midnight
Lebrun had painted on the vaulted ceiling the happy as well as the unhappy dreams which Morpheus inflicts on kings as well as on other men . Everything that sleep gives birth to that is lovely , its fairy scenes , its flowers and nectar , the wild voluptuousness or profound repose of the senses , had the painter elaborated on his frescoes . It was a composition as soft and pleasing in one part as dark and gloomy and terrible in another . The poisoned chalice , the glittering dagger suspended over the head of the sleeper ; wizards and phantoms with terrific masks , those half-dim shadows more alarming than the approach of fire or the somber face of midnight , these , and such as these , he had made the companions of his more pleasing pictures . No sooner had the king entered his room than a cold shiver seemed to pass through him , and on Fouquet asking him the cause of it , the king replied , as pale as death : `` I am sleepy , that is all . '' `` Does your majesty wish for your attendants at once ? '' `` No ; I have to talk with a few persons first , '' said the king .