The duties of the Duchess as Lady of the Palace of the Queen necessitated her presence at the grand toilet of her Majesty on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. On Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday, therefore, except on those weeks when she was in constant attendance on Louis' consort, the Châteauroux accustomed the Court to a toilet of her own, which the King's faction religiously frequented, while the Queen's circle, the religious party, rolled their eyes, clasped their hands, violently denounced the insolence of it, and fervently wished that they might go, too. Certainly madame's morning receptions were eminently successful, and, however much gentle Marie Leczinska might disapprove of them in secret, she never had the courage to anger her husband by voicing her sense of indignity. Thus, six mornings of the week being provided for, on Saturday the Duchess confessed herself, though no absolution was to be had, and prayed forgiveness for the other part of her life.
As madame awoke, and the clock upon her mantel-piece struck eight, a door into the room swung open, and a trimly dressed maid came in. She pushed back the curtains from the window, looped them up, and crossed to the bedside.
"'Tis you, Antoinette?" came a voice from beneath the canopy.
"Yes, madame. Shall I bring the water?"
"At once."
As Antoinette once more disappeared, madame sat up and pushed aside the curtains of her bed.
For the following quarter of an hour, while the first part of the toilet was being performed, the second and elaborate half of that daily function was prepared for in the second room of the favorite's suite—the famous boudoir. A remarkable little room this, with its silken hangings of Persian blue and green and white; and a remarkable little man it was who sat informally upon a tabouret, in the midst of the graceful confusion of chairs, sofas, consoles, and inlaid stands, while in front of him was the second dressing-table, whereon reposed the paraphernalia of the coiffeur, and beside him was a small bronze brazier, where charcoal, for the heating of irons, burned. The profession of M. Marchon was instantly proclaimed by his elaborate elegance of wig. He had been, at some time, perruquier to each French queen of the last three decades, from Mme. de Prie to the ill-fated sisters of the present Duchess. Just now he was ogling, in the last Court manner, the second wardrobe-girl, who stood near him, beside a spindle-legged table, polishing a mirror. And Célestine ogled the weazened Marchon while she worked and wondered if madame would miss her last present from d'Argenson, a Chinese mandarin with a rueful smile, who sat alone in the cabinet of toys, and ceaselessly waved his head. The courtly companionship between the two servants had lasted for some time when there came a faint scratch on the bedroom door. It was Antoinette's friendly signal. The hair-dresser leaped to his place and bent over the irons, while Célestine forced her eyes from the bit of porcelain and put away her polishing cloth as Mme. de Châteauroux entered the room.
The Duchess seated herself before the first table, where Mlle. Célestine administered certain effective and skilfully applied touches to the pale face, and when these had rendered her to her mind for the hour, madame surrendered herself into Marchon's hands, where she would remain for a good part of the morning.
The preliminary brushing of the yellow locks had not yet been completed when the first valet-de-chambre threw open the door from the antechamber and announced carefully:
"The Duc de Gêvres."