upon the floor, and laboured to open the clasps with all his might,--at least, in appearance;--and the Marchioness, satisfied with the trial to which she had put him, called one of the maids, who, using less force and more skill, unclasped the little volume in a minute.