“No,” said the king after a moment’s reflection.  “The name is a holy inheritance which is handed down from our fathers, and it should not be lightly cast away.  But be careful, be careful in every particular.  Understand my words, and think upon my warning, Baron von Trenck.”

CHAPTER XIII.

The levee of A dancer.

In Behren Street, which was at that time one of the most recherche and beautiful streets of Berlin, order and quiet generally reigned.  To-day, however, an extraordinary activity prevailed in this aristocratic locality; splendid equipages and gallant riders, followed by their attendants, dashed by; all seemed to have the same object; all drew up before the large and elegant mansion which had for some time been the centre of attraction to all the courtly cavaliers of the Prussian capital.  Some of the royal princes, the young Duke of Wurtemberg, counts, ambassadors, and generals, were to-day entreating an audience.

Who dwelt in this house?  What distinguished person was honored by all these marks of consideration?  Why was every face thoughtful and earnest?  Was this a funeral, and was this general gloom the expression of the heart’s despair at the thought of the loved and lost?  Perhaps the case was not quite so hopeless.  It might be that a prince or other eminent person was dangerously ill!  “It must be a man,” as no woman was seen in this grand cavalcade.  But how account for those rare and perfumed flowers?  Does a man visit his sick friend with bouquets of roses and violets and orange-blossoms? with rare and costly southern fruits in baskets of gold and silver?  This would indeed be a strange custom!

But no!  In this house dwelt neither prince nor statesman, only a woman.  How strange that only men were there to manifest their sympathy!  In this pitiful and dreary world a woman who has made a name for herself by her own beauty and talent is never acknowledged by other women.  Those who owe their rank to their fathers and husbands, are proud of this accidental favor of fate; they consider themselves as the chosen accomplices and judges of morals and virtue, and cast out from their circles all those who dare to elevate themselves above mediocrity.  In this house dwelt an artiste--the worshipped prima donna, the Signora Barbarina!

Barbarina! ah! that was an adored and a hated name.  The women spoke of her with frowning brows and contemptuous laughter, the men with flashing eyes and boundless enthusiasm; the one despised and abhorred her, even as the other exalted and adored her.  And truly both had cause:  the women hated her because she stole from them the eyes and hearts of their lovers and husbands; the men worshipped her as a blossom of beauty, a fairy wonder, a consecrated divinity.

These two parties were as zealous as the advocates of the white and red rose.  The women fought under the banner of the faded, withered white rose; the men gathered around the flag of her glowing sister, the enchanting Barbarina.  This was no equal contest, no doubtful result.  The red rose must conquer.  At the head of her army stood the greatest of warriors.  The king was at the same time Barbarina’s general and subject.  The white rose must yield, she had no leader.