“Say to him that I will dance with pleasure,” said Barbarina.

When once more alone, Marietta entreated her to be quiet, and not increase her agitation by appearing in public.

Barbarina interrupted her impatiently.  “Do you not see that already the rumor of my disgrace has reached the theatre?  Do you not see the malice of this question of Baron Swartz?  They think the Barbarina is so completely broken, crushed by the displeasure of the king, that she can no longer dance.  They have deceived themselves—­I will dance tonight.  Perhaps I shall go mad; but I will first refute the slander, and bring to naught the report of my disgrace with the king.”

And now the servant entered and announced Monsieur Cocceji.

“You cannot possibly receive him,” whispered Marietta.  “Say that you are studying your role, for the evening; say that you are occupied with your toilet.  Say what you will, only decline to receive him.”

Barbarina looked thoughtful for a moment.  “No,” said she, musingly, “I will not dismiss him.  Conduct Cocceji to my boudoir, and say he may expect me.”

The moment the servant left them, Barbarina seized her sister’s hand.  “I have prayed to God for means to revenge myself, and He has heard my prayer.  You know Cocceji loves me, and has long wooed me in vain.  Well, then, today he shall not plead in vain; to-day I will promise him my love, but I will make my own conditions.  Come, Marietta!”

Glowing and lovely from excitement, Barbarina entered the boudoir where the young Councillor Cocceji, son of the minister, awaited her.  With an enchanting smile, she advanced to meet him, and fixing her great burning eyes upon him, she said softly, “Are you not yet cured of your love for me?”

The young man stepped back a moment pale and wounded, but Barbarina stood before him in her wondrous beauty; a significant, enchanting smile was on her lip, and in her eyes lay something so sweetly encouraging, so bewildering, that he was reassured, he felt that it was not her intention to mock at his passion.

“This love is a fatal malady of which I shall never be healed,” he said warmly; “a malady which resists all remedies.”

“What if I return your love?” said she in soft, sweet tones.

Cocceji’s countenance beamed with ecstasy; he was completely overcome by this unlooked-for happiness.

“Barbarina, if I dream, if I am a somnambulist, do not awaken me!  If, in midsummer madness only, I have heard these blissful words, do not undeceive me!  Let me dream on, give my mad fancy full play; or slay me if you will, but do not say that I mistake your meaning!”

“I shall not say that,” she whispered, almost tenderly.  “For a long year you have sworn that you loved me.”

“And you have had the cruelty to jest always at my passion.”

“From this day I believe in your love, but you must give me a proof of it.  Will you do that?”