“Or he perform that holy office for Barbarina.  It is said that she is also married.”

“To whom?”

“To the state councillor, Cocceji.”

“Folly! how can that be?  She has been in England, and he has not left Berlin.  But her return will bring us vexation and strife, and I see already the whole dead race of the Coccejis raising up their skeleton arms from their graves to threaten the bold dancer, who dares to call herself their daughter.  I prophesy that young Cocceji will become even as cool and as reasonable as Lord Stuart McKenzie has become.  Give a man time to let the fire burn out—­all depends upon that.  This favor his family may well demand of me, and I must grant it.  But now let us enter the house, marquis, the sun has disappeared, and I am chilled.  I know not whether the news you bring, or the evening air, has affected me.  Let us walk backward and forward once or twice, and then we will go to the library, and you will assist me in the last verse of a poem I am composing to greet Voltaire.  Do not frown, marquis, let me sing his welcome; who knows but I may also rejoice in his departure?  My heart is glad at his coming, and yet I fear it.  We must not scrutinize the sun too closely, or we will find spots upon his glorious face.  Perhaps Voltaire and myself resemble each other too much to live in peace and harmony together.  I think wo are only drawn permanently to our opposites.  Believe me, D’Argens, I shall not be able to live twenty-four years happily with Voltaire, as I shall surely do with you.  Twenty-four years! do not forget that you are mine for twenty-four years.”

“Sire, as long as I live I am yours.  You have not bought me with gold, but by the power of a noble soul.  So long as I live, my heart belongs to you, even when, at seventy, I fly to seek my grave in belle Provence.  But, my king, I have yet another favor to ask of you.”

“Speak, marquis, but do not be so cruel as to ask that which I cannot grant.”

“If it shall please Providence to call me away before I have attained my seventieth year, if I die in Berlin, will your majesty grant me the grace not to be buried in one of those dark, damp, dreary churchyards, where skull lies close by skull, and at the resurrection every one will be in danger of seizing upon the bones which do not belong to him, and appearing as a thief at the last judgment?  I pray you, let me remain even in death an individual, and not be utterly lost in the great crowd.  If I die here, grant that I may be buried where, when living, I have been most happy.  Allow me, after a long and active day, to pass the night of immortality in the garden of Sans-Souci.”

“It shall be so,” said the king, much moved.  “There, under the statue of Flora, is my grave—­where shall be yours?  Choose for yourself.”

“If I dare choose, sire, let it be there under that beautiful vase of ebony.”

Frederick gave a smiling assent, and taking the arm of the marquis, he said, “Come, we will go to the vase, and I will lay my hand upon it and consecrate it to you.”