The Princess Amelia lay the whole of the following night, with wide- open eyes and loudly-heating heart, pale and breathless upon her couch. No soft slumber soothed her feverish-glowing brow; no sweet dream of hope dissipated the frightful pictures drawn by her tortured fantasy.
"What is it?" said she, again and again—"what is it that the king will ask of me? what new mysterious horror rises up threateningly before me, and casts a shadow upon my future?"
She brought every word, every act of the previous day in review before her mind. Suddenly she recalled the sad and sympathetic glance of her maid of honor; the light insinuations, the half- uttered words which seemed to convey a hidden meaning.
"Ernestine knows something that she will not tell me," cried Amelia. At this thought her brow was covered with cold perspiration, and her limbs shivered as if with ague. She reached out her hand to ring for Fraulein von Haak; then suddenly withdrew it, ashamed of her own impatience. "Why should I wish to know that which I cannot change? I know that a misfortune threatens me. I will meet it with a clear brow and a bold heart."
Amelia lay motionless till the morning. When she rose from her bed, her features wore an expression of inexorable resolve. Her eyes flashed as boldly, as daringly as her royal brother Frederick's when upon the battle-field. She dressed herself carefully and tastefully, advanced to meet her ladies with a gracious greeting, and chattered calmly and cheerfully with them on indifferent subjects. At last she was left alone with Fraulein von Haak. She stepped in front of her, and looked in her eyes long and searchingly.
"I read it in your face, Ernestine, but I entreat you do not make it known in words unless my knowledge of the facts would diminish my danger."
Ernestine shook her head sadly. "No," said she, "your royal highness has no power over the misfortune that threatens you. You are a princess, and must be obedient to the will of the king."
"Good!" said Amelia, "we will see if my brother has power to subdue my will. Now, Ernestine, leave me; I am expecting the king."
Scarcely had her maid withdrawn, when the door of the anteroom was opened, and the king was announced. The princess advanced to meet him smilingly, but, as the king embraced her and pressed a kiss upon her brow, she shuddered and looked up at him searchingly. She read nothing in his face but the most heart-felt kindliness and love.
"If he makes me miserable, it is at least not his intention to do so," thought she.—"Now, my brother, we are alone," said the princess, taking a place near the king upon the divan. "And now allow me to make known my request at once—remember you have promised to grant it."
The king looked with a piercing glance at the sweet face now trembling with excitement and impatience. "Amelia," said he, "have you no tender word of greeting, of warm home-love to say to me? Do you not know that five years have passed since we have seen each other alone, and enjoyed that loving and confidential intercourse which becomes brothers and sisters?"
"I know," said Amelia sadly, "these five years are written on my countenance, and if they have not left wrinkles on my brow, they have pierced my heart with many sorrows, and left their shadows there! Look at me, my brother—am I the same sister Amelia?"
"No," said the king, "no! You are pallid—your cheeks are hollow. But it is strange—I see this now for the first time. You have been an image of youth, beauty, and grace up to this hour. The fatigue of yesterday has exhausted you—that is all."
"No, my brother, you find me pallid and hollow-eyed today, because you see me without rouge. I have to-day for the first time laid aside the mask of rosy youth, and the smiling indifference of manner with which I conceal my face and my heart from the world. You shall see me to-day as I really am; you shall know what I have suffered. Perhaps then you will be more willing to fulfil my request? Listen, my brother, I—"
The king laid his hand softly upon her shoulder. "Stop, Amelia; since I look upon you, I fear you will ask me something not in my power to grant."
"You have given me your promise, sire."
"I will not withdraw it; but I ask you to hear my prayer before you speak. Perhaps it may exert an influence—may modify your request. I allow myself, therefore, in consideration of your own interest, solely to beg that I may speak first."
"You are king, sire, and have only to command," said Amelia, coldly.
The king fixed a clear and piercing glance for one moment upon his sister, then stood up, and, assuming an earnest and thoughtful mien, he said: "I stand now before you, princess, not as a king, but as the ambassador of a king. Princess Amelia, through me the King of Denmark asks your hand; he wishes to wed you, and I have given my consent. Your approval alone is wanting, and I think you will not refuse it."
The princess listened with silent and intrepid composure; not a muscle of her face trembled; her features did not lose for one moment their expression of quiet resolve.
"Have you finished, sire?" said she, indifferently.
"I have finished, and I await your reply."
"Before I answer, allow me to make known my own request. Perhaps what I may say may modify your wishes. You will, at least, know if it is proper for me to accept the hand of the King of Denmark. Does your majesty allow me to speak?"
"Speak," said the king, seating himself near her.
After a short pause, Amelia said, in an earnest, solemn voice: "Sire, I pray for pardon for the Baron Frederick von Trenck." Yielding to an involuntary agitation, she glided from the divan upon her knees, and raising her clasped hands entreatingly toward her brother, she repeated: "Sire, I pray for pardon for Baron Frederick von Trenck!"
The king sprang up, dashed back the hands of his sister violently, and rushed hastily backward and forward in the room.
Amelia, ashamed of her own humility, rose quickly from her knees, and, as if to convince herself of her own daring and resolution, she stepped immediately in front of the king, and said, in a loud, firm voice for the third time: "Sire, I pray for pardon for Baron Frederick von Trenck. He is wretched because he is banished from his home; he is in despair because he receives no justice from the courts of law, it being well known that he has no protector to demand his rights. He is poor and almost hopeless because the courts have refused him the inheritance of his cousin, the captain of the pandours whose enemies have accused him since his death, only while they lusted for his millions. His vast estate has been confiscated, under the pretence that it was unlawfully acquired. But these accusations have not been established; and yet, now that he is dead, they refuse to give up this fortune to the rightful heir, Frederick von Trenck. Sire, I pray that you will regard the interests of your subject. Be graciously pleased to grant him the favor of your intercession. Help him, by one powerful word, to obtain possession of his rights. Ah, sire, you see well how modest, how faint-hearted I have become. I ask no longer for happiness! I beg for gold, and I think, sire, we owe him this pitiful reparation for a life's happiness trodden under foot."
Frederick by a mighty effort succeeded in overcoming his rage. He was outwardly as calm as his sister; but both concealed under this cool, indifferent exterior a strong energy, an unfaltering purpose. They were quiet because they were inflexible.
"And this is the favor you demand of me?" said the king.
"The favor you have promised to grant," said Amelia.
"And if I do this, will you fulfil my wish? Will you become the wife of the King of Denmark? Ah, you are silent. Now, then, listen. Consent to become Queen of Denmark, and on the day in which you pass the boundary of Prussia and enter your own realm as queen, on that day I will recall Trenck to Berlin, and all shall be forgotten. Trenck shall again enter my guard, and my ambassador at Vienna shall appear for him in court. Decide, now, Amelia—will you be Queen of Denmark?"
"Ah, sire, you offer me a cruel alternative. You wish me to purchase a favor which you had already freely and unconditionally granted."
"You forget, my sister, that I entreat where I have the right to command. It will be easy to obey when through your obedience you can make another happy. Once more, then, will you accept my proposition?"
Amelia did not answer immediately. She fixed her eyes steadily upon the king's face; their glances met firmly, quietly. Each read in the eyes of the other inexorable resolve.
"Sire, I cannot accept your proposition; I cannot become the wife of the King of Denmark."
The king shrank back, and a dark cloud settled upon his brow. He pressed his hand nervously upon the arm-chair near which he stood, and forced himself to appear calm. "And why can you not become the wife of the King of Denmark?"
"Because I have sworn solemnly, calling upon God to witness, that I will never become the wife of any other man than him whom I love— because I consider myself bound to God and to my conscience to fulfil this oath. As I cannot be the wife of Trenck, I will remain unmarried."
And now the king was crimson with rage, and his eyes flashed fiercely. "The wife of Trenck!" cried he; "the wife of a traitor! Ah, you think still of him, and in spite of your vow—in spite of your solemn oath—you still entertain the hope of this unworthy alliance!"
"Sire, remember on what conditions my oath was given. You promised me Trenck should be free, and I swore to give him up—never even to write to him. Fate did not accept my oath. Trenck fled before you had time to fulfil your word, and I was thus released from my vow; and yet I have never written to him—have heard nothing from him. No one knows better than yourself that I have not heard from him."
"So five years have gone by without his writing to you, and yet you have the hardihood to-day to call his name!"
"I have the courage, sire, because I know well Trenck has never ceased to love me. That I have received no letters from him does not prove that he has not written; it only proves that I am surrounded by watchful spies, who do not allow his letters to reach me."
"Ah," said the king, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders, "you are of the opinion that I have suppressed these letters?"
"Yes, I am of that opinion."
"You deceive yourself, then, Amelia. I have not surrounded you with spies; I have intercepted no letters. You look at me incredulously. I declare to you that I speak the truth. Now you can comprehend, my sister, that your heart has deceived you—you have squandered your love upon a wretched object who has forgotten you."
"Sire!" cried Amelia, with flaming eyes, "no abuse of the man I love!"
"You love him still!" said the king, white with passion, and no longer able to control his rage—"you love him still! You have wept and bewailed him, while he has shamefully betrayed and mocked at you. Yes, look on me, if you will, with those scornful, rebellious glances—it is as I say! You must and shall know all! I have spared you until now; I trusted in your own noble heart! I thought that, driven by a storm of passion, it had, like a proud river, for one moment overstepped its bounds; then quietly, calmly resumed that course which nature and fate had marked out for it. I see now that I have been deceived in you, as you have been deceived in Trenck! I tell you he has betrayed you! He, formerly a Prussian officer, at the luxurious and debauched court of Petersburg, has not only betrayed you, but his king. At the table of his mistress, the wife of Bestuchef, he has shown your picture and boasted that you gave it to him. The Duke of Goltz, my ambassador at the Russian court, informed me of this; and look you, I did not slay him! I did not demand of the Empress Anne that the Prussian deserter should be delivered up. I remembered that you had once loved him, and that I had promised you to be lenient. But I have had him closely watched. I know all his deeds; I am acquainted with all his intrigues and artifices. I know he has had a love-affair with the young Countess Narischkin—that he continued his attentions long after her marriage with General Bondurow. Can you believe, my sister, that he remembered the modest, innocent oaths of love and constancy he had exchanged with you while enjoying himself in the presence of this handsome and voluptuous young woman? Do you believe that he recalled them when he arranged a plan of flight with his beloved, and sought a safe asylum beyond the borders of Russia? Do you believe that he thought of you when he received from this ill-regulated woman her diamonds and all the gold she possessed, in order to smooth the way to their escape?"
"Mercy, mercy!" stammered Amelia, pale and trembling, and sinking upon a seat. "Cease, my brother; do you not see that your words are killing me? Have pity upon me!"
"No! no mercy!" said the king; "you must and you shall know all, in order that you may be cured of this unholy malady, this shameful love. You shall know that Trenck not only sells the secrets of politics, but the secrets of love. Every thing is merchandise with him, even his own heart. He not only loved the beautiful Bondurow but he loved her diamonds. This young woman died of the small-pox, a few days before the plan of flight could be fully arranged. Trenck, however, became her heir; he refused to give back the brilliants and the eight thousand rubles which she had placed in his hands."
"Oh my God, my God! grant that I die!" cried the Princess Amelia.
"But the death of his beloved," said the king (without regarding the wild exclamations of the princess)—"this death was so greatly to his advantage, that he soon consoled himself with the love of the attractive Bestuchef—this proud and intriguing woman who now, through the weakness of her husband, rules over Russia, and threatens by her plots and intrigues to complicate the history and peace of Europe. She is neither young nor beautiful; she is forty years of age, and you cannot believe that Trenck at four-and-twenty burns with love for her. But she adores him; she loves him with that mad, bacchantic ardor which the Roman empress Julia felt for the gladiators, whose magnificent proportions she admired at the circus. She loved him and confessed it; and his heart, unsubdued by the ancient charms, yielded to the magic power of her jewels and her gold. He became the adorer of Bestuchef; he worked diligently in the cabinet of the chancellor, and appeared to be the best of Russian patriots, and seemed ready to kiss the knout with the same devotion with which he kissed the slipper of the chancellor's wife. At this time I resolved to try his patriotism, and commissioned my ambassador to see if his patriotic ardor could not be cooled by gold. Well, my sister, for two thousand ducats, Trenck copied the design of the fortress of Cronstadt, which the chancellor had just received from his engineer."
"That is impossible!" said Amelia, whose tears had now ceased to flow, and who listened to her brother with distended but quiet eyes.
"Impossible!" said Frederick. "Oh my sister, gold has a magic power to which nothing is impossible! I wished to unmask the traitor Trenck, and expose him in his true colors to the chancellor. I ordered Goltz to hand him the copy of the fortress, drawn by Trenck and signed with his name, and to tell him how he obtained it. The chancellor was beside himself with rage, and swore to take a right Russian revenge upon the traitor—he declared he should die under the knout."
Amelia uttered a wild cry, and clasped her hands over her convulsed face.
The king laughed, bitterly. "Compose yourself—we triumphed too early; we had forgotten the woman! In his rage the chancellor disclosed every thing to her, and uttered the most furious curses and resolves against Trenck. She found means to warn him, and, when the police came in the night to arrest him, he was not at home—he had taken refuge in the house of his friend the English ambassador, Lord Hyndforth." [Footnote: Trenck's Memoirs.]
"Ah! he was saved, then?" whispered Amelia.
The king looked at her in amazement. "Yes, he was saved. The next day, Madame Bestuchef found means to convince her credulous husband that Trenck was the victim of an intrigue, and entirely innocent of the charge brought against him. Trenck remained, therefore, the friend of the house, and Madame Bestuchef had the audacity to publicly insult my ambassador. Trenck now announced himself as a raging adversary of Prussia. He inflamed the heart of his powerful mistress with hate, and they swore the destruction of Prussia. Both were zealously engaged in changing the chancellor, my private and confidential friend, into an enemy; and Trenck, the Russian patriot, entered the service of the house of Austria, to intrigue against me and my realm. [Footnote: Trenck himself writes on this subject: "I would at that time have changed my fatherland into a howling wilderness, if the opportunity had offered. I do not deny that from this moment I did everything that was possible, in Russia, to promote the views of the imperial ambassador, Duke Vernis, who knew how to nourish the fire already kindled, and to make use of my services."] Bestuchef, however, withstood these intrigues, and in his distrust he watched over and threatened his faithless wife and faithless friend. Trenck would have been lost, without doubt, if a lucky accident had not again rescued him. His cousin the pandour died in Vienna, and, as Trenck believed that he had left him a fortune of some millions, he tore his tender ties asunder, and hastened to Vienna to receive this rich inheritance, which, to his astonishment, he found to consist not in millions, but in law processes. This, Amelia, is the history of Trenck during these five years in which you have received no news from him. Can you still say that he has never forgotten you? that you are bound to be faithful to him? You see I do not speak to you as a king, but as a friend, and that I look at all these unhappy circumstances from your standpoint. Treat me, then, as a friend, and answer me sincerely. Do you still feel bound by your oath? Do you not know that he is a faithless traitor, and that he has forgotten you?"
The princess had listened to the king with a bowed head and downcast eyes. Now she looked up; the fire of inspiration beamed in her eye, a melancholy smile played upon her lips.
"Sire," said she, "I took my vow without conditions, and I will keep it faithfully till my death. Suppose, even, that a part of what you have said is true, Trenck is young; you cannot expect that his ardent and passionate heart should be buried under the ashes of the vase of tears in which our love, in its beauty and bloom, crumbled to dust. But his heart, however unstable it may appear, turns ever back faithfully to that fountain, and he seeks to purify and sanctify the wild and stormy present by the remembrance of the beautiful and innocent past. You say that Trenck forgot me in his prosperity: well, then, sire, in his misfortune he has remembered me. In his misfortune he has forgotten the faithless, cold, and treacherous letter which I wrote to him, and which he received in the prison of Glatz. In his wretchedness, he has written to me, and called upon me for aid. It shall not, be said that I did not hear his voice—that I was not joyfully ready to serve him!"
"And he has dared to write to you!" said the king, with trembling lips and scornful eye. "Who was bold enough to hand you this letter?"
"Oh, sire, you will not surely demand that I shall betray my friends! Moreover, if I named the messenger who brought me this letter, it would answer no purpose; you would arrest and punish him, and to-morrow I should find another to serve me as well. Unhappy love finds pity, protection, and friends everywhere. Sire, I repeat my request—pardon for Baron Trenck!"
"And I," cried the king, in a loud, stern voice, "I ask if you accept my proposition—if you will become the wife of the King of Denmark—and, mark well, princess, this is the answer to your prayer."
"Sire, may God take pity on me! Punish me with your utmost scorn—I cannot break my oath! You can force me to leave my vows unfulfilled- -not to become the wife of the man I love—but you cannot force me to perjure myself. I should indeed be foresworn if I stepped before the altar with another man, and promised a love and faith which my heart knows not, and can never know."
The king uttered a shrill cry of rage; maledictions hung upon his lips, but he held them back, and forcing himself to appear composed, he folded his arms, and walked hastily backward and forward through the room.
The princess gazed at him in breathless silence, and with loudly- beating heart she prayed to God for mercy and help; she felt that this hour would decide the fate of her whole life. Suddenly the king stood before her. His countenance was now perfectly composed.
"Princess Amelia," said he, "I give you four weeks' respite. Consider well what I have said to you. Take counsel with your conscience, your understanding, and your honor. In four weeks I will come again to you, and ask if you are resolved to fulfil my request, and become the wife of the King of Denmark. Until that time, I will know how to restrain the Danish ambassador. If you dare still to oppose my will, I will yet fulfil my promise, and grant you the favor you ask of me. I will make proposals to Trenck to return to Prussia, and the inducements I offer shall be so splendid that he will not resist them. Let me once have him here, and it shall be my affair to hold fast to him."
He bowed to the princess and left the room. Amelia watched him silently, breathlessly, till he disappeared, then heaved a deep sigh and called loudly for her maid.
"Ernestine! Ernestine!" said she, with trembling lips, "find me a faithful messenger whom I can send immediately to Vienna. I must warn Trenck! Danger threatens him! No matter what my brother's ambassador may offer him, with what glittering promises he may allure him, Trenck dare not listen to them, dare not accept them! He must never return to Prussia—he is lost if he does so!"
Frederick returned slowly and silently to his apartment. As he thought over the agitating scene he had just passed through, he murmured lightly, "Oh, woman's heart! thou art like the restless, raging sea, and pearls and monsters lie in thy depths!"
The Marquis d'Argens was right. Barbarina and her sister had left England and returned to Berlin. They occupied the same expensive and beautiful hotel in Behren Street; but it was no longer surrounded by costly equipages, and besieged by gallant cavaliers. The elite of the court no longer came to wonder and to worship.
Barbarina's house was lonely and deserted, and she herself was changed. She was no longer the graceful, enchanting prima donna, the floating sylph; she was a calm, proud woman, almost imposing in her grave, pale beauty; her melancholy smile touched the heart, while it contrasted strangely with her flashing eye.
Barbarina was in the same saloon where we last saw her, surrounded with dukes and princes—worshippers at her shrine! To-day she was alone; no one was by her side but her faithful sister Marietta. She lay stretched upon the divan, with her arms folded across her bosom; her head was thrown back upon the white, gold-embroidered cushion, and her long, black curls fell in rich profusion around her; with wide-open eyes she stared upon the ceiling, completely lost in sad and painful thoughts. At a small table by her side sat her sister Marietta, busily occupied in opening and reading the letters with which the table was covered.
And now she uttered a cry of joy, and a happy smile played upon her face. "A letter from Milan, from the impressario, Bintelli," said she.
Barbarina remained immovable, and still stared at the ceiling.
"Binatelli offers you a magnificent engagement; he declares that all Italy languishes with impatience to see you. that every city implores your presence, and he is ambitious to be the first to allure you back to your fatherland."
"Did you write to him that I desired an engagement?" said Barbarina.
"No, sister," said Marietta, slightly blushing; "I wrote to him as to an old and valued friend; I described the restless, weary, nomadic life we were leading, and told him you had left the London stage forever."
"And does it follow that I will therefore appear in Milan? Write at once that I am grateful for his offer, but neither in Milan nor any other Italian city will I appear upon the stage."
"Ah, Barbarina, will we never again return to our beautiful Italy?" said Marietta, tearfully.
"Did I say that, sister? I said only, I would not appear in public."
"But, Barbarina, he entreats so earnestly, and he offers you an enormous salary!"
"I am rich enough, Marietta."
"No! no one is rich enough! Money is power, and the more millions one has to spend, the more is one beloved."
"What care I for the love of men? I despise them all—all!" criedBarbarina, passionately.
"What! all?" said Marietta, with a meaning smile; "all—evenCocceji?"
Babarina raised herself hastily, and leaning upon her elbow, she gazed with surprise upon her sister. "You think, then, that I love Cocceji?"
"Did you not tell me so yourself?"
"Ah! I said so myself, did I?" said Barbarina, contemptuously, and sinking back into her former quiet position.
"Yes, sister, do you not remember," said Marietta, eagerly; "can you not recall how sad you were when we left Berlin a year ago? You sobbed and wept, and looked ever backward from the carriage, then lightly whispered, 'My happiness, my life, my love remain in Berlin!' I asked you in what your happiness, your love, your life consisted. Your answer was, 'Do you not know, then, that I love Cocceji?' In truth, good sister I did not believe you! I thought you left Berlin because the mother of Cocceji implored you to do so. I know you to be magnanimous enough to sacrifice yourself to the prayers and happiness of another, and for this reason alone you went to London, where Lord Stuart McKenzie awaited us."
"Poor lord!" said Barbarina, thoughtfully. "I sinned greatly against him! He loved me fondly; he waited for me with constancy; he was so truly happy when I came at last, as he hoped, to fulfil my promise, and become his wife! God knows I meant to be true, and I swore to myself to make him a faithful wife; but my will was weaker than my heart. I could not marry him, and on my wedding-day I fled from London. Poor Lord Stuart!"
"And on that day, when, bathed in tears, you told me to prepare to leave London with you secretly; on that day you said to me, 'I cannot, no, I cannot wed a man I do not love. The air chokes me, Marietta; I must return to Berlin; he is there whom I love, whom I will love eternally!' I said again, 'Whom do you love, my sister?' and you replied, 'I love Cocceji!' And now you are amazed that I believe you! In it possible that I can doubt your word? Is it possible that Barbarina tells an untruth to her fond and faithful sister? that she shrouds her heart, and will not allow Marietta to read what is written there?"
"If I did that," said Barbarina, uneasily, "it was because I shrank from reading my own heart. Be pitiful, Marietta, do not lift the veil; allow my poor heart to heal its wounds in peace and quiet."
"It cannot heal, sister, if we remain here," said Marietta, trembling with suppressed tears. "Let us fly far, far away; accept the offer of Binatelli; it is the call of God. Come, come, Barbarina, we will return to our own Italy, to beautiful Rome. Remain no longer in this cold north, by these icy hearts!"
"I cannot, I cannot!" cried Barbarina, with anguish. "I have no fatherland—no home. I am no longer a Roman, no longer an Italian. I am a wretched, homeless wanderer. Why will not my heart bleed and die? Why am I condemned to live, and be conscious of this torture?"
"Stop, stop, my sister!" cried Marietta, wildly; "not another word! You are right; we will not lift this fearful veil. Cover up your heart in darkness—it will heal!"
"It will heal!" repeated Barbarina, pressing Marietta to her bosom and weeping bitterly.
The entrance of a servant aroused them both; Barbarina turned away to hide her weeping eyes. The servant announced a lady, who desired anxiously to speak with the signora.
"Say to her that Barbarina is unwell, and can receive no one."
In a few moments the servant returned with a card, which he handed to Marietta. "The lady declared she knew the signora would receive her when she saw the card."
"Madame Cocceji," said Marietta.
Barbarina rose up hastily.
"Will you receive her?" asked Marietta.
"I will receive her."
And now a great change passed over Barbarina: all melancholy; all languor had disappeared; her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed with an engaging smile, as she advanced to greet the proud lady who stood upon the threshold.
"Ah, generous lady, how good you are!" said Barbarina, in a slightly mocking tone. "I have but just returned to Berlin, and you gladden my heart again by your visit, and grant me the distinction and privilege of receiving in my house one of the most eminent and virtuous ladies of Berlin."
Madame Cocceji threw a contemptuous glance upon the beautiful young woman who dared to look in her face with such smiling composure.
"I have not come, madame, to visit you, but to speak to you!"
"I do not see the distinction; we visit those with whom we wish to speak."
"We visit those with whom we wish to speak, and who are trying to evade an interview! I have sent to you twice, signora, and commanded you to come to me, but you have not obeyed!"
"I am accustomed to receive those who wish to see me at my own house," said Barbarina, quietly. "Indeed, madame, I understand your language perhaps but poorly. Is it according to the forms of etiquette to say, 'I have commanded you to come to me?' In my own fair land we give a finer turn to our speech, and we beg for the honor of a visit." As Barbarina said this, she bowed with laughing grace to the proud woman, who gazed at her with suppressed rage.
"This is the second time I have been forced to seek an interview with you."
"The first time, madame, you came with a petition, and I was so happy as to be able to grant your request. May I be equally fortunate to-day! Without doubt you come again as a petitioner," said Barbarina, with the cunning manner of a cat, who purrs while she scratches.
The proud Cocceji was wounded; she frowned sternly, but suppressed her anger. Barbarina was right—she came with a request.
"I called upon you a year ago," said she, "and implored you to cure my son of that wild love which had fallen upon him like the fever of madness—which made him forget his duty, his rank, his parents. I besought you to leave Berlin, and withdraw from his sight that magical beauty which had seduced him."
"And I declared myself ready to grant your petition," interrupted Barbarina. "Yes, I conformed myself to your wishes, and left Berlin, not, however, I confess, to do you a service, but because I did not love your son; and there is nothing more dull and wearisome than to listen to protestations of love that you cannot return. But look you, gracious lady, that is a misfortune that pursues me at every step. I left Berlin to escape this evil, and fled to London, to find there the same old story of a love I could not return. I fled then from London, to escape the danger of becoming the wife of Lord Stuart McKenzie."
"Why did you return to Berlin?" said Madame Cocceji, in an imperious tone.
Barbarina looked up surprised. "Madame," said she, "for that step I am accountable to no one."
"Yes, you are accountable to me!" cried Madame Cocceji, enraged to the utmost by Barbarina's proud composure. "You are accountable to me—me, the mother of Cocceji! You have seduced him by your charms, and driven him to madness. He defies his parents and the anger of his king, and yields himself up to this shameful passion, which covers his family with disgrace."
Barbarina uttered a cry of rage, and advanced a few steps. "Madame," said she, laying her hand upon the arm of Madame Cocceji, "you have called this love shameful. You have said that an alliance with me would disgrace your family. Take back your words, I pray you!"
"I retract nothing. I said but the truth," cried Madame Cocceji, freeing herself from Barbarina.
"Take back your words, madame, for your own sake!" said Barbarina, threateningly.
"I cannot, and will not!" she replied, imperiously, "and if your pride and arrogance has not completely blinded you, in your heart you will confess that I am right. The dancer Barbarina can never be the daughter of the Coccejis. That would be a mockery of all honorable customs, would cast contempt upon the graves of our ancestors, and bring shame upon our nobility. And yet my unhappy son dares think of this dishonor. In his insane folly, he rushed madly from my presence, uttering words of rage and bitter reproach, because I tried to show him that this marriage was impossible."
"Ah, I love him for this!" cried Barbarina, with a genial smile.
Without regarding her, Madame Cocceji went on: "Even against his father, he has dared to oppose himself. He defies the anger of his king. Oh, signora, in the anguish of my soul I turn to you; have pity with me and with my most unhappy son! He is lost; he will go down to the grave dishonored, if you do not come to my help! If, indeed, you love him, your love will teach you to make the offering of self-sacrifice, and I will bless you, and forgive you all the anguish you have caused me. If you love him not, you will not be so cruel as to bury the happiness and honor of a whole family because of your lofty ambition and your relentless will. Hear my prayer— leave this city, and go so far away that my son can never follow, never reach you!"
"Then I must go into my grave," said Barbarina; "there is no other refuge to which, if he truly loves, he cannot follow me. I, dear madame, cannot, like yourself, move unknown and unregarded through the world. My fame is the herald which announces my presence in every land, and every city offers me, with bended knee, the keys of her gates and the keys of her heart. I cannot hide myself. Nothing is known of the proud and noble family of Cocceji outside of Prussia; but the wide, wide world knows of the Barbarina, and the laurel-wreaths with which I have been crowned in every land have never been desecrated by an unworthy act or an impure thought. There is nothing in my life of which I repent, nothing for which I blush or am ashamed! And yet you have dared to reproach me—you have had the audacity to seek to humiliate me in my own house."
"You forget with whom you have the honor to speak."
"You, madame, were the first to forget yourself; I follow your example. I suppose Madame Cocceji knows and does ever that which is great and right. I said you had vilified me in my own house, and yet you ask of me an act of magnanimity! Why should I relinquish your son's love?"
"Why? Because there remains even yet, perhaps, a spark of honorable feeling in your bosom. Because you know that my family will never receive you, but will curse and abhor you, if you dare to entice my son into a marriage. Because you know that the Prussian nobles, the king himself, are on my side. The king, signora, no longer favors you; the king has promised us his assistance. The king will use every means of grace and power to prevent a marriage, which he himself has written to me will cover my son with dishonor!" [Footnote: Schneider, "History of the Opera in Berlin."]
"That is false!" cried Barbarina.
"It is true! and it is true that the king, in order to protect the house of Cocceji from this shame, has given my husband authority to arrest my son and cast him into prison, provided my prayers and tears and menaces should be of no avail! If we fail, we will make use of this authority, and give him over to General Hake. [Footnote: Ibid.] Think well what you do—do not drive us to this extremity. I say there is a point at which even a mother's love will fail, and the head of our house will act with all the sternness which the law and the king permit. Go, then, Signora Barbarina—bow your proud head—leave Berlin. Return to your own land. I repeat to you, do not drive us to extremity!"
Barbarina listened to this with cool and mocking composure. Not a muscle of her face moved—she was indeed striking in her majesty and her beauty. Her imposing bearing, her pallid but clear complexion, her crimson, tightly-compressed lips, her great, fiery eyes, which spoke the scorn and contempt her proud lips disdained to utter, made a picture never to be forgotten.
"Madame," said she, slowly, emphasizing every word, "you have, indeed, driven ME to extremity. It was not my intention to marry your son. But your conduct has now made that a point of honor. Now, madame, I will graciously yield to the passionate entreaties of your son, and I will wed him."
"That is to say, you will force my husband to make use of the power the king has given him?"
Barbarina shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. "Arrest your son, and cast him into prison, you will thereby add a new celebrity to your name, and quench the last spark of piety and obedience in his heart. Love has wings, and will follow him everywhere, and will waft him to the altar, where he will wed Barbarina. Neither your curse, nor your arrest, nor the will of the king, will now protect him. Before six months are over, will Barbarina the dancer be the wife of Cocceji."
"Never, never shall that be!" cried Madame Cocceji, trembling with rage.
"That will be!" said Barbarina, smiling sadly, and bending low. "And now, madame, I think you have attained the object of your visit, and we have nothing more to say to each other. It only remains for me to commend myself to your grace and courtesy, and to thank you for the honor of your visit. Allow me to call my servant, to conduct you to your carriage."
She rang and commanded the servant to open the folding doors, and carry the large muff of the countess to the carriage. Madame Cocceji was pale with rage. She wished to remain incognito, and now her name had been called before the servant. All Berlin would know before night that she had visited Barbarina!
"Give me my muff," she said impatiently to the servant; "it is not necessary you should carry it. I came on foot."
"On foot?" said Barbarina, laughing merrily. "Truly, you wished to remain incognito, and you would not leave your equipage with its coat of arms, standing before my door! I thank you once more for the honor of your visit, and commend myself to you with the glad wish that we may meet again."
"Never more!" said Madame Cocceji, casting a withering look upon the gay dancer, and hastening from the room.
Voltaire was now a continuous guest of King Frederick. The latter had written a letter to Louis the Fifteenth, and begged him to relinquish his subject and historian, and this request was supposed to be acceded to. Besides this, the king, who was ever thoughtful of the happiness and comfort of his friends, had proposed to Madame Denis, Voltaire's beloved niece, to follow her uncle to Berlin, dwell in the royal castle at Potsdam, and accept from him an annuity of four thousand francs.
Voltaire himself besought her to come. He wrote to her that, as she had lived contentedly with her husband in Landau, she could surely be happy in Berlin and Potsdam. Berlin was certainly a much more beautiful city than Landau, and at Potsdam they could lead an agreeable and unceremonious life. "In Potsdam there are no tumultuous feasts. My soul rests, dreams, and works. I am content to find myself with a king who has neither a court nor a ministry. Truly, Potsdam is infested by many whiskered grenadiers, but, thank Heaven, I see little of them. I work peacefully in my room, while the drums beat without. I have withdrawn from the dinners of the king; there were too many princes and generals there. I could not accustom myself to be always vis-a-vis with a king and en ceremonie. But I sup with him—the suppers are shorter, gayer, and healthier. I would die with indigestion in three months if I dined every day in public with a king." [Footnote: OEuvres Completes, p. 360]
Madame Denis, however, seemed to doubt the happy life of Berlin and Potsdam. She wrote, declining the proposition, and expressing her fears that Voltaire would himself soon repent that he had left beautiful, glittering Paris, the capital of luxury and good taste, and taken refuge in a barbaric land, to be the slave of a king, while, in Paris, he had been the king of poetry.
Voltaire had the audacity to bring this letter to the king—perhaps to wound him, perhaps to draw from him further promises and assurances.
Frederick read the letter; his brow did not become clouded, and the friendly smile did not vanish from his lips. When he had read it to the end, he returned it, and his eyes met the distrustful, lowering glance of Voltaire with an expression of such goodness and candor that the latter cast his eyes ashamed to the ground.
"If I were Madame Denis," said Frederick, "I would think as she does; but, being myself, I view these things differently. I would be in despair if I had occasioned the unhappiness of a friend; and it will not be possible for me to allow trouble or sorrow to fall upon a man whom I esteem, whom I love, and who has sacrificed for me his fatherland and all that men hold most dear. If I could believe that your residence here could be to your disadvantage, I would be the first to counsel you to give it up. I know I would think more of your happiness than I would of the joy of having you with me. We are philosophers. What is more natural, more simple, than that two philosophers, who seem made for each other—who have the same studies, the same tastes, the same mode of thinking—should grant themselves the satisfaction of living together? I honor you as my teacher of eloquence and poetry; I love you as a virtuous and sympathetic friend. What sort of bondage, what misfortunes, what changes have you to fear in a realm where you are as highly honored as in your fatherland—where you have a powerful friend who advances to meet you with a thankful heart? I am not so prejudiced and foolish as to consider Berlin as handsome as Paris. If good taste has found a home in the world, I confess it is in Paris. But you, Voltaire, will you not inaugurate good taste wherever you are? We have organs sufficiently developed to applaud you; and, as to love, we will not allow any other land superiority in that respect. I yielded to the friendship which bound you to the Marquise du Chatelet, but I was, next to her, your oldest friend. How, when you have sought an asylum in my house, can it ever be THOUGHT it will become your prison? How, being your friend, can I ever become your tyrant? I do not understand this. I am convinced that, as long as I live, you will be happy here. You will be honored as the father of literature, and you will ever find in me that assistance and sympathy which a man of your worth has a right to demand of all who honor and appreciate him." [Footnote: The king's own words.—Oeuvres Posthumes.]
"Alas! your majesty says that you honor me, but you no longer say that you love me," cried Voltaire, who had listened to this eloquent and heart-felt speech of the king with eager impatience and lowering frowns. "Yes, yes, I feel it; I know it too well! Your majesty has already limited me to your consideration, your regard; but your love, your friendship, these are costly treasures from which I have been disinherited. But I know these hypocritical legacy-hunters, who have robbed me of that most beautiful portion of my inheritance. I know these poor, beggarly cousins, these D'Argens, these Algarottis, these La Mettries, this vainglorious peacock Maupertius. I—"
"Voltaire," said the king, interrupting him, "you forget that you speak of my friends, and I do not allow any one to speak evil of them. I will never be partial, never unjust! My heart is capable of valuing and treasuring all my friends, but my friends must aim to deserve it; and if I give them my heart, I expect one in return."
"Friendship is a bill of exchange, by which you give just so much as you are entitled to demand in return."
"Give me, then, your whole heart, Voltaire, and I will restore mine to you! But I fear you have no longer a heart; Nature gave you but a small dose of this fleeting essence called love. She had much to do with your brain, and worked at that so long that no time remained to make the heart perfect; just as she was about to pour a few drops of this wonderful love-essence into your heart, the cock crew three times for your birth, and betrayed you into the world. You have long since used up the poor pair of drops which fell into your heart. Your brain was armed for centuries, with power to work, to be useful, to rejoice the souls of others. but I fear your heart was exhausted in your youthful years."
"Ah, I wish your majesty were right!" cried Voltaire; "I should not then feel the anguish which now martyrs me, the torture of being misunderstood by the most amiable, the most intellectual, the most exalted of monarchs. Oh, sire, sire! I have a heart, and it bleeds because you doubt of its existence!"
"I would believe you if you were a little less pathetic," said the king. "You not only assert, but you declaim. There is too little of nature and truth in your tone; you remind me a little of the stilted French tragedies, in which design and premeditation obscure all true passion; in which love is only a phrase, that no one believes in, dressed up with the tawdry gilding of sentiment and pathos."
"Your majesty will crush me with your scorn and mockery!" cried Voltaire, whose eyes now flamed with anger. "You wish to make me feel how powerless, how pitiful I am. Where shall I find the strength to strive with you? I have won no battles. I have no hundred thousand men to oppose to you and no courts-martial to condemn those who sin against me!"
"It is true you have not a hundred thousand soldiers," said the king, "but you have four-and-twenty, and with these four-and-twenty soldiers you have conquered the whole realm of spirits; with this little army you have brought the whole of educated Europe to your feet. You are, therefore, a much more powerful king than I am. I have, it is true, a hundred thousand men, but I dare not say that they will not run when it comes to the first battle. You, Voltaire, have your four-and-twenty soldiers of the alphabet, and so well have you exercised them, that you must win every battle, even if all the kings of the earth were allied against you. Let us make peace, then, my 'invincible!' do not turn this terrible army of the four-and- twenty, with their deadly weapons, against me, but graciously allow me to seize upon the hem of your purple robe, to sun myself in your dazzling rays, to be your humble scholar, and from you and your army of heroes to learn the secret art of winning battles with invisible troops!"
"Your majesty makes me feel more and more how poor I am; even my four-and-twenty, of whom you speak, have gone over to you, and you understand, as well as I do, how to exercise them."
"No, no!" said Frederick, changing suddenly his jesting tone for one of grave earnestness. "No, I will learn of you. I am not satisfied to be a poor-souled dilettante in poetry, though assured I can. never be a Virgil or a Voltaire. I know that the study of poetry demands the life, the undivided heart and mind. I am but a poor galley-slave, chained to the ship of state; or, if you will, a pilot, who does not dare to leave the rudder, or even to sleep, lest the fate of the unhappy Palinurus might overtake him. The Muses demand solitude and rest for the soul, and that I can never consecrate to them. Often, when I have written three verses, I am interrupted, my muse is chilled, and my spirit cannot rise again into the heights of inspiration. I know there are privileged souls, who can make verses everywhere—in the tumult of court life, in the loneliness of Cirey, in the prisons of the Bastile, and in the stage-coach. My poor soul does not enjoy this freedom. It resembles an anana, which bears fruit only in the green-house, but fades and withers in the fresh air." [Footnote: The king's own words.—Oeuvres Posthumes.]
"Ah! this is the first time I have caught the Solomon of the North in an untruth," cried Voltaire, eagerly. "Your soul is not like the anana, but like the wondrous southern tree which generously bears at the same time fruits and flowers; which inspires and sweetly intoxicates us with its fragrance, and at the same time strengthens and refreshes us by its celestial fruits. You, sire, are not the pupil of Apollo, you are Apollo himself!"
The king smiled, and, raising his arms to heaven, he exclaimed, with the mock pathos of a French tragedian:
"O Dieu! qui douez les poetesDe tant de sublime faveure;Ah, rendez vos graces parfaites,Et qu'ils soient un peu moins menteurs."
"In trying to punish me for what you are pleased to call my falsehood, your majesty proves that I have spoken the truth," cried Voltaire, eagerly. "You wish to show me that the fruit of your muse ripens slowly, and you improvise a charming quatrain that Moliere himself would be proud to have composed."
"Rendez vos graces parfaites,Et qu'ils Boient un peu moins menteurs!"
repeated Frederick, nodding merrily to Voltaire. "Look you, friend, I am perhaps that mortal who incommodes the gods least with prayers and petitions. My first prayer to-day was for you; show, therefore, a little gratitude, and prove to me that the gods hear the earnest prayers of the faithful. Be less of a flatterer, and speak the simple truth. I desire now to look over with you my compositions of the last few days. I wish you, however, always to remember that when you write, you do so to add to the fame of your nation and to the honor of your fatherland. For myself, I scribble for my amusement; and I could easily be pardoned, if I were wise enough to burn my work as soon as it was finished. [Footnote: The king's own words.— Oeuvres Posthumes.] When a man approaches his fortieth year and makes bad verses as I do, one might say, with Moliere's 'Misanthrope'—
"'Si j'en faissis d'aussi mechants,Je me garderais bien de les montrer aux gens.'"
"Your majesty considers yourself already too old to make verses, and you are scarcely thirty-eight: am I not then a fool, worthy of condemnation, for daring to do homage to the Muses and striving to make verses—I, the gray-haired old man who already counts fifty- six?"
"You have the privilege of the gods! you will never grow old; and the Muses and Graces, though women, must ever remain faithful to you—you understand how to lay new chains upon them."
"No, no, sire! I am too old," sighed Voltaire; "an old poet, an old lover, an old singer, and an old horse are alike useless things— good for nothing. [Footnote: Voltaire's own words.—Oeuvres Posthumes, p. 364.] Well, your majesty can make me a little younger by reading me some of your verses."
Frederick stepped to his writing-desk, and, seating himself, nodded to Voltaire to be seated also.
"You must know," said the king, handing Voltaire a sheet of paper covered with verses—"you must know that I have come with six twin brothers, who desire in the name of Apollo to be baptized in the waters of Hippocrene, and the 'Henriade' is entreated to be godfather."
Voltaire took the paper and read the verses aloud. The king listened attentively, and nodded approvingly over Voltaire's glowing and passionate declamation.
"This is grand! this is sublime!" cried Voltaire. "Your majesty is a French writer, who lives by accident in Germany. You have our language wholly in your power."
Frederick raised his finger threateningly. "Friend, friend, shall I weary the gods again with my prayer?"
"Your majesty, then, wishes to hear the whole truth?"
"The whole truth!"
"Then you must allow me, sire, to read the verses once more. I read them the first time as an amateur, now I will read them as a critic."
As Voltaire now repeated the verses, he laid a sharp accent upon every word and every imperfect rhyme; scanned every line with stern precision. Sometimes when he came to a false Alexandrine, he gave himself the appearance of being absolutely unable to force his lips to utter such barbarisms; and then his eyes glowed with malicious fire, and a contemptuous smile played about his mouth.
The king's brow clouded. "I understand," said he, "the poem is utterly unworthy—good for nothing. Let us destroy it."
"Not so, sire—the poem is excellent, and it requires but a few day's study to make it perfect. On the Venus di Medici no finger must be too long, no nail badly formed; and what are such statues, with which we deck our gardens, to the monuments of the library? We must, therefore, make your work perfect. There is infinite grace and intellect in this little poem. Where have you found such treasures, sire? How can your sandy soil yield such blossoms? How can such charming grace and profound learning be combined? [Footnote: Voltaire's own words.—Oeuvres Posthumes, p. 329.] But even the Graces must stand upon a sure footing, and here, sire, are a few feet which are too long. Truly, that is sometimes unimportant, but the work of a distinguished genius should be PERFECT. You work too rashly, sire—it is sometimes more easy to win a battle than to make a good poem. Your majesty loves the truth so well, that by speaking the truth in all sincerity I shall best prove to you my most profound reverence. All that you do must be perfectly done; you are fully endowed with the ability necessary. No one must say 'Caesar est supra grammaticum.' Caesar wrote as he fought, and was in both victorious. Frederick the Great plays the flute like Blavet, why should he not also write like the greatest of poets? [Footnote: Ibid., p. 823.] But your majesty must not disdain to give to the beautiful sentiment, the great thought, a lovely and attractive form."
"Yes, you are right!" said Frederick; "I fail in that, but you must not think that it is from carelessness. Those of my verses which you have least criticised are exactly those which have cost me the least effort. When the sentiment and the rhyme come in competition, I make bad verses, and am not happy in my corrections. You cannot comprehend the difficulties I have to overcome in making a few tolerable verses. A happy combination by nature, an irrepressible and fruitful intellect, made you a great poet without any effort of your own. I feel and acknowledge the inferiority of my talent. I swim about in the ocean of poetry with my life-preserver under my arm. I do not write as well as I think. My ideas are stronger than my expressions; and in this embarrassment, I am often content if my verses are as little indifferent as possible, and do not expect them to be good." [Footnote: The king's own words, p. 346.]
"It is entirely in your majesty's power to make them perfect. With you, sire, it is as with the gods—'I will!' and it is done. If your majesty will condescend to adorn the Graces and sylphs, the sages and scholars, who stumble about in this sublime poem with somewhat rugged feet, with artistic limbs, they will flutter about like graceful genii, and step with majesty like the three kings of the East. Now let us try—we will write this poem again."
He made a long mark with a pen over the manuscript of the king, took a new sheet of paper, and commenced to write the first lines. He criticised every word with bitter humor, with flashing wit, with mocking irony. Inexorable in his censure, indifferent in his praise, his tongue seemed to be armed with arrows, every one of which was intended to strike and wound.
The face of Frederick remained calm and clear. He did not feel that he was a mighty king and ruler, injured by the fault-finding of a common man. He was the pupil, with his accomplished teacher; and as he really wished to learn, he was indifferent as to the mode by which his stern master would instruct him.
After this they read together a chapter from the king's "Higtoire de Mon Temps." A second edition was about to appear, and Voltaire had undertaken to correct it. He brought his copy with him, in order to give Frederick an account of his corrections.
"This book will be a masterwork, if your majesty will only take the pains to correct it properly? But has a king the time and patience?- -a king who governs his whole kingdom alone? Yes, it is this thought which confounds me! I cannot recover from my astonishment; it is this which makes me so stern in my judgment of your writings. I consider it a holy duty."
"And I am glad you are harsh and independent," said the king. "I learn more from ten stern and critical words, than from a lengthy speech full of praise and acknowledgment! But tell me, now, what means this red mark, with which you have covered one whole side of my manuscript?"
"Sire, this red mark asks for consideration for your grandfather,King Frederick the First; you have been harsh and cruel with him!"
"I dared not be otherwise, unless I would earn for myself the charge of partiality," said the king. "It shall not be said that I closed my eyes to his foolishness and absurdity because he was my grandfather. Frederick the First was a vain and pompous fool; this is the truth!"
"And yet I entreat your grace for him, sire. I love this king because of his royal pomp, and the beautiful monument which he left behind him."
"Well, that was vanity, that posterity might speak of him. From vanity he protected the arts; from vanity and foolish pride he placed the crown upon his head. His wife, the great Sophia Charlotte, was right when she said of him on her death-bed: 'The king will not have time to mourn for me; the interest he will take in solemnizing my funeral with pomp and regal splendor will dissipate his grief; and if nothing is wanting, nothing fails in the august and beautiful ceremony, he will be entirely comforted.' [Footnote: Thiebault.] He was only great in little things, and therefore when Sophia Charlotte received from her friend Leibnitz his memoir 'On the Power of Small Things,' she said, smiling: 'Leibnitz will teach me to know small things; has he forgotten that I am the wife of Frederick the First, or does he think that I do not know my husband?'" [Footnote: Ibid.]
"Well, I pray for grace for the husband on his wife's account. Sophia Charlotte was an exalted and genial woman; you should forgive her husband all other things, because he was wise enough to make her his wife and your grand-mother! And if your majesty reproaches him for the vanity of making himself king, that is a vanity from which his descendants have obtained some right solid advantages."
"The title appears to me not in the least disagreeable! The title is beautiful, when given by a free people, or earned by a prince. Frederick the First had done nothing to stamp him a king, and that condemns him."
"So let it be," said Voltaire, shrugging his shoulders, "he is your grandfather, not mine. Do with him as you think best, sire; I have nothing more to say, and will content myself with softening a few phrases." [Footnote: This conversation of the king and Voltaire is historic. Voltaire tells it in a letter to Madame Denis.]
When he saw that Frederick's brow clouded at these words, he said, with a sly laugh: "Look you, how the office of a teacher, which your majesty forced upon me, makes me insolent and haughty! I, who would do well to correct my own works, undertake to improve the writings of a king. I remind myself of the Abbot von Milliers, who has written a book called 'Reflections on the Faults of Others.' On one occasion he went to hear a sermon of a Capuchin. The monk addressed his audience, in a nasal voice, in the following manner: 'My dear brothers in the Lord, I had intended to-day to discourse upon hell, but at the door of the church I have read a bill posted up, "Reflections on the Faults of Others." "Ha! my friend," thought I, "why have you not rather made reflections over your own faults?" I will therefore speak to you of the pride and arrogance of men!'"
"Well, make such reflections always when occupied with the History of Louis the Fifteenth," said the king, laughing; "only, I beseech you, when you are with me, not to be converted by the pious Capuchin, but make your reflections on the faults of others only."