“Who will dance the solo this evening in Re Pastore?” he said, at last.

“Signora Barbarina, your majesty.”

“Ah! the Signora Barbarina,” said the king, carelessly, “I thought I heard that she was indisposed?”

Frederick’s eyes were fixed searchingly upon his friends.  He perhaps suspected the truth, and thought it natural that, in the disquiet of their hearts, they had sought an explanation of Barbarina.

“Sire,” said Rothenberg, “Signora Barbarina has entirely recovered.  Algarotti and myself made her a visit this morning, and she commissioned us, if your majesty should be gracious enough to ask for her, to say that she was well and happy.”

The king made no reply.  He walked thoughtfully backward and forward, then stood before D’Argens, and said, in a kindly tone:  “You are so great an enthusiast for the stage that it would he cruel to take you to Weinberg this evening.  We will go to the theatre and see Barbarina dance, and to-morrow you shall consecrate my house; and now, adieu, gentlemen I must work!  You will be my guests at dinner, and will accompany me to the theatre.”

The king entered his study.  “She defies me,” said he lightly to himself.  “She will prove to me that she is indifferent.  Well, so be it; I will also show that I have recovered!”

The theatre was at last opened.  A brilliant assembly filled the first range of boxes, and the parquet.  The second tier and the parterre were occupied by the burghers, merchants, and their wives and daughters, who were waiting with joyful impatience for the commencement of the performance.  The brilliant court circle, however, was absorbed by other interests.  A murmur had spread abroad that “the Barbarina had fallen into disgrace and lost forever the favor of the king.”  The wild despair of the beautiful dancer was spoken of, and there were some who declared that she had made an attempt to take her life.  Others asserted that she had sworn never again to appear on the Berlin stage, and that she would assuredly feign illness in order not to dance.  All were looking anxiously for the rising of the curtain, and toward the side door through which the king and his suite were accustomed to enter.

At last the door opened; the drums and trumpets sounded merrily; the king entered, and walked with calm composure to his chair.  The bell rang, the curtain rolled up, and the ballet began.

There was at first a dance of shepherds, and shepherdesses, then an interruption by fauns and satyrs, who intermingled in groups with the first dancers and ranged themselves on the side of the stage, waiting for the appearance of the shepherd queen.  There was a breathless pause—­every eye but the king’s was fixed upon the stage.