him; then a valet assigned to the cravats brings several of these in a basket, while the master of the wardrobe arranges around the king’s neck that which the king selects.  After this a valet assigned to the handkerchiefs brings three of these on a silver salver, while the grand-master of the wardrobe offers the salver to the king, who chooses one.  Finally the master of the wardrobe hands to the king his hat, his gloves and his cane.  The king then steps to the side of the bed, kneels on a cushion and says his prayers, whilst an almoner in a low voice recites the orison Quoesumus, deus omnipotens.  This done, the king announces the order of the day, and passes with the leading persons of his court into his cabinet, where he sometimes gives audience.  Meanwhile the rest of the company await him in the gallery in order to accompany him to mass when he comes out.

Such is the lever, a piece in five acts. — Nothing could be contrived better calculated to fill up the void of an aristocratic life ; a hundred or thereabouts of notable seigniors dispose of a couple of hours in coming, in waiting, in entering, in defiling, in taking positions, in standing on their feet, in maintaining an air of respect and of ease suitable to a superior class of walking gentlemen, while those best qualified are about to do the same thing over in the queen’s apartment. [42] — The king, however, as an indirect consequence, suffers the same torture and the same inaction as he imposes.  He also is playing a part; all his steps and all his gestures have been determined beforehand; he has been obliged to arrange his physiognomy and his voice, never to depart from an affable and dignified air, to award judiciously his glances and his nods, to keep silent or to speak only of the chase, and to suppress his own thoughts, if he has any.  One cannot indulge in reverie, meditate or be absent-minded when one is before the footlights; the part must have due attention.  Besides, in a drawing room there is only drawing room conversation, and the master’s thoughts, instead of being directed in a profitable channel, must be scattered about like the holy water of the court.  All hours of his day are passed in a similar manner, except three or four during the morning, during which he is at the council or in his private room; it must be noted, too, that on the days after his hunts, on returning home from Rambouillet at three o’clock in the morning, he must sleep the few hours he has left to him.  The ambassador Mercy,[43] nevertheless, a man of close application, seems to think it sufficient; he, at least, thinks that “Louis XVI is a man of order, losing no time in useless things;” his predecessor, indeed, worked much less, scarcely an hour a day.  Three-quarters of his time is thus given up to show.  The same retinue surrounds him when he puts on his boots, when he takes them off; when he changes his clothes to mount his horse, when he returns home to dress for the evening, and when he goes to his room at night