Possibly Elizabeth Christine desired to lead the army of martyrs; possibly the same rage and scorn swelled in her heart which spoiled the peace of other women.  But her modest and trembling lips betrayed nothing of the secret storms of her bosom; her soft and gentle smile veiled her shrouded wishes and the hopes there buried in her heart.  One could scarcely believe that this timid, pious queen could worship an earthly object, or yield herself one moment to the bare passion of hate.  Truly Elizabeth Christine hated no one, not even Barbarina—­this woman who had given the last blow to her tortured heart, and added the passion of jealousy to her despised love.  Elizabeth Christine was indeed jealous, but not in the common way; she felt no scorn, she uttered no reproach; silent tears and earnest prayers for strength were her only speech.

The king had given her no occasion to complain of his love for Barbarina; she did not know that he had ever approached her, even spoken to her; she knew, however, with what looks and smiles of rapture he gazed upon her, and she would joyfully have given her life for one such glance or smile.  That, however, which was not known to Elizabeth, was fully understood by the whole court.  It was known that more than once the Barbarina had supped with the king at the house of General Rothenberg; it was known that the king, every time the Barbarina danced, was behind the curtain, and that, he had commanded the court painter, Pesne, to paint her portrait, life size, for him.

Was not this enough to exalt the signora in the eyes of every courtier and every diplomatist to the first rank of beauty and power?  Would they not, indeed, have hastened to acknowledge her claims, even had she not been the loveliest and most enchanting creature?  She was indeed a queen, a powerful enchantress.  Men struggled for one smile, one glance; they bowed down to all her caprices and humors; worship, submission, and obedience were the tribute brought by all.  Her house was besieged with visits and petitions as if it were the palace of a fairy queen.  Barbarina had her court circle, her levees, her retinue. [Footnote:  Schneider, “History of the Opera and Opera-Houses in Berlin.”] All her subjects rendered her a glad and voluntary service, and received no other compensation than a gay smile or friendly word.

All this splendor, consideration, and worship, of which she was the shining centre, seemed to make no impression upon the heart of the proud and self-reliant artiste; she was accustomed to it, and moved on in silent majesty; her whole life had been a triumphant march.  Like a summer morning glittering in the dew and sunshine, she had had her little griefs and tears, but they resembled the dew-drops in the flower-cups, shining for a moment like costly diamonds, then kissed away by the sun.  Barbarina wept when the king separated her from her lover, Lord Stuart, and forced her to fulfil her contract and come to Berlin.  She wept no more.  Was it because she was too proud? or had the sun of royal favor kissed away her tears?