Not that he had any special desire to help M. le Contrôleur-Général on with his coat, but because he was ever anxious that his proper precedence as quasi prince of the blood should always be fully recognized. So he gave a discreet cough just sufficiently loud to attract M. Achille's notice, and to warn M. le Duc de Luxembourg that he was being presumptuous.
Without another word the coat was transferred from the hands of the Maréchal to those of the quasi-royal Prince, whilst Eglinton, wearing an air of resigned martyrdom, still waited for his coat, the frills of his shirt sleeves gripped tightly in his hands.
Monseigneur advanced. His movements were always sedate, and he felt pleased that every one who stood close by had noticed that the rank and precedence, which were rightfully his, had been duly accorded him, even in so small a matter, by no less a personage than M. le Contrôleur-Général des Finances.
He now held the coat in perfect position, and Lord Eglinton gave a sigh of relief, when suddenly the great doors at the end of the long room were thrown wide open, and the stentorian voices of the royal flunkeys announced:
"Messieurs, Mesdames! His Majesty the King!"
The buzz of talk died down, giving place to respectful murmurs. There was a great rustle of silks and brocades, a clink of dress swords against the parquet floor, as the crowd parted to make way for Louis XV. The various groups of political disputants broke up, as if scattered by a fairy wand; soon all the butterflies that had hovered in the further corners of the room fluttered toward the magic centre.
Here an avenue seemed suddenly to form itself of silken gowns, of brocaded panniers, of gaily embroidered coats, topped by rows of powdered perruques that bent very low to the ground as, fat, smiling, pompous, and not a little bored, His Majesty King Louis XV made slow progress along the full length of the room, leaning lightly on the arm of the inevitable Marquise de Pompadour, and nodding with great condescension to the perruqued heads as he passed.
Near the window embrasure he met la Marquise d'Eglinton and M. le Duc d'Aumont, her father. To Lydie he extended a gracious hand, and engaged her in conversation with a few trivial words. This gave Mme. de Pompadour the opportunity of darting a quick glance, that implied an anxious query, at the Duc d'Aumont, to which he responded with an almost imperceptible shake of the head.
All the while M. le Contrôleur-Général des Finances was still standing, shirt frills in hand, his face a picture of resigned despair, his eyes longingly fixed on his own coat, which Monseigneur de Courtenai no longer held up for him.
Indeed, Monseigneur, a rigid stickler for etiquette himself, would never so far have forgotten what was due to the house of Bourbon as to indulge in any pursuit—such as helping a Minister on with his coat—at the moment when His Majesty entered a room.