"The King was at that time in the very flower of his age, and yet
he appeared no longer young. The cares of royalty, the murder of the
Guises, had planted many a deep and lasting furrow on his brow, which
time would have otherwise withheld for many years. His pallid cheek
and sunken eye told of a mind but ill at ease. No art, no charm could
restore the bloom and freshness which remorse for the past and fear for
the future had long ago dispelled, never to return. And yet, with that
sweet self-deception which all are so disposed to practise, he sought
to banish reflection and beguile alarm in the pursuit of all kinds of
frivolous amusements unworthy of his rank or station, and fancied he
had succeeded in chasing care if for a moment he ceased to think.
"His costume even now was foppish and _recherche_. Much time had
evidently been spent in adjusting the drooping leathers of his jewelled
toque, and no pains had been spared in properly disposing the plaits
of his _fraise_ and ruffles, or in arranging the folds of his
broidered mantle. The snow-white slippers, with the sky-blue roses, the
silken hose and braided doublet, seemed better fitted for the parade of
the courtly saloon than the privacy of the closet.
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