The king smiled.  “Oh, no! not quite so bad as that, although the service I ask of you is more difficult to most men than dying—­I mean keeping silence.”  And as he laid his hand affectionately on Gotzkowsky’s shoulder, he continued:  “Betray to no one what I have said to you, and only at the very last moment, if it is absolutely necessary, take the Council into your confidence.”

“How, sire?” said Gotzkowsky, painfully.  “You wish to deprive your Berlin citizens of the gratification of expressing to you their gratitude, their infinite affection.  Berlin may not even know how kind, how gracious your majesty has been to her!”

“I don’t like the jingling of words, nor the throwing of wreaths.  The very people who throw laurel-wreaths would be only too glad if the laurels were hard enough to break our heads.  You pay the contribution, that is to say, you advance it, and I’ll return it to you.[4] That’s all, and now don’t say another word about it.”  At the same time, as if fearful that Gotzkowsky might yet venture to act contrary to his wishes, he continued more rapidly:  “Now tell me a little about Berlin, and above all things about our gallery at Sans-Souci.  How does it fare?”

“It is finished, sire, and the people flock to see it.”

“I only, like a fugitive or a Don Quixote, am driven about,” said the king to himself, “and cannot even enter my own house, and they call that royal happiness!” Turning to Gotzkowsky, he remarked aloud:  “Have you seen the gallery since the enemy took up his quarters in it?”

“Yes, sire!  Prince Esterhazy was this noble enemy.  He protected Sans-Souci like something sacred.  When he left he only took one single small picture with him, as a souvenir.”

The king gave a friendly nod.  “I know it,” said he, “and that is the only pleasure I have had for a long time.  Once more I will see my Titians and Correggios, my Rubenses and Vandycks, which you bought for me.  Now tell me about Charlottenburg.  But mind, give me the truth.  I have noticed that no one will speak out about it, nobody will tell the truth.  They are afraid of my anger.  But you are a brave man, you are not even afraid of the Cossacks.  You will have the courage to let your king know the facts.  How is it with Charlottenburg?  The Saxons have quartered there—­what did they do?”

And now Gotzkowsky, often interrupted by the violent and angry exclamations of the king, told of the barbarous and cruel vandalism committed by the Saxons at Charlottenburg, their unbridled destructiveness and unsparing barbarity.

“And the Polignac collection?” asked the king, breathlessly.

“Almost entirely destroyed.”

The king started up from his easy-chair, his eyes flashing with rage.  He was no longer the philosopher of Sans-Souci, no longer the poet; he was now the warrior panting for battle and bloody vengeance.  “Tell me, tell me!  I wish to know all,” said the king, laboring out each word, and taking long strides up and down.