“I tremble, then, before the judgment of your majesty,” said Pesne.

“I must confess you have some cause to fear,” said the king.  “I have not looked at the picture with the eye of a lover, but with that of a critic; such eyes look sharply, and would see spots in the sun; no criticism, however, can prevent the sun from shining and remaining always a sun, and my fault-finding cannot prevent your portrait from being a beautiful picture, surpassed only by the original.”

“Perhaps, sire, I am myself one of the spots in the sun, and it may be that I grow dark.”

“You see, signora, how little I understand the art of flattery; even my best intended compliments can be readily changed into their opposites.  Allow me, then, to speak the simple, unadorned truth.  You are more beautiful than your picture, and yet I wonder at the genius of Pesne, which has enabled him to represent so much of your rare loveliness, even as I wonder at the poet who has the power to describe the calm beauty of a sunny spring morning.”

“That would be less difficult than to paint the signora’s portrait,” said Pesne; “a spring morning is still, it does not escape from you, it does not change position and expression every moment.”

Frederick smiled.  “It would be truly difficult to hold the butterfly and force it to be still without brushing the down from its beautiful wings.  But, paint now, Pesne, I will seat myself behind your chair and look on.”

Pesne seized his palette and brush, and began to paint.  Barbarina assumed the light, gracious, and graceful attitude, which the artist has preserved for us in her beautiful portrait.  She was, indeed, indescribably lovely; her rounded arms, her taper fingers, which slightly raised the fleecy robe and exposed the fairy foot, the small aristocratic head, slightly inclined to one side, the flashing eyes, the sweet, attractive smile, were irresistible; every one admired, and every glance betrayed admiration.

The face of the king only betrayed nothing; he was cold, quiet, indifferent.  Barbarina felt the blood mount to her cheek, and then retreat to her heart; she felt that it was impossible for her to preserve her self-control; she could not bear this cruel comparison of the portrait and the original, but she swore to herself that the king should not have the triumph of seeing her once more sink insensible at his feet; his proud, cold heart should not witness the outbreak of her scorn and wounded vanity.  But her body was less strong than her spirit—­her foot gave way, she tottered, and turned deadly pale.

The king sprang forward, and asked in a sympathetic and trembling voice why she was so pale; he himself placed a chair for her, and besought her to rest.  She thanked him with a soft smile, and declared she had better return home.  Would the king allow her to withdraw?  A cloud passed over Frederick’s face; a dark, stern glance rested upon Barbarina.