Gretchen, undetermined whether she was waking or dreaming, followed the princess.  She was serenely unafraid, to her own great wonder.  Who could describe her sensations as she passed through marble halls, up marble staircases, over great rugs so soft that her step faltered?  Her wooden shoes made a clatter whenever they left the rugs, but she stepped as lightly as she could.  She heard music and voices presently, and the former she recognized.  As her highness entered the Bijou Theater, the Herr Direktor stopped the music.  In the little gallery, which served as the royal box, sat several ladies and gentlemen of the court, the grand duke being among them.  Her highness nodded at them brightly.

“Good morning, Herr Direktor.”

“Good morning, your Highness.”

“I have brought you a prima donna,” touching Gretchen with her whip.

The Herr Direktor showed his teeth; her highness was always playing some jest.

“What shall she sing in, your Highness?  We are rehearsing The Bohemian Girl.”

The chorus and singers on the little stage exchanged smiles.

“I want your first violin,” said her highness.

“Anton!”

A youth stood up in the orchestral pit.

“Now, your Highness?” said the Herr Direktor.

“Try her voice.”

And the Herr Direktor saw that she was not smiling.  He bade the violinist to draw his bow over a single note.

“Imitate it, Gretchen,” commanded her highness; “and don’t be afraid of the Herr Direktor or of the ladies and gentlemen in the gallery.”

Gretchen lifted her voice.  It was sweeter and mellower than the violin.

“Again!” the Herr Direktor cried, no longer curious.

Without apparent effort Gretchen passed from one note to another, now high, now low, or strong or soft; a trill, a run.  The violinist, of his own accord, began the jewel song from Faust.  Gretchen did not know the words, but she carried the melody without mishap.  And then, I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls.  This song she knew word for word, and ah, she sang it with strange and haunting tenderness!  One by one the musicians dropped their instruments to their knees.  The grand duke in the gallery leaned over the velvet-buffered railing.  All realized that a great voice was being tried before them.  The Herr Direktor struck his music-stand sharply.  It was enough.

“Your highness has played a fine jest this day.  Where does madame your guest sing, in Berlin or Vienna?”

“In neither,” answered her highness, mightily gratified with Gretchen’s success.  “She lives in Dreiberg, and till this morning I doubt if I ever saw her before.”

The Herr Direktor stared blankly from her highness to Gretchen, and back to her highness again.  Then he grasped it.  Here was one of those moments when the gods make gifts to mortals.

“Can you read music?” he asked.