Between him and the secretary they dressed my Lord the Seneschal, and decked him out till he was fit to compare with a bird of paradise for gorgeousness of colouring if not for harmony of hues and elegance of outline.
Babylas held the mirror, and Anselme adjusted the Seneschal's wig, whilst Tressan himself twisted his black mustachios--how they kept their colour was a mystery to his acquaintance--and combed the tuft of beard that sprouted from one of his several chins.
He took a last look at his reflection, rehearsed a smile, and bade Anselme introduce his visitor.

He desired his secretary to go to the devil, but, thinking better of it, he recalled him as he reached the door.

His cherished vanity craved expression.
"Wait!" said he.

"There is a letter must be written.

The King's business may not suffer postponement--not for all the dowagers in France.