Barbarina’s tears had ceased to flow, but she smiled rarely.  She had the grace and imposing beauty of the Roman, and never forgot that she was a daughter of that proud nation who had ruled the world, and, even though disenthroned, preserved her majesty and renown.  Barbarina was a glowing, passionate woman, and passion adorns itself with flashing eyes, with a clear and touching pallor and crimson lips, but never with the innocent smile and harmless jest.  She was never heard and rarely seen to laugh.  Laughter was not in harmony with her proud beauty, but smiles illuminated and glorified it.  She was imperial to look upon; but, filled with all sweet charity and gentle grace, womanly and tender; with a full consciousness of her power, she was humble and yielding.  In the midst of her humility she was proud, and sure of success and victory; one moment she was the glowing, ardent, and yielding woman; the next the proud, genial, imposing artiste.  Such was Barbarina; an incomprehensible riddle, unsearchable, unfathomable as the sea—­ever changing, but great in every aspect.

Barbarina had appeared the evening before, but her dance had been interrupted by a sudden indisposition exactly at the moment when the king appeared in the opera-house.  No one knew that the king had returned from his mysterious journey to Silesia; every one believed him to be absent, and the ballet had been arranged without any reference to him.  Frederick arrived unexpectedly, and changing his travelling-dress hastened to the opera, no doubt to greet the two queens and his sisters.  Barbarina was seized with indisposition at the moment of the king’s entrance.  She floated smilingly and airily over the stage; her small feet seemed borne by the Loves and Graces.  Suddenly she faltered, the smile vanished from her lips, and the slight blush from her cheek, and with a cry of pain she sank insensible upon the floor.

The curtain fell, and an intermission of a quarter of an hour was announced.  The king, who was conversing with the queen-mother, appeared to take but little interest in this interruption, but Baron Swartz approached and announced that Signora Barbarina was ill and could not appear again during the evening.  Frederick gave such an angry exclamation, that the queen-mother looked up astonished and questioning.  Elizabeth Christine sighed and turned pale.  She comprehended the emotion of her husband; guided by the instinct of jealousy, she read the king’s alarm and disappointment, which he tried in vain to hide under the mask of scorn.

“It appears to me,” said the king, “that the signora is again indulging in one of her proud and sullen moods, and refuses to dance because I have returned.  I will not submit to this caprice; I will myself command her to dance.”

He bowed to the two queens, stepped behind the curtain, and advanced to the boudoir of the signora.  The door was fastened within.  The king stood hesitating for a moment; he heard the sound of weeping and sobbing—­the signora was in bitter pain or sorrow.