"I pray that your majesty will allow me to retire," said she. "I think we have finished—we have to other business to transact."

"Oh! my sister," said Frederick, mournfully, "think of what you are doing; do not harden your heart against me. Believe me, I suffer with you; and if the only question were the sacrifice of my personal wishes, I would gladly yield. But I must consider my ancestors, the history of my house, and the prejudices of the world. Amelia, I cannot, I dare not do otherwise. Forgive me, my sister. And now, once more, let us hold firmly to each other in love and trust. Let me fold you to my heart."

He advanced and extended his hand, but his sister slowly recoiled.

"Allow me to remind your majesty that a poor unhappy woman is awaiting a word of consolation in the next room, and that this woman is Trenck's mother. She, at least, will be happy when I inform her that her son will soon be free. Permit me, therefore, sire, to take my leave, and bear her this good news."

She bowed formally and profoundly, and walked slowly across the room. The king no longer endeavored to hold her back. He followed her with a mournful, questioning glance, still hoping that she would turn and seek a reconciliation. She reached the door, now she turned. The king stepped forward rapidly, hut Princess Amelia bowed ceremoniously and disappeared.

"Lost! I have lost her," sighed the king. "Oh, my God! must I then part from all that I love? Was it not enough to lose my friends by death? will cruel fate also rob me of a loved and living sister? Ah! I am a poor, a wretched man, and yet they call me a king."

Frederick slowly seated himself, and covered his face with his hands. He remained in this position for a long time, his sighs being the only interruption to the silence which reigned in the apartment.

"Work! I will work," said he proudly. "This is at least a consolation, and teaches forgetfulness."

He walked hurriedly to his escritoire, seated himself, and regarded the manuscripts and papers which lay before him. He took up one of the manuscripts and began to read, but with an impatient gesture he soon laid it aside.

"The letters swim before my eyes in inextricable confusion. My God, how hard it is to do one's duty!"

He rested his head on his hand, and was lost in thought for a long time. Gradually his expression brightened, and a wondrous light beamed in his eyes.

"Yes," said he, with a smile, "yes, so it shall be. I have just lost a much-loved sister. Well, it is customary to erect a monument in memory of those we love. Poor, lost sister, I will erect a monument to your memory. The king has been compelled to make his sister unhappy, and for this he will endeavor to make his people happy. And if there is no law to which a princess can appeal against the king, there shall at least be laws for all my subjects, which protect them, and are in strict accordance with reason, with justice, and the godly principle of equality. Yes, I will give my people a new code of laws. [Footnote: Rodenbeck, Diary, p. 137.] This, Amelia, shall be the monument which I will erect to you in my heart. In this very hour I will write to Cocceji, and request him to sketch the outlines of this new code of laws."

The king seized his pen and commenced writing. "The judges," said he, hastily penning his words, "the judges must administer equal and impartial justice to all without respect to rank or wealth, as they expect to answer for the same before the righteous judgment-seat of God, and in order that the sighs of the widows and orphans, and of all that are oppressed, may not be visited upon themselves and their children. No rescripts, although issued from this cabinet, shall be deemed worthy of the slightest consideration, if they contain aught manifestly incompatible with equity, or if the strict course of justice is thereby hindered or interrupted; but the judges shall proceed according to the dictates of duty and conscience."

The king continued writing, his countenance becoming more and more radiant with pleasure, while his pen flew over the paper. He was so completely occupied with his thoughts that he did not hear the door open behind him, and did not perceive the merry and intelligent face of his favorite, General Rothenberg, looking in.

The king wrote on. Rothenberg stooped and placed something which he held in his arms on the floor. He looked over toward the king, and then at the graceful little greyhound which stood quietly before him. This was no other than the favorite dog of the king, which had been lost and a captive. [Footnote: The greyhound had fallen into the hands of the Austrians at the battle of Sohr, and had been presented by General Nadasti to his wife as a trophy. When this lady learned that Biche had been a pet of the king, she at first refused to give it up: and only after several demands, and with much difficulty, could she be induced to return it. Rodenbeck, Diary, p. 126.]

The little Biche stood still for a moment, looking around intelligently, and then ran lightly across the apartment, sprang upon the table and laid its forepaw on the king's neck.

"Biche, my faithful little friend, is it you?" said Frederick, throwing his pen aside and taking the little animal in his arms. Biche began to bark with delight, nestle closely to her master, and look lovingly at him with her bright little eyes. And the king—he inclined his face on the head of his faithful little friend, and tears ran slowly down his cheeks. [Footnote: Muchler, "Frederick the Great," p. 350. Rodenbeck, Diary, p. 137.]

"You have not forgotten me, my little Biche? Ah, if men were true, and loved me as you do, my faithful little dog, I should be a rich, a happy king!"

General Rothenberg still stood at the half-opened door. "Sire, said he, "is it only Biche who has the grandes and petites entrees, or have I also?"

"Ah, it was then you who brought Biche?" said Frederick, beckoning to the general to approach.

"Yes, sire, it was I, but I almost regret having done so, for I perceive that Biche is a dangerous rival, and I am jealous of her."

"You are my best gentleman-friend, and Biche is my best lady- friend," said the king, laughing. "I shall never forget that Biche on one occasion might have discovered me to the Austrians, and did not betray me, as thousands of men would have done in her place. Had she barked at the time when I had concealed myself under the bridge, while the regiment of pandours was passing over, I should have been lost. But she conquered herself. From love to me she renounced her instincts, and was silent. She nestled close to my side, regarding me with her discreet little eyes, and licking my hand lovingly. Ah, my friend, dogs are better and truer than mankind, and the so-called images of God could learn a great deal from them!"



CHAPTER XIII.

THE FLIGHT.

Two months had passed since Trenck's last attempted escape; two months of anguish, of despair. But he was not depressed, not hopeless; he had one great aim before his eyes—to be free, to escape from this prison. The commandant had just assured him he would never leave it alive.

This frightful picture of a life-long imprisonment did not terrify him, did not agitate a nerve or relax a muscle. He felt his blood bounding in fiery streams through his veins. With a merry laugh and sparkling eye he declared that no man could be imprisoned during his whole life who felt himself strong enough to achieve his freedom.

"I have strength and endurance like Atlas. I can bear the world on my shoulders, and shall I never be able to burst these doors and gates, to surmount these miserable fortress walls which separate me from liberty, the world of action, the golden sunshine? No, no, before the close of this year I shall be free. Yes, free! free to fly to her and give her back this letter, and ask her if she did truly write it? if these cold words came from her heart? No, some one has dared to imitate her writing, and thus deprive me of the only ray of sunshine which enters my dark prison. I must be free in order to know this. I will believe in nothing which I do not see written in her beautiful face; only when her lips speak these fearful words, will I believe them. I must be free, and until then I must forget all other things, even this terrible letter. My thoughts, my eyes, my heart, my soul, must have but one aim—my liberty!"

Alas! the year drew near its close, and the goal was not reached; indeed, the difficulties were greatly increased. The commandant, Von Fouquet, had just received stern orders from Berlin; the watch had been doubled, and the officers in the citadel had been peremptorily forbidden to enter the cell of the prisoner, or in any way to show him kindness or attention.

The officers loved the young and cheerful prisoner; by his fresh and hopeful spirit, his gay laugh and merry jest, he had broken up the everlasting monotony of their garrison-life; by his powerful intellect and rich fancy he had, in some degree, dissipated their weariness and stupidity. They felt pity for his youth, his beauty, his geniality, his energetic self-confidence; his bold courage imposed upon them, and they were watching curiously and anxiously to see the finale of this contest between the poor, powerless, imprisoned youth, and the haughty, stern commander, who had sworn to Trenck that he should not succeed in making even an attempt to escape, to which Trenck had laughingly replied:

"I will not only make an attempt to escape, I will fly in defiance of all guards, and all fortress walls, and all commandants. I inhale already the breath of liberty which is wafted through my prison. Do you not see how the Goddess of Liberty, with her enchanting smile, stands at the head of my wretched bed, sings her sweet evening songs to the poor prisoner, and wakes him in the early morning with the sound of trumpets? Oh, sir commandant, Liberty loves me, and soon will she take me like a bride in her fair arms, and bear me off to freedom!"

The commandant had doubled the guard, and forbidden the officers, under heavy penalty, to have any intercourse with Trenck. Formerly, the officers who had kept watch over Trenck, had been allowed to enter, to remain and eat with him; now the door was closed against them, the major kept the key, and Trenck's food was handed him through the window. [Footnote: Trenck's Memoirs.] But this window was large, and the officer on guard could put his head in and chat awhile with the prisoner. The major had the principal key, but the officer had a night-key, and, by this means, entered often in the evenings and passed a few hours with the prisoner, listening with astonishment to his plans of escape, and his dreams of a happy future.

But they did not all come to speak of indifferent things, and to be cheered and brightened by his gay humor. There were some who truly loved him, and wished to give him counsel and aid. One came because he had promised his beloved mistress, his bride, to liberate Trenck, cost what it would. This was Lieutenant Schnell, the bridegroom of Amelia's maid of honor. One day, thanks to the night-key, he entered Trenck's cell.

"I will stand by you, and assist you to escape. More than that, I will fly with you. The commandant, Fouquet, hates me—he says I know too much for an officer; that I do not confine myself to my military duties, but love books, and art, and science. He has often railed at me, and I have twice demanded my dismissal, which he refused, and threatened me with arrest if I should again demand it. Like yourself, I am not free, and, like you, I wish to fly from bondage. And now let us consult together, and arrange our plan of escape."

"Yes," said Trenck, with a glowing countenance, and embracing his new-found friend, "we will be unconquerable. Like Briareus, we will have a hundred arms and a hundred heads. When two young and powerful men unite their wills, nothing can restrain them—nothing withstand them. Let us make our arrangements."

The plan of escape was marked out, and was, indeed, ripe for action. On the last day of the year, Lieutenant Schnell was to be Trenck's night-guard, and then they would escape. The dark shadows of night would assist them. Horses were already engaged. There was gold to bribe the guard, and there were loaded pistols for those who could not be tempted. These had been already smuggled into Trenck's cell, and concealed in the ashes of the fireplace.

And now it was Christmas eve. This was a grand festal day even for all the officers of the citadel. With the exception of the night- watch, they were all invited to dine with the commandant. A day of joy and rejoicing to all but the poor prisoner, who sat solitary in his cell, and recalled, with a sad heart, the happy days of his childhood. "The holy evening" had been to him a golden book of promise, and a munificent cornucopia of happiness and peace.

The door of his cell was hastily opened, and Schnell rushed in.

"Comrade, we are betrayed!" said he breathlessly. "Our plan of flight has been discovered. The adjutant of the commander has just secretly informed me that when the guard is changed I am to be arrested. You see, then, we are lost, unless we adopt some rash and energetic resolution."

"We will fly before the hour of your arrest," said Trenck, gayly.

"If you think that possible, so be it!" said Schnell. He drew a sword from under his mantle, and handed it to Trenck. "Swear to me upon this sword, that come what may, you will never allow me to fall alive into the hands of my enemies."

"I swear it, so truly as God will help me! And now, Schnell, take the same oath."

"I swear it! And now friend, one last grasp of the hand, and then forward. May God be with us! Hide your sword under your coat. Let us assume an indifferent and careless expression—come!"

Arm in arm, the two young men left the prison door. They appeared calm and cheerful; each one kept a hand in his bosom, and this hand held a loaded pistol.

The guard saluted the officer of the night-watch, who passed by him in full uniform. In passing, he said: "I am conducting the prisoner to the officers' room. Remain here—I will return quickly."

Slowly, quietly, they passed down the whole length of the corridor; they reached the officer's room, and opened the door. The guard walked with measured step slowly before the open door of Trenck's cell, suspecting nothing. The door closed behind the fugitives—the first step toward liberty was taken.

"And now, quickly onward to the side door. When we have passed the sentry-box, we will be at the outer works. We must spring over the palisades, and woe to the obstacle that lies in our path!—advance! forward!"

They reached the wall, they greeted fair Freedom with golden smiles, but turning a corner, they stood suddenly before the major and his adjutant!

A cry of horror burst from Schnell's lips. With one bold leap, he sprang upon the breastworks, and jumped below. With a wild shout of joy Trenck followed him. His soul bounded with rapture and gladness. He has mounted the wall, and what he finds below will be liberty in death, or liberty in life.

He lives! He stretches himself after his wondrous leap, and he is not injured—he recovers strength and presence of mind quickly.

But where is his friend? where is Schnell? There—there; he lies upon the ground, with a dislocated ankle, impossible to stand— impossible to move.

"Remember your oath, friend—kill me! I can go no farther. Here is my sword—thrust it into my bosom, and fly for your life!"

Trenck laughed gayly, took him in his arms as lovingly and tenderly as a mother. "Swing yourself on my back, friend, and clasp your arms about my neck, and hold fast. We will run a race with the reindeer."

"Trenck! Trenck! kill me Leave me here, and hasten on. Escape is impossible with such a burden."

"You are as light as a feather, and I will die with you rather than leave you."

Onward! onward! the sun sets and a heavy fog rises suddenly from out of the earth.

"Trenck, Trenck, do you not hear the alarm—guns thundering from the citadel? Our pursuers are after us."

"I hear the cannon," said Trenck, hastening on. "We have a half hour's start."

"A half hour will not suffice. No one has ever escaped from Glatz who did not have two hours' advance of pursuit. Leave me, Trenck, and save yourself."

"I will not leave you. I would rather die with you. Let us rest a moment, and gather breath."

Gently, carefully, he laid his friend upon the ground. Schnell suppressed his cries of pain, and Trenck restrained his panting breath—they rested and listened. The white, soft mist settled more thickly around them. The citadel and the town was entirely hidden from view.

"God is with us," said Trenck. "He covers us with an impenetrable veil, and conceals us from our enemies."

"God is against us—our flight was too soon discovered. Already the whole border is alarmed. Listen to the signals in every village. The three shots from the citadel have announced that a prisoner has escaped. The commanding officers are now flying from point to point, to see if the peasants are doing duty, and if every post is strictly guarded. The cordon is alarmed; the whole Bohemian boundary has been signalled. It is too late—we cannot reach the border."

"We will not go then, friend, in the direction our enemies expect us," said Trenck, merrily. "They saw us running toward the Bohemian boundary, and they will follow in that direction through night and fog. We will fly where they are not seeking us—we will cross the Reise. Do you see there a line of silver shimmering through the fog, and advancing to meet us? Spring upon my back, Schnell. We must cross the Reise!"

"I cannot, Trenck, I suffer agony with my foot. It is impossible for me to swim."

"I can swim for both."

He knelt down, took his friend upon his back, and ran with him to the river. And now they stood upon the shore. Solemnly, drearily, the waves dashed over their feet, sweeping onward large blocks of ice which obstructed the current.

"Is the river deep, comrade?"

"In the middle of the stream, deep enough to cover a giant like yourself."

"Onward, then! When I can no longer walk, I can swim. Hold fast, Schnell!"

Onward, in the dark, ice-cold water, bravely onward, with his friend upon his back! Higher and higher rose the waves! Now they reached his shoulder!

"Hold fast to my hair, Schnell, we must swim!"

With herculean strength he swam through the dark, wild waters, and dashed the ice-blocks which rushed against him from his path.

Now they have reached the other shore. Not yet safe—but safe from immediate danger. The blessed night conceals their course, and their pursuers seek them on the other shore.

Suddenly the fog is dispersed; a rough bleak wind freezes the moisture in the atmosphere, and the moon rose in cloudless majesty in the heavens. It was a cold, clear December night, and the wet clothes of the fugitives were frozen stiff, like a harness, upon them. Trenck felt neither cold nor stiff; he carried his friend upon his shoulders, and that kept him warm; he walked so rapidly, his limbs could not stiffen.

Onward, ever onward to the mountains! They reached the first hill, under whose protecting shadows they sank down to rest, and take counsel together.

"Trenck, I suffer great agony; I implore you to leave me here and save yourself. In a few hours you can pass the border. Leave me, then, and save yourself!"

"I will never desert a friend in necessity. Come, I am refreshed."

He took up his comrade and pressed on. The moon had concealed herself behind the clouds; the cold, cutting winds howled through the mountains. Stooping, Trenck waded on through the snow. He was scarcely able now to hold himself erect. Hope inspired him with strength and courage—they had wandered far, they must soon reach the border.

Day broke! the pale rays of the December sun melted the mountain vapors into morning. The two comrades were encamped upon the snow, exhausted with their long march, hopefully peering here and there after the Bohemian boundary.

"Great God! what is that? Are not those the towers of Glatz? and that dark spectre which raises itself so threateningly against the horizon, is not that the citadel?"

And so it was. The poor fugitives have wandered round and round the whole night through, and they are now, alas! exactly where they started.

"We are lost," murmured Schnell; "there is no hope!" "No, we are not lost!" shouted Trenck; "we have young, healthy limbs, and weapons. They shall never take us alive."

"But we cannot escape them. Our appearance will instantly betray us; I am in full uniform, and you in your red coat of the body-guard, both of us without hats. Any man would know we were deserters."

"Woe to him who calls us so! we will slay him, and walk over his dead body. And now for some desperate resolve. We cannot go backward, we must advance, and pass right through the midst of our enemies in order to reach the border. You know the way, and the whole region round about. Come. Schnell, let us hold a council of war."

"We must pass through that village in front of us. How shall we attempt to do so unchallenged?"

Half an hour later a singular couple drew near to the last house of the village. One was a severely wounded, bleeding officer of the king's body-guard; his face was covered with blood, a bloody handkerchief was bound about his brow, and his hands tied behind his back. Following him, limped an officer in full parade dress, but bareheaded. With rude, coarse words he drove the poor prisoner before him, and cried for help. Immediately two peasants rushed from the house.

"Run to the village," said the officer, "and tell the judge to have a carriage got ready immediately, that I may take this deserter to the fortress. I succeeded in capturing him, but he shot my horse, and I fear I broke a bone in falling; you see, though, how I have cut him to pieces. I think he is mortally wounded. Bring a carriage instantly, that I may take him, while yet alive, to the citadel."

One of the men started at once, the other nodded to them to enter his hut.

Stumbling and stammering out words of pain, the wounded man followed him; cursing and railing, the officer limped behind him. On entering the room, the wounded man sank upon the floor, groaning aloud. A young girl advanced hastily, and took his wounded head in her arms; while an old woman, who stood upon the hearth, brought a vessel of warm milk to comfort him.

The old peasant stood at the window, and looked, with a peculiar smile, at the officer, who seated himself upon a bench near the fire, and drank the milk greedily which the old woman handed him. Suddenly the old man advanced in front of the officer and laid his hand on his shoulder.

"Your disguise is not necessary, Lieutenant Schnell, I know you; my son served in your company. There was an officer from the citadel here last night, and informed us of the two deserters. You are one, Lieutenant Schnell, and that is the other. That is Baron Trenck."

And now, the wounded man, as if cured by magic, sprang to his feet. The sound of his name had given him health and strength, and healed the wound in his forehead. He threw the handkerchief off, and rushed out, while Schnell with prayers and threats held back the old man, and entreated him to show them the nearest way to the border.

Trenck hastened to the stable—two horses were in the stalls. The young girl, who had held his head so tenderly, came up behind him.

"What are you doing, sir?" she said anxiously, as Trenck released the horses. "You will not surely take my father's horses?—if you do, I will cry aloud for help."

"If you dare to cry aloud, I will murder you," said Trenck, with flaming eyes, "and then I will kill myself! I have sworn that I will not be taken alive into the fortress. Have pity, beautiful child— your eyes are soft and kindly, and betray a tender heart. Help me— think how beautiful, how glorious is the world and life and liberty to the young! My enemies will deprive me of all this, and chain me in a cell, like a wild beast. Oh, help me to escape!"

"How can I help you?" said Mariandel, greatly touched.

"Give me saddles and bridles for these horses, in order that I may flee. I swear to you, by God and by my beloved, that they shall be returned to you!"

"You have then a sweetheart, sir?"

"I have—and she weeps day and night for me."

"I will give you the saddles in remembrance of my own beloved, who is far away from me. Come, saddle your horse quickly—I will saddle the other."

"Now, farewell, Mariandel—one kiss at parting—farewell, compassionate child! Schnell, Schnell, quick, quick to horse, to horse!"

Schnell rushed out of the hut, the peasant after him. He saw with horror that his horses were saddled; that Schnell, in spite of his foot, had mounted one, and Trenck was seated upon the other.

"My God! will you steal my horses? Help! help!"

Mariandel laid her hand upon her father's lips, and suppressed his cries for help. "Father, he has a bride, and she weeps for him!— think upon Joseph, and let them go."

The fugitives dashed away. Their long hair fluttered in the wind, their cheeks glowed with excitement and expectation. Already the village lay far behind them. Onward, over the plains, over the meadows, over the stubble-fields!

"Schnell. Schnell, I see houses—I see towns. Schnell, there lies a city!"

"That is Wunschelburg, and we must ride directly through it, for this is the nearest way to Bohemia."

"There is a garrison there, but we must ride through them. Aha! this is royal sport! We will dash right through the circle of our enemies. They will be so amazed at our insolence, that they will allow us to escape. Hei! here are the gates—the bells are ringing for church. Onward, onward, my gallant steed, you must fly as if you had wings!"

Huzza! how the flint strikes fire! how the horses' hoofs resound on the pavement! how the gayly-dressed church-goers, who were advancing so worthily up the street, fly screaming to every side! how the lazy hussars thinking no harm, stand at the house doors, and fix their eyes with horror upon these two bold riders, who dash past them like a storm-wind!

And now they have reached the outer gate—the city lies behind them. Forward, forward, in mad haste! The horses bow, their knees give way, but the bold riders rein them up with powerful arms, and they spring onward.

Onward, still onward! "But what is that? who is this advancing directly in front of us? Schnell, do you not know him? That is Captain Zerbtz!"

Yes, that is Captain Zerbtz, who has been sent with his hussars to arrest the fugitives; but he is alone, and his men are not in sight. He rode on just in front of them. When near enough to be heard, he said, "Brothers, hasten! Go to the left, pass that solitary house. That is the boundary-line. [Footnote: Trenck's Memoirs.] My hussars have gone to the right."

He turned his horse quickly, and dashed away. The fugitives flew to the left, passed the lonely house, passed the white stone which marked the border, and now just a little farther on.

"Oh, comrade, let our horses breathe! Let us rest and thank God, for we are saved—we have passed the border!"

"We are free, free!" cried Trenck, with so loud a shout of joy that the mountains echoed with the happy sound, and reechoed back, "Free, free!"



CHAPTER XIV.

I WILL.

Swiftly, noiselessly, and unheeded the days of prosperity and peace passed away. King Frederick has been happy; he does not even remember that more than two years of calm content and enjoyment have been granted him—two years in which he dared lay aside his sword, and rest quietly upon his laurels. This happy season had been rich in blessings; bringing its laughing tribute of perfumed roses and blooming myrtles. Two years of such happiness seems almost miraculous in the life of a king.

Our happy days are ever uneventful. True love is silent and retiring; it does not speak its rapture to the profane world, but hides itself in the shadows of holy solitude and starry night. Let us not, then, lift the veil with which King Frederick had concealed his love. These two years of bloom and fragrance shall pass by unquestioned.

When the sun is most lustrous, we turn away our eyes, lest they be blinded by his rays; but when clouds and darkness are around about us, we look up curiously and questioningly. King Frederick's sun is no longer clear and dazzling, dark clouds are passing over it; a shadow from these clouds has fallen upon the young and handsome face of the king, quenched the flashing glance of his eye, and checked the rapid beating of his heart.

What was it which made King Frederick so restless and unhappy? He did not know himself, or, rather, he would not know. An Alp seemed resting upon his heart, repressing every joyful emotion, and making exertion impossible. He sought distraction in work, and in the early morning he called his ministers to council, but his thoughts were far away; he listened without hearing, and the most important statements seemed to him trivial. He mistrusted himself, and dismissed his ministers. It was Frederick's custom to read every letter and petition himself, and write his answer upon the margin. This being done, he turned to his ordinary studies and occupations, and commenced writing in his "Histoire de Man Temps." Soon, however, he found himself gazing upon the paper, lost in wandering thoughts and wild, fantastic dreams. He threw his pen aside, and tried to lose himself in the beautiful creations of his favorite poet, all things in nature and fiction seemed alike vain.

Frederick threw his book aside in despair. "What is the matter with me?" he exclaimed angrily. "I am not myself; some wicked fairy has cast a spell about me, and bound my soul in magic fetters. I cannot work, I cannot think; content and quiet peace are banished from my breast! What does this signify? and why—" He did not complete his sentence, but gazed with breathless attention to the door. He had heard one tone of a voice without which made his heart tremble and his eyes glow with their wonted fire.

"Announce to his majesty that I am here, and plead importunately for an audience," said a soft, sweet voice.

"The king has commanded that no one shall be admitted."

"Announce me, nevertheless," said the petitioner imperiously.

"That is impossible!"

Frederick had heard enough. He stepped to the door and threw it open. "Signora, I am ready to receive you; have the goodness to enter." He stepped abruptly forward, and, giving his hand to Barbarina, led her into his cabinet.

Barbarina greeted him with a sweet smile, and gave a glance of triumph to the guard, who had dared to refuse her entrance.

The king conducted her silently to his boudoir, and nodded to her to seat herself upon the divan. But Barbarina remained standing, and fixed her great burning eyes upon his face.

"I see a cloud upon your brow, sire," said she, in a fond and flattering tone. "What poor insect has dared to vex my royal lion? Was it an insect? Was it—"

"No, no," said Frederick, interrupting her, "an angel or a devil has tortured me, and banished joy and peace from my heart. Now tell me, Barbarina, what are you? Are you a demon, come to martyr me, or an angel of light, who will transform my wild dreams of love and bliss into reality? There are hours of rapture in which I believe the latter, in which your glance of light and glory wafts my soul on golden, wings into the heaven of heavens, and I say to myself, 'I am not only a king, but a god, for I have an angel by my side to minister to me.' But then, alas! come weary times in which you seem to me an evil demon, and I see in your flashing eyes that eternal hatred which you swore to cherish in the first hour of our meeting."

"Alas! does your majesty still remember that?" said Barbarina, in a tone of tender reproof.

"You have taken care that I shall not forget it. You once told me that from hatred to love was but a small step. If you have truly advanced so far, how can I be assured but you will one day step backward?"

"How can you be assured?" said she, pointing a rosy finger with indescribable grace at the king. "Ah. sire! your divine beauty, your eyes, which have borrowed lightning from Jove and glory from the sun—your brow, where majesty and wisdom sit enthroned, and that youthful and enchanting smile which illuminates the whole—all these make assurance doubly sure! I will not allude to your throne, and its pomp and power! What is it to me that you are a king? For me you are a man, a hero, a god. Had I met you as a shepherd in the fields, I should have said, 'There is a god in disguise!' The fable is verified, and 'Apollo is before me!' Apollo, I adore, I worship you! let one ray from your heavenly eyes fall upon my face!" She knelt before him, folding her hands, extended them pleadingly toward the king, and looked upon him with a ravishing smile.

The king raised her, and pressed her—in his arms, then took her small head in his hands, and turning it backward, gazed searchingly in her face.

"Oh! Barbarina," said he, sadly, "to-day you are an angel, why were you a demon yesterday? Why did you martyr and torture me with your childish moods and passionate temper? Why is your heart, which can be so soft and warm, sometimes cold as an iceberg and wholly pitiless? Child! child! do you not know I have been wounded by many griefs, and that every rough word and every angry glance is like a poisoned dagger to my soul? I had looked forward with such delight to our meeting yesterday at Rothenberg's! I expected so much happiness, and I had earned it by a diligent and weary day's work. Alas! you spoiled all by your frowning brow and sullen silence. It was your fault that T returned home sad and heartless. I could not sleep, but passed the night in trying to find out the cause of your melancholy. This morning I could not work, and have robbed my kingdom and my people of the hours which properly belong to them; weak and powerless, I have been swayed wholly by gloom and discontent. What was it, Barbarina, which veiled your clear brow with frowns, and made your sweet voice so harsh and stern?"

"What was it?" said Barbarina, sadly; and resting on the arm of the king, she leaned her head back and looked up at him with half-closed eyes. "It was ambition which tortured me. But I did wrong to conceal any thing from you. I should, without sullen or angry looks, have made known the cause of my despair. I should have felt that I had only to breathe my request, and that the noble and magnanimous heart of my king would understand me. I should have known that the man who had won laurels in the broad fields of science and on the bloody battle-field, would appreciate this thirst for renown; this glowing, burning hate toward those who cross our paths and wish to share our fame!"

"Jealous? you are jealous, then, of some other artiste," said the king, releasing Barbarina from his arms.

"Yes, sire, I am jealous!—jealous of your smiles, of your applause; of the public voice, of the bravos, which like a golden shower have fallen upon me alone, and which I must now divide with another!"

"Of whom, then, are you jealous?" said the king.

She threw her head back proudly, a crimson blush blazed upon her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled angrily.

"Why has this Marianna Cochois been engaged? Why has Baron von Swartz put this contempt upon me?" said she fiercely. "To engage another artiste is to say to the world, that Barbarina no longer pleases, that she no longer has the power to enrapture the public, that her triumphs are over, and her day is past! Oh! this thought has made me wild! Is not Barbarina the first dancer of the world? Can it be that another prima donna, and not the Barbarina, is engaged for the principal role in a new and splendid ballet? Does Barbarina live, and has she not murdered the one who dared to do this, to bring this humiliation upon her?"

Tears gushed from her eyes, and sobbing loudly, she hid her face in her hands. The king gazed sadly upon her, and a weary smile played upon his lip.

"You are all alike—all," said he, bitterly, "and the great artiste is even as narrow-minded and pitiful as the unknown and humble; you are all weak, vain, envious, and swayed by small passions; and to think that you, Barbarina, are not an exception; that the Barbarina weeps because Marianna Cochois is to play the principal role in the new ballet, 'Toste Galanti.'"

"She shall not, she dare not," cried Barbarina; "I will not suffer this humiliation; I will not be disgraced, dishonored in Berlin; I will not sit unnoticed in a loge, and listen to the bravos and plaudits awarded to another artiste which belong to me alone! Oh, sire, do not allow this shame to be put upon me! Command that this part, which is mine, which belongs to me by right of the world-wide fame which I have achieved, be given to me! I implore your majesty to take this role from the Cochois, and restore it to me."

"That is impossible, Barbarina. The Cochois, like every other artiste, must have her debut. Baron Swartz has given her the principal part in 'Toste Galanti,' and I cannot blame him."

"Oh! your majesty, I beseech you to listen. Is it not true—will you not bear witness to the fact that Barbarina has never put your liberality and magnanimity to the test; that she has never shown herself to be egotistical or mercenary? I ask nothing from my king but his heart, the happiness to sit at his feet, and in the sunshine of his eyes to bathe my being in light and gladness. Sire, you have often complained that I desired and would accept nothing from you; that diamonds and pearls had no attraction for me. You know that not the slightest shadow of selfishness has fallen upon my love! Now, then, I have a request to-day: I ask something from my king which is more precious in my eyes than all the diamonds of the world. Give me this role; that is, allow me to remain in the undisturbed possession of my fame." She bowed her knee once more before the king, but this time he did not raise her in his arms.

"Barbarina," said he, sadly and thoughtfully, "put away from you this unworthy and pitiful envy. Cast it off as you do the tinsel robes and rouge of the stage with which you conceal your beauty. Be yourself again. The noble, proud, and great-hearted woman who shines without the aid of garish ornament, who is ever the queen of grace and beauty, and needs not the borrowed and false purple and ermine of the stage. Grant graciously to the Cochois this small glory, you who are everywhere and always a queen in your own right!"

Barbarina sprang from her knees with flashing eyes. "Sire," said she, "you refuse my request—my first request—you will not order that this part shall be given to me?"

"I cannot; it would be unjust."

"And so I must suffer this deadly shame; must see another play the part which belongs to me; another made glad by the proud triumphs which are mine and should remain mine. I will not suffer this! I swear it! So true as my name is Barbarina I will have no rival near me! I will not be condemned to this daily renewed struggle after the first rank as an artiste. I will not bear the possibility of a comparison between myself and any other woman. I am and I will remain the first; yes, I will!"

She raised herself up defiantly, and her burning glance fell upon the face of the king, but he met it firmly, and if the bearing of Barbarina was proud and commanding, that of King Frederick was more imposing.

"How!" said he, in a tone so harsh and threatening that Barbarina, in spite of her scorn and passion, felt her heart tremble with fear. "How! Is there another in Prussia who dares say, 'I will?' Is it possible that a voice is raised in contradiction to the expressed will of the king?"

Barbarina turned pale and trembled. The countenance of Frederick expressed what she had never seen before. It was harsh and cold, and a cutting irony spoke in his glance and a contemptuous smile played upon his lip.

"Mercy, mercy!" cried she, pleadingly; "have pity with my passion. Forget this inconsiderate word which scorn and despair drew from me. Oh! sire, do not look upon me so coldly, unless you wish that I should sink down and die at your feet; crush me not in your anger, but pardon and forget."

With her lovely face bathed in tears and her arms stretched out imploringly; she drew near the king, but he stood up erect and stepped backward.

"Signora Barbarina, I have nothing to forgive, but I cannot grant your request. The Cochois keeps her role, and if you have any complaint to make, apply to your chief, Baron Swartz; and now, signora, farewell; the audience is ended."

He bowed his head lightly and turned away; but Barbarina uttered one wild cry, sprang after him, and with mad frenzy she clung to his arm.

"Sire, sire! do not go," she said, breathlessly; "do not forsake me in your rage. My God, do you not see that I suffer; that I shall be a maniac if you desert me!" and, gliding to his feet, she clasped his knees with her beautiful arms, and looked up at him imploringly. "Oh, my king and my lord, let me be as a slave at your feet; do not spurn me from you!"

King Frederick did not reply; he leaned forward and looked down upon the lovely and enchanting woman lying at his feet, and never, perhaps, had her charms appeared so intoxicating as at this moment, but his face was sad, and his eyes, usually so clear and bright, were veiled in tears. There was a pause. Barbarina still clung to his knees, and looked up beseechingly, and the king regarded her with an expression of unspeakable melancholy; his great soul seemed to speak in the glance which fixed upon her. It was eloquent with love, rapture, and grief. Now their eyes met and seemed immovably fixed. In the midst of the profound silence nothing was heard but Barbarina's sighs. She knew full well the significance of this moment. She felt that fate, with its menacing and unholy shadow, was hovering over her. Suddenly the king roused himself, and the voice which broke the solemn silence sounded strange and harsh to Barbarina.

"Farewell, Signora Barbarina," said the king.

Barbarina's arms sank down powerless, and a sob burst from her lips. The king did not regard it; he did not look back. With a firm hand he opened the door which led into his chamber; entered and closed it. He sank upon a chair, and gave one long and weary sigh. A profound despair was written on his countenance, and had Barbarina seen him, she would have appreciated the anguish of his heart.

She lay bathed in tears before his door, and cried aloud: "He has forsaken me! Oh, my God, he has forsaken me!" This fearful and terrible thought maddened her; she sprang up and shook the door fiercely, and with a loud and piteous voice she prayed for entrance. She knew not herself what words of love, of anguish, of despair, and insulted pride burst from her pallid lips. One moment she threatened fiercely, then pleaded touchingly for pardon; sometimes her voice seemed full of tears—then cold and commanding. The king stood with folded arms, leaning against the other side of the door. He heard these paroxysms of grief and rage, and every word fell upon his heart as the song of the siren upon the ear of Ulysses. But Frederick was mighty and powerful; he needed no ropes or wax to hold him back. He had the strength to control his will, and the voice of wisdom, the warning voice of duty, spoke louder than the siren's song.

"No," said he, "I will not, I dare not allow myself to be again seduced. All this must come to an end! I have long known this, but I had no strength to resist temptation. Have I not solemnly sworn to have but one aim in life—to place the good of my people far above my own personal happiness? If the man and the king strive within me for mastery, the king must triumph above all other things. I must consider the holy duties which my crown lays upon me; my time, my thoughts, my strength, belong to my people, my land. I have already robbed them, for I have withdrawn myself. I have suffered an enchantress to step between me and my duty—another will than mine finds utterance, influences, and indeed controls my thoughts and actions. Alas! a king should be old and be born with the heart of a graybeard—he dare never have a heart of youth and fire if he would serve his people faithfully and honestly! With a heart of flesh I might have been a happier, a more amiable man, but a weak, unworthy king. I should have been intoxicated by a woman's love, and her light wish would have been more powerful than my will. Never, never shall that be! I will have the courage to trample my own heart under foot, and the sorrows of the man shall bo soothed and healed by the pomp and glory of the king."

In the next room Barbarina leaned over against the door, exhausted by her prayers and tears. "Listen to me, my king," said she, softly. "In one hour you have broken my will and humbled my pride forever! From this time onward Barbarina has no will but yours. Command me, then, wholly. Say to me that I am never to dance again, and I swear to you that my foot shall never more step upon the stage; command that all my roles shall be given to the Cochois, I will myself hand them to her and pray her to accept them. You see, my king, that I am no longer proud—no longer ambitious. Have mercy upon me then, sire; open this fearful door; let me look upon your face; let me lie at your feet. Oh, my king, be merciful, be gracious; cast me not away from you!"

The king leaned, agitated and trembling, against the door. Once he raised his arm and laid his hand upon the bolt. Barbarina uttered a joyful cry, for she had heard this movement. But the king withdrew his hand again. All was still; from time to time the king heard a low sigh, a suppressed sob, then silence followed.

Barbarina pleaded no more. She knew and felt it was in vain. Scorn and wounded pride dried the tears which love and despair had caused to flow. She wept no more—her eyes were flaming—she cast wild, angry glances toward the door before which she had lain so long in humble entreaty. Threateningly she raised her arms toward heaven, and her lips murmured unintelligible words of cursing or oaths of vengeance.

"Farewell, King Frederick," she said, at last, in mellow, joyous tones—"farewell! Barbarina leaves you."

She felt that, in uttering these words, the tears had again rushed to her eyes. She shook her head wildly, and closed her eyelids, and pressed her hands firmly upon them, thus forcing back the bitter tears to their source. Then with one wild spring, like an enraged lioness, she sprang to the other door, opened it and rushed out.

Frederick waited some time, then entered the room, which seemed to him to resound with the sighs and prayers of Barbarina. It brought back the memory of joys that were past, and it appeared to him even as the death-chamber of his hopes and happiness. He stepped hastily through the room and bolted the door through which Barbarina had gone out. He wished to be alone. No one should share his solitude— no one should breathe this air, still perfumed by the sighs of Barbarina. King Frederick looked slowly and sadly around him, then hastened to the door before which Barbarina had knelt. An embroidered handkerchief lay upon the floor. The king raised it; it was wet with tears, and warm and fragrant from contact with her soft, fine hand. He pressed it to his lips and to his burning eyes; then murmured, lightly, "Farewell! a last, long farewell to happiness!"



CHAPTER XV.

THE LAST STRUGGLE FOR POWER.

Restless and anxious the two cavaliers of the king paced the anteroom, turning their eyes constantly toward the door which led into the king's study, and which had not been opened since yesterday morning. For twenty-four hours the king had not left his room. In vain had General Rothenberg and Duke Algarotti prayed for admittance.

The king had not even replied to them; he had, however, called Fredersdorf, and commanded him sternly to admit no one, and not to return himself unless summoned. The king would take no refreshment, would undress himself, required no assistance, and must not be disturbed in the important work which now occupied him.

This strict seclusion and unaccustomed silence made the king's friends and servants very anxious. With oppressed hearts they stood before the door and listened to every sound from the room. During many hours they heard the regular step of the king as he walked backward and forward; sometimes he uttered a hasty word, then sighed wearily, and nothing more.

Night came upon them. Pale with alarm, Rothenberg asked Algarotti if it was not their duty to force the door and ascertain the condition of his majesty.

"Beware how you take that rash step!" said Fredersdorf, shaking his head. "The king's commands were imperative; he will be alone and undisturbed."

"Have you no suspicion of the cause of his majesty's distress?" asked Algarotti.

"For some days past the king has been grave and out of humor," replied Fredersdorf. "I am inclined to the opinion that his majesty has been angered and wounded by some dear friend."

General Rothenberg bent over and whispered to Algarotti: "Barbarina has wounded him; for some time past she has been sullen and imperious. These haughty and powerful natures have been carrying on an invisible war with each other; they both contend for sovereignty."

"If this is so, I predict confidently that the beautiful Barbarina will be conquered," said Algarotti. "Mankind will always be conquered by Frederick the king, and must submit to him. So soon as Frederick the Great recognizes the fact that the man in him is subjected by the enchanting Barbarina, like Alexander the Great, he will cut the gordian knot, and release himself from even the soft bondage of love."

"I fear that he is strongly bound, and that the gordian knot of love can withstand even the king's sword. Frederick, ordinarily so unapproachable, so inexorable in his authority and self-control, endures with a rare patience the proud, commanding bearing of Barbarina. Even yesterday evening when the king did me the honor to sup with me in the society of the Barbarina, in spite of her peevishness and ever-changing mood, he was the most gallant and attentive of cavaliers."

"And you think the king has not seen the signora since that time?"

"I do not know; let us ask the guard."

The gentlemen ascertained from the guard that Barbarina had left the king's room in the morning, deadly pale, and with her eyes inflamed by weeping.

"You see that I was right," said Algarotti; "this love-affair has reached a crisis."

"In which I fear the king will come to grief," said Rothenberg. "Believe me, his majesty loves Barbarina most tenderly."

"Not the king! the man loves Barbarina. But listen! did you not hear a noise?"

"Yes, the low tone of a flute," said Fredersdorf. "Let us approach the door."

Lightly and cautiously they stepped to the door, behind which the king had carried on this fierce battle with himself, a battle in which he had shed his heart's best blood. Again they heard the sound of the flute: it trembled on the air like the last sigh of love and happiness; sometimes it seemed like the stormy utterance of a strong soul in extremest anguish, then melted softly away in sighs and tears. Never in the king's gayest and brightest days had he played with such masterly skill as now in this hour of anguish. The pain, the love, the doubt, the longing which swelled his heart, found utterance in this mournful adagio. Greatly moved, the three friends listened breathlessly to this wondrous development of genius. The king completed the music with a note of profound suffering.

Algarotti bowed to Rothenberg. "Friend," said he, "that was the last song of the dying swan."

"God grant that it was the last song of love, not the death-song of the king's heart! When a man tears love forcibly from his heart, I am sure he tears away also a piece of the heart in which it was rooted."

"Can we not think of something to console him? Let us go in the morning to Barbarina; perhaps we may learn from her what has happened."

"Think you we can do nothing more to-day to withdraw the king from his painful solitude?"

"I think the king is a warrior and a hero, and will be able to conquer himself."

While the king, in solitude, strengthened only by his genius, struggled with his love, Barbarina, with all the passion of her stormy nature, endured inexpressible torture. She was not alone—her sister was with her, mingled her tears with hers, and whispered sweet words of hope.

"The king will return to you; your beauty holds him captive with invisible but magic bonds. Your grace and fascinations will live in his memory, will smile upon him, and lure him back humble and conquered to your feet."

Barbarina shook her head sadly. "I have lost him. The eagle has burst the weak bonds with which I had bound his wings; now he is free, he will again unfold them, and rise up conquering and to conquer in the blue vaults of heaven. In the rapturous enjoyment of liberty he will forget how happy he was in captivity. No, no; I have lost him forever!"

She clasped her hands over her face, and wept bitterly. Then, as if roused to extremity by some agonizing thought, she sprang from her seat; her eyes were flashing, her cheeks crimson.

"Oh, to think that he abandoned me; that I was true to him; that a man lives who deserted Barbarina! That is a shame, a humiliation, of which I will die—yes, surely die!"

"But this man was, at least, a king," said her sister, in hesitating tones.

Barbarina shook her head fiercely, and her rich black hair fell about her face in wild disorder.

"What is it to me that he is a king? His sceptre is not so powerful as that of Barbarina. My realm extends over the universe, wherever men have eyes to see and hearts to feel emotion. That this man is a king does not lessen my shame, or make my degradation less bitter. Barbarina is deserted, forsaken, spurned, and yet lives. She is not crushed and ground to death by this dishonor. But, as I live, I will take vengeance, vengeance for this monstrous wrong—this murder of my heart!"

So, in the midst of wild prayers, and tears, and oaths of vengeance, the day declined; long after, Barbarina yielded to the tender entreaties of Marietta, and stretched herself upon her couch. She buried her head in the pillows, and during the weary hours of the night she wept bitterly.

With pale cheeks and weary eyes she rose on the following morning. She was still profoundly sad, but no longer hopeless. Her vanity, her rare beauty, in whose magic power she still believed, whispered golden words of comfort, of encouragement; she was now convinced that the king could not give her up. "He spurned me yesterday, to- day he will implore me to forgive him." She was not surprised when her servant announced Duke Algarotti and General Rothenberg.

"Look you," said she, turning to her sister, "you see my heart judged rightly. The king sends his two most confidential friends to conduct me to him. Oh, my God, grant that this poor heart, which has borne such agony, may not now break from excess of happiness! I shall see him again, and his beautiful, loving eyes will melt out of my heart even the remembrance of the terrible glance with which he looked upon me yesterday. Farewell, sister; farewell—I go to the king."

"But not so; not in this negligee; not with this hair in wild disorder," said Marietta, holding her back.

"Yes, even as I am," said Barbarina. "For his sake I have torn my hair; for his sake my eyes are red; my sad, pale face speaks eloquently of my despair, and will awaken his repentance."

Proudly, triumphantly she entered the saloon, and returned the profound salutation of the two gentlemen with a slight bow.

"You bring me a message from his majesty?" said she, hastily.

"The king commissioned us to inquire after your health, signora," said Algarotti.

Barbarina smiled significantly. "He sent you to watch me closely," thought she; "he would ascertain if I am ready to pardon, ready to return to him. I will meet them frankly, honestly, and make their duty light.—Say to his majesty that I have passed the night in sighs and tears, that my heart is full of repentance. I grieve for my conduct."

The gentlemen exchanged a meaning glance; they already knew what they came to learn. Barbarina had had a contest with the king, and he had separated from her in scorn. Therefore was the proud Barbarina so humble, so repentant.

Barbarina looked at them expectantly; she was convinced they would now ask, in the name of the king, to be allowed to conduct her to the castle. But they said nothing to that effect.

"Repentance must be a very poisonous worm," said General Rothenberg, looking steadily upon the face of Barbarina; "it has changed the blooming rose of yesterday into a fair, white blossom."

"That is perhaps fortunate," said Algarotti. "It is well known that the white rose has fewer thorns than the red, and from this time onward, signora, there will be less danger of mortal wounds when approaching you."

Barbarina trembled, and her eyes flashed angrily. "Do you mean to intimate that my strength and power are broken, and that I can never recover my realm? Do you mean that the Barbarina, whom the king so shamefully deserted, so cruelly humiliated, is a frail butterfly? That the purple hue of beauty has been brushed from my wings? that I can no longer charm and ravish the beholder because a rough hand has touched me?"

"I mean to say, signora, that it will be a happiness to the king, if the sad experience of the last few days should make you milder and gentler of mood," said Algarotti.

Rothenberg and himself had gone to Barbarina to find out, if possible, the whole truth. They wished to deceive her—to lead her to believe that the king had fully confided in them.

"The king was suffering severely yesterday from the wounds which the sharp thorns of the red rose had inflicted," said Rothenberg.

"And did he not cruelly revenge himself?" cried Barbarina. "He left me for long hours kneeling at his door, wringing my hands, and pleading for pity and pardon, and he showed no mercy. But that is past, forgotten, forgiven. My wounds have bled and they have healed, and now health and happiness will return to my poor martyred heart. Say to my king that I am humble. I pray for happiness, not as my right, but as a royal gift which, kneeling and with uplifted hands, I will receive, oh, how gratefully! But no, no, you shall not tell this to the king—I will confess all myself to his majesty. Come, come, the king awaits us—let us hasten to him!"

"We were only commanded to inquire after the health of the signora," said Algarotti, coolly.

"And as you have assured us that you have passed the night in tears and repentance, this confession may perhaps ameliorate his majesty's sufferings," said Rothenberg.

Barbarina looked amazed from one to the other. Suddenly her cheeks became crimson, and her eyes flashed with passion. "You did not come to conduct me to the king?" said she, breathlessly.

"No, signora, the king did not give us this commission."

"Ah! he demands, then, that I shall come voluntarily? Well, then, I will go uncalled. Lead me to his majesty!"

"That is a request which I regret I cannot fulfil. The king has sternly commanded us to admit no one."

"No one?"

"No one, without exception, signora," said Algarotti, bowing profoundly.

Barbarina pressed her lips together to restrain a cry of anguish. She pressed her hands upon the table to sustain her sinking form. "You have only come to say that the king will not receive me; that to-day, as yesterday, his doors are closed against me. Well, then, gentlemen, you have fulfilled your duty. Go and say to his majesty I shall respect his wishes—go, sirs!"

Barbarina remained proudly erect, and replied to their greeting with a derisive smile. With her hands pressed nervously on the table, she looked after the two cavaliers as they left her saloon, with wide- extended, tearless eyes. But when the door closed upon them, when sure she could not be heard by them, she uttered so wild, so piercing a cry of anguish, that Marietta rushed into the room. Barbarina had sunk, as if struck by lightning, to the floor.

"I am dishonored, betrayed, spurned," cried she, madly. "O God! let me not outlive this shame—send death to my relief!"

Soon, however, her cries of despair were changed to words of scorn and bitterness. She no longer wished to die—she wished to revenge herself. She rose from her knees, and paced the room hastily, raging, flashing, filled with a burning thirst for vengeance, resolved to cast a veil over her shame, and hide it, at least, from the eyes of the world.

"Marietta, O Marietta!" cried she, breathlessly, "help me to find the means quickly, by one blow to satisfy my vengeance!—a means which will prove to the king that I am not, as be supposes, dying from grief and despair; that I am still the Barbarina—the adored, triumphant, all-conquering artiste—a means which will convince the whole world that I am not deserted, scorned, but that I myself am the inconstant one. Oh, where shall I find the means to rise triumphantly from this humiliation? where—"

"Silence, silence, sister! some one is coming. Let no one witness your agitation."

The servant entered and announced that Baron von Swartz, director of the theatre, wished to know if the signora would appear in the ballet of the evening.

"Say to him that I will dance with pleasure," said Barbarina.

When once more alone, Marietta entreated her to be quiet, and not increase her agitation by appearing in public.

Barbarina interrupted her impatiently. "Do you not see that already the rumor of my disgrace has reached the theatre? Do you not see the malice of this question of Baron Swartz? They think the Barbarina is so completely broken, crushed by the displeasure of the king, that she can no longer dance. They have deceived themselves—I will dance tonight. Perhaps I shall go mad; but I will first refute the slander, and bring to naught the report of my disgrace with the king."

And now the servant entered and announced Monsieur Cocceji.

"You cannot possibly receive him," whispered Marietta. "Say that you are studying your role, for the evening; say that you are occupied with your toilet. Say what you will, only decline to receive him."

Barbarina looked thoughtful for a moment. "No," said she, musingly, "I will not dismiss him. Conduct Cocceji to my boudoir, and say he may expect me."

The moment the servant left them, Barbarina seized her sister's hand. "I have prayed to God for means to revenge myself, and He has heard my prayer. You know Cocceji loves me, and has long wooed me in vain. Well, then, today he shall not plead in vain; to-day I will promise him my love, but I will make my own conditions. Come, Marietta!"

Glowing and lovely from excitement, Barbarina entered the boudoir where the young Councillor Cocceji, son of the minister, awaited her. With an enchanting smile, she advanced to meet him, and fixing her great burning eyes upon him, she said softly, "Are you not yet cured of your love for me?"

The young man stepped back a moment pale and wounded, but Barbarina stood before him in her wondrous beauty; a significant, enchanting smile was on her lip, and in her eyes lay something so sweetly encouraging, so bewildering, that he was reassured, he felt that it was not her intention to mock at his passion.

"This love is a fatal malady of which I shall never be healed," he said warmly; "a malady which resists all remedies."

"What if I return your love?" said she in soft, sweet tones.

Cocceji's countenance beamed with ecstasy; he was completely overcome by this unlooked-for happiness.

"Barbarina, if I dream, if I am a somnambulist, do not awaken me! If, in midsummer madness only, I have heard these blissful words, do not undeceive me! Let me dream on, give my mad fancy full play; or slay me if you will, but do not say that I mistake your meaning!"

"I shall not say that," she whispered, almost tenderly. "For a long year you have sworn that you loved me."

"And you have had the cruelty to jest always at my passion."

"From this day I believe in your love, but you must give me a proof of it. Will you do that?"

"I will, Barbarina!"

"Well, then, I demand no giant task, no herculean labor; there is no rival whom you must murder! I demand only that you shall make your love for me known to the whole world. Give eclat to this passion! I demand that with head erect, and clear untroubled eye, you shall give the world a proof of this love! I will not that this love you declare to me so passionately shall be hidden under a veil of mystery and silence. I demand that you have the courage to let the sun in the heavens and the eyes of men look down into your heart and read your secret, and that no quiver of the eyelids, no feeling of confusion shall shadow your countenance. I will that to-morrow all Berlin shall know and believe that the young Councillor Cocceji, the son of the minister, the favorite of the king, loves the Barbarina ardently, and that she returns his passion. Berlin must know that this is no cold, northern, German, phlegmatic LIKING, which chills the blood in the veins and freezes the heart, but a full, ardent, glowing passion, animating every fibre of our being—an Italian love, a love of sunshine, and of storm, and of tempest."

Barbarina was wholly irresistible; her bearing was proud, her eyes sparkled, her face beamed with energy and enthusiasm. A less passionate nature than that of Cocceji would have been kindled by her ardor, would have been carried away by her energy.

The fiery young Cocceji threw himself at her feet. "Command me! my name, my life, my hand, are yours; only love me, Barbarina, and I will be proud to declare how much I love you; to say to the whole world this is my bride, and I am honored and happy that she has deigned to accept my hand!"

"Of this another time," said Barbarina, smiling; "first prove to the world that you love me. This evening in the theatre give some public evidence, give the Berliners something to talk about: then—then—" said she, softly, "the rest will come in time."



CHAPTER XVI.

THE DISTURBANCE IN THE THEATRE.

Duke Algarotti and General Rothenberg returned to the castle much comforted by their interview with Barbarina.

"The Barbarina repents, and is ready to take the first step toward reconciliation," said Rothenberg; "I see the end; I will go at once and order my cook to prepare a splendid supper for the evening."

"Do not be hasty," said Algarotti, shaking his head; "you may give your cook unnecessary trouble, and the rich feast might be cold before the arrival of the king."

"Do you believe that?"

"I believe that for a summer cloud or an April shower the king would not withdraw himself to solitude and silence. It is no passing mood, but a life question which agitates him."

"The door has not been opened to-day; Fredersdorf has repeatedly begged for admittance."

The two friends stood sad and irresolute in the anteroom, alarmed at the seclusion and silence of the king. Suddenly the door leading into the corridor was hastily opened, and a man of commanding and elegant appearance stood upon the threshold; you saw at a glance that he was a cavalier and a courtier, while his glowing cheek, his clear, bright eyes, and jovial smile betrayed the man of pleasure and the epicure. This remarkable man, in whom every one who looked upon him felt confidence; whose face, in spite of the thousand wrinkles which fifty years of an active, useful life had laid upon it, still retained an innocent, amiable, and childlike expression— this man was the Marquis d'Argens, the true, unchangeable, never- faltering friend of the king. He had consecrated to him his heart, his soul, his whole being; so great was his reverence for his royal master, that the letters received from him were always read standing. The marquis had just returned from Paris; he entered the anteroom of the king with a gay and happy smile, impatient and eager to see his beloved master. Without looking around, he hastened to the door which led into the cabinet of the king. Rothenberg and Algarotti drew near to him, and greeted him joyously, then told him of the strange seclusion of the king. The countenance of the marquis was troubled, and his eyes filled with tears.

"We must not allow this," he said decidedly; "I will kneel before the door, and pray and plead till the noble heart of the king is reached, and he will have pity with our anxiety. Go, Fredersdorf, and announce me to his majesty."

"Sire," said Fredersdorf, knocking on the door, "sire, the Marquis d'Argens is here and begs for admittance."

No answer was given.

"Oh, sire," said the marquis, "be merciful; have consideration for my eagerness to see you after so long an absence; I have travelled day and night in order to enjoy that happiness a few hours sooner. I wish to warm and solace myself in the sunshine of your glance; be gracious, and allow me to enter."

A breathless silence followed this earnest entreaty. At last the door was shaken, a bolt was drawn back, and the king appeared on the threshold. He was pale, but of that clear and transparent pallor which has nothing in common with the sallow hue of physical weakness; there was no trace of nervous excitement. Smiling, and with calm dignity, he approached his friends.

"Welcome, marquis, most welcome! may joy and happiness crown your return! No doubt you have much to relate to us of your wild and impudent countrymen, and I see that Rothenberg and Algarotti are burning with curiosity to hear an account of your love adventures and rendezvous with your new-baked and glowing duchesses and princesses."

"Ah, your majesty, he approached me with the proud mien of a conqueror," said Rothenberg, gladly entering into the jesting humor of the king. "We are more than ready to believe in the triumphs of the marquis at the court of Louis the Fifteenth."

"The marquis has done wisely if he has left his heart in Paris," said Algarotti. "Your majesty knows that he suffers greatly with heart disease, and every girl whom he does not exactly know to be a rogue, he believes to be an angel of innocence."

"You know," said Rothenberg, "that shortly before his journey, his house-keeper stole his service of silver. The marquis promised to give her the worth of the silver if she would discover the thief and restore it. She brought it back immediately, and the marquis not only paid her the promised sum, but gave her a handsome reward for her adroitness in discovering the robber. As D'Argens triumphantly related this affair to me, I dared to make the remark that the housekeeper was herself the rogue, the good marquis was as much exasperated with me as if I had dared to charge HIM with theft! 'Have more reverence for women,' said he to me, gravely; 'to complain of, or accuse a woman, is a crime against God and Nature. Women are virtuous and noble when not misled, and I cannot see who could have tempted my good house-keeper; she is, therefore, innocent.'"

All laughed heartily, but D'Argens, who cast his eyes to the ground, looking somewhat ashamed. But the king advanced, and laying both hands upon the shoulders of the marquis, he looked into the kindly, genial face with an expression of indescribable love and confidence.

"He has the heart of a child, the intellect of a sage, and the imagination of a poet, by the grace of God," said the king. "If all men were like him, this earth would be no vale of tears, but a glorious paradise! It is a real happiness to me to have you here, my dear D'Argens. You shall take the place of the Holy Father, and bless and consecrate a small spot of earth for me. With your pure lips you shall pray to the house gods for their blessing and protection on my hearth, and beseech them to pour a little joy and mirth into the cup of wormwood and gall which this poor life presses to our lips. My palace of Weinberg, near Potsdam, is finished. I will drive you there today—you alone, marquis! As for the others, they are light-minded, audacious, suspicious children of men, and they shall not so soon poison the air in my little paradise with their levities. You alone, D'Argens, are worthy. You are pure as those who lived before the fall. You have never tasted of the ominous and death-giving apple. You will go with me, then, to Weinberg, and when you have consecrated it, you shall relate to me the chronique scandaleuse of the French court. Now, however, I must work!—Fredersdorf, are my ministers here?"

"Sire, they have been an hour in the bureau."

"Who is in the anteroom?"

"Baron Swartz, with the repertoire of the week."

"Ah! Swartz," said the king, thoughtfully, "let him enter."

Fredersdorf hastened to summon the director, and the king recommenced his careless conversation with his friends. As the baron entered, the king stepped forward to meet him, and took a paper from his hand. He read it with seeming indifference, but his lips were compressed and his brow clouded.

"Who will dance the solo this evening in Re Pastore?" he said, at last.

"Signora Barbarina, your majesty."

"Ah! the Signora Barbarina," said the king, carelessly, "I thought I heard that she was indisposed?"

Frederick's eyes were fixed searchingly upon his friends. He perhaps suspected the truth, and thought it natural that, in the disquiet of their hearts, they had sought an explanation of Barbarina.

"Sire," said Rothenberg, "Signora Barbarina has entirely recovered. Algarotti and myself made her a visit this morning, and she commissioned us, if your majesty should be gracious enough to ask for her, to say that she was well and happy."

The king made no reply. He walked thoughtfully backward and forward, then stood before D'Argens, and said, in a kindly tone: "You are so great an enthusiast for the stage that it would he cruel to take you to Weinberg this evening. We will go to the theatre and see Barbarina dance, and to-morrow you shall consecrate my house; and now, adieu, gentlemen I must work! You will be my guests at dinner, and will accompany me to the theatre."

The king entered his study. "She defies me," said he lightly to himself. "She will prove to me that she is indifferent. Well, so be it; I will also show that I have recovered!"

The theatre was at last opened. A brilliant assembly filled the first range of boxes, and the parquet. The second tier and the parterre were occupied by the burghers, merchants, and their wives and daughters, who were waiting with joyful impatience for the commencement of the performance. The brilliant court circle, however, was absorbed by other interests. A murmur had spread abroad that "the Barbarina had fallen into disgrace and lost forever the favor of the king." The wild despair of the beautiful dancer was spoken of, and there were some who declared that she had made an attempt to take her life. Others asserted that she had sworn never again to appear on the Berlin stage, and that she would assuredly feign illness in order not to dance. All were looking anxiously for the rising of the curtain, and toward the side door through which the king and his suite were accustomed to enter.

At last the door opened; the drums and trumpets sounded merrily; the king entered, and walked with calm composure to his chair. The bell rang, the curtain rolled up, and the ballet began.

There was at first a dance of shepherds, and shepherdesses, then an interruption by fauns and satyrs, who intermingled in groups with the first dancers and ranged themselves on the side of the stage, waiting for the appearance of the shepherd queen. There was a breathless pause—every eye but the king's was fixed upon the stage.

And now there was an outburst of admiration and enthusiasm. Yes, there she was; rosy, glowing, perfumed, tender, enchanting, and intoxicating, she floated onward in her robe of silver. Her magical smile disclosed her small, pearly teeth and laughing dimples; her great, mysterious black eyes understood the art of flattery and of menace; in both they were irresistible. Noiselessly she floated onward to the front of the stage. Now, with indescribable grace, she bowed her body backward, and standing on tiptoe she raised her rounded arms high over her head, and looked upward, with a sweet smile, to a wreath of roses which she held.

"Wondrous, most wondrous!" cried suddenly a full, clear voice. It was the young state councillor, Von Cocceji, who sat in the proscenium box near the stage, and gazed with beaming eyes on Barbarina.

Barbarina turned toward him, and smiled sweetly. The king frowned, and played rather fiercely with his snuff-box.

"Wondrous!" repeated Cocceji, and threw a threatening, scornful glance upon a thin, wan young man who sat near him, and who dared, in a small, weak voice to repeat the "wondrous" of the young athlete. "I pray you, sir, to refrain from the expression of your applause, or, if that is impossible, choose your own words, and not mine to convey your approbation," said the six-footed giant, Cocceji, to his pallid neighbor.

The latter looked with a sort of horror at the broad-shouldered, muscular figure before him, and scarcely daring to breathe loudly, he looked with wide-open, staring eyes at Barbarina, who was now floating with enchanting grace upon the stage. The audience had entirely forgotten the vague rumors of the day—thought no more of the king. Their attention was wholly given to Barbarina and Cocceji, whose eyes were ever fixed threateningly upon his shrinking neighbor. Suddenly, just as Barbarina had completed one of her most difficult tours and knelt before the lamps to receive the bravos of the spectators, something flew from the loge of Cocceji, and fell exactly at Barbarina's feet.

This offering was no wreath or bouquet of flowers, no costly gem, but a man, a poor, panting, terrified man, who did not yet comprehend how he came to make this rapid journey through the air, nor why Cocceji with his giant hand had seized him and dashed him upon the stage.

Confused and terrified, the poor bruised youth lay for some moments motionless at the feet of Barbarina; then gathering himself up and bowing profoundly to the king, who regarded him in fierce silence, he said aloud: "Sire, I pray for pardon; I am not to blame; Cocceji forbade me, in a proud, commanding tone, to look upon the Signora Barbarina. As I did not choose to obey this arbitrary order, he seized me without warning, and dashed me at the feet of the signora." [Footnote: Machler's "History of Frederick the Great."] The public, recovering from their astonishment, began to whisper, laugh merrily, and gaze ironically at the young man, who stood humble and wan near Barbarina; while Cocceji, turning his bold, daring face to the audience, seemed to threaten every man who looked upon him questioningly. The orchestra was silent. Barbarina stood radiant in grace and beauty, and smiled bewitchingly upon Cocceji.

"Go on," said suddenly the clear, commanding voice of the king, as he nodded to the poor youth, who disappeared behind the curtain. "Go on," said the king again. The music commenced, and Barbarina, raising her garland of roses, swam like an elf over the boards. The audience thought not of her grace and beauty. They were wholly occupied with this curious adventure; they had forgotten her disgrace. They thought only of Cocceji's passionate love, and declared he was jealous as a Turk. So Barbarina had gained her purpose.



CHAPTER XVII.

SANS-SOUCI.

Early the next morning a plain, simple equipage stood at the gate of the new park in Potsdam. The king and the Marquis D'Argens entered the carriage alone. Frederick refused all other attendance; even his servants were forbidden to accompany him.

When the carriage stopped he opened the door himself, and springing lightly out, offered his arm to his older and less agile friend. The marquis blushed like a young girl, and wished to decline this offered service of the king.

Frederick, however, insisted upon giving his assistance, and said, smiling: "Forget, D'Argens, for this day, that I am a king; grant me the pleasure of passing the time with you without ceremony, as friend with friend. Come, marquis, enter my paradise, and I pray you to encourage a solemn and prayerful mood."

"Do you know, sire, I have a feeling of oppression and exaltation combined, such as the Grecians may have felt when they entered the Delphian valley?" said D'Argens, as arm in arm with the king they sauntered through the little shady side allee which the king had expressly chosen in order to surprise the marquis with the unexpected view of the beautiful height upon which the castle was erected.

"Well, I believe that many oracles will go out from this height to the world," said Frederick; "but they shall be less obscure, shall bear no double meaning; shall not be partly false, shall contain great shining truths. I also, dear D'Argens, feel inspired. I seem to see floating before me through the trees a majestic, gigantic form of air, with uplifted arm beckoning me to follow her. That is the spirit of the world's history, marquis; she carries her golden book on her arm; in her right hand, with which she beckons me, she holds the diamond point with which she will engrave my name and this consecrated spot upon her tables. Therefore, my holy father and priest. I have brought you here to baptize my Weinberg. Come, friend, that form of air beckons once more; she awaits the baptism with impatience."

And now they passed from the little allee and entered the great avenue; an expression of admiration burst from the lips of the marquis; with flashing eyes he gazed around upon the magnificent and enchanting scene. Here, just before them, was the grand basin of marble, surrounded with groups of marble statues; farther off the lofty terraces, adorned with enormous orange-trees, rustling their glossy leaves and pearly blossoms in the morning breeze, greeting their king with their intoxicating fragrance. Upon the top of these superb terraces, between groups of marble forms and laughing cascades, stood the little castle of Weinberg, beautiful in its simplicity; upon its central cupola stood a golden crown, which sparkled and glittered in the sunshine.

The king pointed to the crown. "Look," said he, "how it flashes in the sun, and throws its shadow upon all beneath it: so is it, or may it be, with my whole life! May my crown and my reign be glorious!"

The marquis pressed his hand tenderly. "They will be great and glorious through all time," said he. "Your grand-children and your great-grandchildren will speak of the lustre which played upon that crown, and when they speak of Prussia's greatness they will say: 'When Frederick the Second lived, the earth was glad with light and sunshine.'"

Arm in arm, and silently, they mounted the marble steps of the terrace. Deep, holy silence surrounded them, the cascades prattled softly. The tops of the tall trees which bordered the terrace bowed and whispered lowly with the winds; here and there was heard the melodious note of a bird. No noise of the mad world, no discord interrupted this holy peace of nature. They seemed to have left the world behind them, and with solemn awe to enter upon a new existence.

Now they had reached the height; they turned and looked back upon the beautiful panorama which lay at their feet. The luxurious freshness, the artistic forms, the blue and graceful river winding through the wooded heights and green valleys, formed an enchanting spectacle.

"Is not this heavenly?" said Frederick, and his face glowed with enjoyment. "Can we not rest here in peace, away from all the sorrows and sufferings of this world?"

"This is, indeed, a paradise," cried the marquis. He spread out his arms in ecstasy as if he would clasp the whole lovely picture to his breast; then, turning his eyes to heaven, he exclaimed, "O God! grant that my king may be happy in this consecrated spot!"

"HAPPY?" repeated Frederick, with a slight shrug. "Say CONTENT, marquis. I believe that is the highest point any man attains upon this earth. And now let us enter the house."

He took the arm of the marquis, and then stepped over the golden sand to the large glass door which led to the round saloon. As Frederick opened the door he fixed his great blue eyes steadily upon D'Argens.

"Pray! marquis, pray! we stand upon the threshold of a new existence, which now opens her mysterious portals to us."

"Sire, my every thought is a prayer for you at this moment."

They entered the oblong saloon.

"This is the room which separates me from my friends," said the king. "This side of the house I will dwell; that side is for the use of my friends, above all others, dear marquis, for you. In this saloon we will meet together, and here will be my symposium. Now I will show you my own room, then the others."

In the reception-room, which was adorned with taste and splendor, Frederick remained but a few moments; he scarcely allowed his artistic friend a fleeting glance at the superb pictures which hung upon the walls, and for the selection of which he had sent the merchant, Gotzkowsky, several times to Italy; he gave him no time to look upon the statues and vases of the Poniatowsken Gallery, for which four hundred thousand thalers had been paid, but hurried him along.

"You must first see my work-room," said Frederick; "afterward we will examine the rest."

He opened the door and conducted the marquis into the round library which had no other adorning than that of books; they stood arrayed in lofty cases around this temple of intellect, of art, and science, and even the door through which they had entered, and which the king had lightly pressed back, had now entirely disappeared behind the books, with which it was cunningly covered on the inside.

"You see," said Frederick, "he who enters into this magic circle is confined for life. He cannot get out, and I will have it so. With this day begins a new existence for me, D'Argens. When I crossed the threshold, the past fell from me like an over-ripe fruit."

Frederick's face was sad, his eye clouded; with a light sigh he laid his hand upon the shoulder of the marquis and looked at him long and silently.

"I wish to tell you a secret," said he at last. "I believe my heart died yesterday, and I confess to you the death-struggle was hard. Now it is past, but the place where my heart once beat is sore, and bleeds yet from a thousand wounds. They will heal at last, and then I shall be a hard and hardened man. We will speak no more of it."

"No, sire, we shall not say that you will ever be hardened," cried D'Argens, deeply moved. "You dare not slander your heart and say that it is dead. It beats, and will ever beat for your friends, for the whole world, for all that is great, and glorious, and exalted."

"Only no longer for love," said the king; "that is a withered rose which I have cast from me. The roses of love are not in harmony with thrones or crowns; they grow too high and climb over, or their soft rosy leaves are crushed. I owe it to my people to keep myself free from all chains and make my reign glorious. I will never give them occasion to say that I have been an idle and self-indulgent savant. I dedicate to Prussia my strength and my life. But here, friend, here in my cloister, which, like the Convent of the Carmelites, shall never be desecrated by a woman's foot; here we will, from time to time, forget all the pomps and glories of the world, and all its vanities. Here, upon my Weinberg, I will not be a king, but a friend and a philosopher."

"And a poet," said D'Argens, in loving tones. "I will now recall a couplet to the poet-king, which he once repeated to me, when I was melancholy-almost hopeless:

"'Nous avons deux moments a vivre; Qu'il en soit un pour le plaisir.'"

"Can you believe that we have not already exhausted this moment?" said Frederick, with a sad smile. Then, after a short pause, his face lightened and his eye glowed with its wonted fire; a gay resolve was written in his countenance. "Well, let us try, marquis, if you are right; let us seek to extend this moment as long as possible, and when death comes—"

"Finissons sans trouble, et mourons sans regrets, En laissant l'univers, comble de nos bienfaits. Ainsi l'astre du jour au bout de sa carriere, Repand sur l'horizon une douce lumiere, Et les derniers rayons qu'il darde dans lea airs, Sont ses derniers soupirs qu'il donne a l'univers."

The marquis listened with rapture to this improvised poem of the king. When it was concluded, the fiery Provencal called out, in an ecstasy of enthusiasm: "You are not a mere mortal, sire; you are a king—a hero—yes, a demi-god!"

"I will show you something to disprove your flattering words," said Frederick, smiling. "Look out, dear D'Argens; what do you see, there, directly opposite to the window?"

"Does your majesty mean that beautiful statue in marble?"

"Yes, marquis. What do you suppose that to be?"

"That, sire? It is a reclining statue of Flora."

"No, D'Argens; THAT is my grave!"

"Your grave, sire?" said the marquis, shuddering; "and you have had it placed exactly before the window of your favorite study?"

"Exactly there; that I may keep death always in REMEMBRANCE! Come, marquis, we will draw nearer."

They left the house, and advanced to the Rondel, where the superb statue of Flora was reclining.

"There, under this marble form, is the vault in which I shall lie down to sleep," said Frederick. "I began my building at Weinberg with this vault. But it is a profound secret; guard it well, also, dear friend! The living have a holy horror of death; it is not well to speak of graves or death lightly!"

D'Argen's eyes were filled with tears. "Oh, sire! may this marble lie immovable, and the grave beneath it be a mystery for many long years!"

The king shook his head lightly, and a heavenly peace was written on his features. "Why do you wish that?" said he. Then pointing to the grave, he said: "When I lie there—Je serais sans souci!" [Footnote: Nicolai, "Anecdotes of King Frederick."]

"Sans souci!" repeated D'Argens, in low tones, deeply moved, and staring at the vault.

The king took his hand smilingly. "Let us seek, even while we live, to be sans souci, and as evidence that I will strive for this, this house shall be called 'Sans-Souci!'"



BOOK IV.

CHAPTER I.

THE PROMISE.

It was a lovely summer day. The whole earth seemed to look up with a smile of faith, love, and happiness into the clear, blue heavens, whose mysterious depths give promise of a brighter and better future. Sunshine and clouds were mirrored in the rapid river and murmuring brook; the stately trees and odorous flowers bowed with the gentle west wind, and gave a love-greeting to the glorious vault above.

Upon the terrace of Sans-Souci stood the king, and looked admiringly upon the lovely panorama spread out at his feet. Nature and art combined to make this spot a paradise. The king was alone at the palace of Sans-Souci; for a few happy hours he had laid aside the burden and pomp of royalty. He was now the scholar, the philosopher, the sage, and the friend; in one word, he was what he loved to call himself, the genial abbot of Sans-Souci.

At the foot of the romantic hill upon which his palace was built Frederick laid aside the vain pomp and glory of the world, and with them all its petty cares and griefs. With every step upon the terrace his countenance lightened and his breath came more freely. He had left the valley of tears and ascended the holy mountain. Repose and purity were around him, and he felt nearer the God of creation.

Sans-Souci, now glittering in the sunshine, seemed to greet and cheer him. These two laconic but expressive words, sans souci, smoothed the lines which the crown and its duties had laid upon his brow, and made his heart, which was so cold and weary, beat with the hopes and strength of youth.

He was himself again, the warrior, the sage, the loving ruler, the just king, the philanthropist, the faithful, fond friend; the gay, witty, sarcastic companion, who felt himself most at home, most happy, in the society of scholars, artists, and writers.

Genius was for Frederick an all-sufficient diploma, and those who possessed it were joyfully received at his court. If, from time to time, he granted a coat-of-arms or a duke's diadem to those nobles, "by the Grace of God," it was not so much to do them honor as to exalt his courtiers by placing among them the great and intellectual spirits of his time. He had made Algarotti and Chazot dukes, and Bielfield a baron; he had sent to Voltaire the keys of the wardrobe, in order that the chosen friend of the philosopher of Sans-Souci might without a shock to etiquette be also the companion of the King of Prussia in his more princely castles, and belong to the circle of prince, and princess, and noble.

When Frederick entered Sans-Souci he laid aside all prejudices and all considerations of rank. He wished to forget that he was king, and desired his friends also to forget it, and to show him only that consideration which is due to the man of genius and of letters. Some of his friends had abused this privilege, and Frederick had been forced to humiliate them. There were others who never forgot at Sans-Souci the respect and reverence due to the royal house. Amongst these was his ever-devoted, ever-uniform friend, the Marquis d'Argens. He loved him, not because he was king, hut because he believed him to be the greatest, best, most exalted of men. In the midst of his brilliant court circle and all his earthly pomp, D'Argens did not forget that Frederick was a man of letters, and his dear friend; even so, while enjoying the hospitalities of Sans- Souci, he remembered always that the genial scholar and gentleman was a great and powerful king.

Frederick had the greatest confidence in D'Argens, and granted him more privileges than any other of his friends. Frederick invited many friends to visit him during the day, but the marquis was the only guest whose bedchamber was arranged for him at Sans-Souci.

Four years have elapsed since D'Argens consecrated Weinberg—since the day in which we closed our last chapter. We take advantage of the liberty allowed to authors, and pass over these four years and recommence our story in 1750, the year which historians are accustomed to consider the most glorious and happy in the life of Frederick the Second. We all know, alas! that earthly happiness resembles the purple rose, which, even while rejoicing the heart with her beauty and fragrance, wounds us with her thorns. We know that the sunshine makes the flowers bloom in the gardens, on the breezy mountains, and also on the graves; when we pluck and wear these roses, who can decide if we are influenced by joy in the present or sad remembrances of the past?