‘And played himself in five dresses,’ replied Maître Picard, ‘representing Apollo, Mars, a fury, a dryade, and a courtier. He wore my hats thrice in the ballet.’
‘He had more attractions than the applause of the audience to make him play, so it was said,’ continued the other.
‘He was desperately enamoured of the Cardinal’s niece, Mademoiselle Mancini,’ said Maître Picard; ‘but she also wore one of my perukes as the Goddess of Music. The Cardinal brought two from Rome.’
‘Hats, bourgeois!’
‘Mass! no—nieces. There was no need to go to Rome for hats whilst I was in Paris.’
And Maître Picard evidently felt insulted, and contemplated saying something sharp; but just at this moment further conversation was arrested by a sudden buzz of voices, and that undefined movement which guides a crowd to one point of attraction. ‘The King! the King!’ passed rapidly from mouth to mouth; and the next instant Louis XIV. advanced through an irregular line of spectators, respectfully uncovered.
It was a brilliant cortege. In the prime of his age, his noble figure set off by the gorgeous costume of the day, and his keen, intelligent features tempered by that look of high command which, seemed native to him, so well it sat upon his curved lip and lofty brow, Louis passed along, answering the salutations of the crowd with a slight, but courteous motion of his richly-plumed beaver, and pausing for an instant from time to time to address a whispered remark to Madame de Montespan, whose imperious beauty well entitled her to her place of honour on the King’s right hand. After them came the less distinguished suite of courtiers and court functionaries; and the mass of spectators, closing in behind them, crowded into the temporary theatre.
The auditory presented a brilliant coup d’œil of bright eyes and brighter diamonds, alive with brilliant costumes and waving plumes.
The King, with Madame de Montespan at his side, and those whose rank entitled them to the privilege, occupied the fauteuils in the front of the parterre, and the rest of the audience filled every inch of standing room.
Jean Blacquart was in ecstasies. His blood boiled in his veins; and he felt a noble for the night,—in fact, almost as great a personage as Louis himself. His next neighbour—a garrulous old abbe,—mistaking the Gascon, in his curious military garb, for some distinguished visitor, took apparent pleasure in pointing out to him the notables present.