Back of the armchair and desk, which were superb specimens of Louis Quinze furniture, stood a book-case richly paneled and containing among its choicest volumes, editions of Plantin and Manuce, bound in morocco and Spanish-American calf. On the right, back of the screen, which concealed it was a costly piano awaiting the touch of fingers that were wont to interpret its enchanting secrets. Before the desk and at the feet of the armchair was spread--a present from the Countess Cayla--a white bearskin, upon which lay a diminutive dog with black mouth and silken hair, one of those cunning miniatures which today are a fad in France, but at that time were rarely seen. It was near five o'clock when a side door opened and the king entered, supported, almost carried, by two attendants. The dog leaped for joy and covered the monarch's feet with caresses. Sighing deeply, his Majesty dropped into an easy-chair near a window. He suffered from a life-long malady, in spite of which an active spirit stirred within him. To look upon him made one quickly see the force of Marquis de Semonville's remark: "How could one expect his Majesty to forgive his brother for walking?" Having settled himself in the easy-chair, his bandaged legs and swollen feet propped with cushions, he took a pinch of snuff from a jeweled case and said: "Summon Baron Lecazes." Awaiting the execution of his order, the king cast his eyes over the enchanting view from the open window. The western sky was like molten gold and, against this brilliant background the sombre trees took on the look of bronze bas reliefs. The spraying fountains tossed up in dazzling glee myriads of fantastic aquiform flower-petals, charming the eye and cooling the atmosphere. A sweet, voluptuous peace pervaded the apartment, the garden perfume mingling with that of unfolding narcissuses and springtide hyacinths in jardinieres. It was with unfeigned delight that the royal personage sated his esthetic nature amidst these rich and varied offerings to the senses, and on such occasions he was given to saying to himself, as though he might never enjoy its like again: "'Tis an elysian hour. Let us lose none of its nectar." Always lurking behind this sentiment was the conviction: "Life is brief, whatever the number of its days. A breathing, a striving, a sighing, and then--who can tell? Eternal mystery." Giving himself up to the play of his imagination, the king seemed to hear the onrushing and receding of the tides of human destiny through the centuries, now holding high, then sweeping to their fall, the splendors of earth's thrones and dynasties. Was he also to be soon submerged in those merciless tides and dashed about like a straw? O, before sinking into the deeps, how he wished to live and feel the complete man!--to have health and a day--and laugh to scorn all the fears of frail humanity.