At this moment the door of the study was opened, and the adjutant motioned to Gotzkowsky to enter.  As the latter was traversing the hall, the generals cast an eager glance through the open door, anxious to see the countenance of the king, and find out from its expression whether this intolerable armistice was to be interrupted by the violent clash of arms.

In the mean time, Gotzkowsky entered the chamber of the king, and the door closed after him.  He was now alone in the presence of the monarch, who was still sitting at his writing-table, making rapid strokes with his drawing-pencil on the paper before him.

“He is writing,” said Gotzkowsky to himself, “and is perhaps in the act of drawing out the plan of the battle which the generals out there are awaiting with such joyous impatience.  Yes, he is writing, and perhaps each stroke of the pen may cost the lives of hundreds of human beings.”  And he did not venture by a single word or a loud breath to draw attention to his presence.  On his entrance, the king had cast on him one of his sharp, penetrating glances, before whose commanding power many a general and many a brave man had quailed, and had then bent his head again over the paper.

Absolute silence prevailed for a while.  Suddenly the king interrupted it, and motioned to Gotzkowsky with his hand to draw near.  “Just look and see whether that pleases you,” said he, in a friendly tone.  “You are known as a connoisseur in art, and you have proved to me that you understand painting.  Look at that, and tell me whether you like it.”

What was it that the king had drawn on the paper?  Was it really, as his brave generals wished, the plan of a battle soon to be fought, was it a philosophical treatise, or one of those witty and piquant epistles to which the king treated his friends?  None of all these.

“A nosegay!” cried Gotzkowsky, as with unconcealed astonishment he looked now on the paper, now on the king.  “Your majesty is drawing a bouquet of flowers, and out there the gentlemen have just told me in confidence that you were busied with a plan of battle, and that the Austrians were approaching.”

“Nonsense!” said the king, shrugging his shoulders, “that rough set out there are always anxious for war, and to be cutting and slashing at each other.  Don’t you listen to them, but rather tell me how you like this drawing.  Don’t you think these roses mixed with lilies look well?  But I see you wish to know what it is intended for.  Well, it is for a set of porcelain which I wish to have painted for the Marquis d’Argens.”  And, as he met Gotzkowsky’s looks, he continued with a friendly smile:  “Yes, you see, you are rich; you can make others presents.  But the king of Prussia is a poor man; he has only his coat, his sword, and his porcelain.  And this last even,” continued he, with a slight frown, “I am obliged to get from Meissen.”

“That your majesty need not do in future.  Please God, your majesty shall make your porcelain in your own dominions!”