The king knew the first tone of that dear voice, and, springing from the carriage, hurried forward and threw himself into his mother’s extended arms, and laid his head upon her breast, as he had done when a child, and wept hot tears, which no one saw, which his mother alone felt upon her bosom.

Near them stood Elizabeth Christine, the consort of the king, and in the depths of her heart she repeated the cry of the people, and she gazed prayerfully toward heaven, as she petitioned for the long and happy life of her adored husband.  But Frederick did not see her; he gave his arm to his mother, and they entered the palace, followed by his wife and his sisters and brothers.

“Frederick the Great!” This cry still resounds through the streets, and the windows of the palace tremble with the ringing of this proud name.  The sound enters the saloons before him; it opens wide the doors of the White Saloon, and when the king enters, the pictures and statues of the Hohenzollerns appear to become animate, the dead eyes flash, the stiffened lips smile, and the motionless heads seem to bow, for Frederick’s new name has called his ancestors from their graves—­this name, which only one other Hohenzollern had borne before him—­this name, which is as rare a blossom on the genealogical trees of the proudest royal families as the blossoms of the aloe.  The king greets his ancestors with a happy smile, for he feels that he is no unworthy successor.  He has forgotten his grief and his pain; he has overcome them.  In this hour he is only the king and hero.

But as the shadows of night approach, and Berlin is brilliant with illuminations, Frederick lays aside his majesty, and becomes once more the loving man, the friend.  He is sitting by the death-bed of his friend and preceptor, Duhan.  The joyous shouts of the people are still heard without, but the king heeds them not; he hears only the heavy breathing of his friend, and speaks to him gentle words of love and consolation.

At length ho leaves his friend, and now a new light springs into his eyes.  He is no longer a king, no longer a mourning friend, he is only a young man.  He is going to spend an hour with his friend General Rothenberg, and forget his royalty for a while.

Rothenberg seems to have forgotten it also, for he does not come to welcome his kingly guest.  He does not receive him on the threshold.  No one receives him, but the hall and stairway are brilliantly lighted; and, as he ascends, a door opens, and a woman appears, beautiful as an angel, with eyes beaming like stars, with lips glowing as crimson roses.  Is it an angel or a woman?  Her voice is as the music of the spheres to the king, when she whispers her welcome to him, and he, at last, thinks he beholds an angel when he sees Barbarina.

CHAPTER X.

Job’s post.