“She is truly ill,” said he.

“She has cramp,” suggested Baron Swartz, who had followed the king.

Frederick turned hastily.  “Is that dangerous” he asked, in a tone which betrayed his alarm and agitation.

“Not dangerous, sire, but the physician who was with her has declared that absolute quiet was necessary.  Will your majesty command that another dancer shall take her place?”

“No,” said Frederick; “the pas which belongs to Barbarina shall be danced by no other.  Salimberri and Astrea shall sing an aria and the house be dismissed.  Go to their majesties and say to them I pray they will excuse me; I only came to greet them, and, being much fatigued by my journey, I will now retire.”

Bowing to the baron, the king left the opera-house and entered the palace.  But in the silence of the night, when all others slept, the soft tones of his flute melted on the air.

Barbarina was ill.  For this reason her house was besieged; for this reason every face was clouded.  Her adorers were there begging to see her, and thus find comfort and encouragement; each one wished to prove his sympathy by some marked attention.  They hoped that these glorious and costly fruits might win for them a smile of gratitude.

The reception-room of Barbarina was like a royal conservatory, only the life-giving and dazzling sun was hidden from view.  Barbarina was in her boudoir, and all these gallant cavaliers waited in vain for her appearance.  It was the hour of her levee, the hour when her door was open to all who had enjoyed the honor of being presented to her.  The courtiers stood in groups and conversed in light whispers over the on-dits of the day, and turning their eyes from time to time to the portiere of purple velvet which separated them from the boudoir of the signora; from that point must the sun rise to illuminate this dusky room.

But Barbarina came not.  She lay upon a white silk divan, dressed in the most ravishing negligee of white muslin, covered with rare and costly lace.  She was dreaming with open eyes, and arms crossed upon her breast.  Those flashing eyes were soft and misty; a melancholy expression trembled upon her lips.  Barbarina was alone.  Why should she not dream, and lay aside for a while her gracious smiles and fiery glance?  Of what were those unfathomable eyes dreaming? what signified those sighs which burst from her full crimson lips?  Did she know herself, or did she wish to know?  Did she comprehend the weakness of her own proud heart, or had she veiled it from herself, ashamed to read what was written there?

At this moment the door opened, and a young girl entered—­one of those insignificant, gentle, yielding creatures, generally found amongst the attendants of an artiste—­a tete de souffrance, on whom they exhaust their humor, their scorn, and their passion; the humble companion, kept in the background when blessed with the society of distinguished and wealthy adorers.  The companion of Barbarina did not suffer, however, from this hard fate.  She was Barbarina’s sister, and had followed her from tender love to the cold north.  The signora loved her sister fondly; she was the companion of her joys and sorrows; she had no secrets from her, and knew that an open ear and judicious counsel were always to be found with her little sister Marietta.