“Well, sire, Voltaire is not the only star who has risen in Berlin.  There are other comets which from time to time lighten the heavens, and then disappear for a season to reappear and bring strife and war upon the earth.”

Frederick looked searchingly upon the marquis.  “You speak in riddles—­what comet has returned?”

“Sire, I know not what to call it.  She herself claims a name, her right to which is disputed by the whole world, though she swears by it.”

“She? it is, then, a woman of whom you speak?”

“Yes, sire; a woman whom for years we worshipped as a goddess, or at least as an enchanting fairy—­Barbarina has returned to Berlin.”

“Returned?” said the king, indifferently; but he walked away thoughtfully to the end of the terrace, and gazed upon the lovely landscape which, in its quiet beauty, brought peace to his heart, and gave him the power of self-control.

The marquis stood apart, and looked with kindly interest upon his noble face, now lighted by the glad golden rays of the sinking sun.  Among the trees arose one of those fierce, sighing winds, which often accompany the declining sun, and seem the last struggling groans of the dying day.  This melancholy sound broke the peaceful stillness around the castle, and drowned the babbling of the brooks and cascades.  As the wild wind rustled madly through the trees, it tore from their green boughs the first faded, yellow leaves which had lain concealed, like the first white hairs on the temples of a beautiful woman, and drove them here and there in wanton sport.  One o these withered leaves fell at the feet of the king.  He took it up and gazed at it.  Pensively he drew near the marquis.

“Look you, friend,” said he, holding up the fallen leaf toward the marquis; “look you, this is to me the Barbarina—­a faded remembrance of the happy past, and nothing more.  Homer was right when he likened the hearts of men to the yellow leaves tossed and driven by the winds.  Even such a leaf is Barbarina; I raise it and lay it in my herbarium with other mementoes, and rejoice that the dust and ashes of life have fallen upon it, and taken from it form and color.  And now that you know this, D’Argens, tell me frankly why the signora has returned.  Does she come alone, or with her husband, Lord Stuart McKenzie?”

“She has returned with her sister, and Lord Stuart is not her husband.  It is said that when Barbarina arrived in England, she found him just married to a rich Scotch lady.”

The king laughed heartily.  “And yet men expect us to listen gravely when they rave of the eternity of their love,” said he.  “This little sentimental lord called heaven and earth to witness the might of his love for Barbarina.  Was he not almost a madman when I seized his jewel, and tore her away from Venice?  Did he not declare that he would consider me answerable for his life and reason, if I did not release my prima donna?  He wished her to enter, with an artistic pirouette, his lofty castle, and place herself, as Lady Stuart McKenzie, amongst his ever-worthy, ever-virtuous, ever-renowned ancestors.  And now, Barbarina can stand as godmother by his first born.”