“Alas, princess, do not dare to rely upon so false a hope!  Never will the king consent that you shall be happy beneath your royal rank!”

“Tell me now, Ernestine,” said Amelia, with a smile, “is not the reigning Margravine of Baireuth as high in rank as I am?”

“Yes, your highness,” said Ernestine, with surprise, “for the reigning Margravine of Baireuth is your exalted sister.”

“I do not speak of her, but of the widow of the former margrave.  She has also reigned.  Well, she has just married the young Duke Hobitz.  The king told me this yesterday, with a merry laugh.  The little Duchess of Hobitz is his aunt, and I am his sister!”

“If the king had had power to control his aunt, as he has to control his sister, he would not have allowed this marriage.”

Amelia heard, but she did not believe.  With hasty steps and sparkling eyes she walked backward and forward in her room; then, after a long pause, she drew near her friend, and laying her hands upon her shoulders, she said:  “You are a good soul and a faithful friend; you have ever had a patient and willing ear for all my complaints.  Only think now how charming it will be when I come to tell you of my great happiness.  And now, Ernestine, come, you must go over my part with me once more, and then arrange my toilet.  I will be lovely this evening, in order to please the king.  I will play like an artiste in order to touch his cold heart.  If I act my part with such truth and burning eloquence that he is forced to weep over the sorrows of the wretched and loving woman whom I represent, will not his heart be softened, will he not take pity upon my blasted life?  The tragic part I play will lend me words of fire to depict my own agony.  Come, then, Ernestine, come!  I must act well my tragedy—­I must win the heart of my king!”

The princess kept her word; she played with power and genius.  Words of passion and of pain flowed like a stream of lava from her lips; her oaths of faith and eternal constancy, her wild entreaties, her resignation, her despair, were not the high-flown, pompous phrases of the tragedian, but truth in its omnipotence.  It was living passion, it was breathing agony; and, with fast-flowing tears, with the pallor of death, she told her tale of love; and in that vast saloon, glittering with jewels, filled with the high-born, the brave, the beautiful, nothing was heard but long-drawn sighs and choking sobs.

Queen Elizabeth Christine forgot all etiquette in the remembrance of her own sad fate so powerfully recalled.  She covered her face with her hands, and bitter tears fell over her slender fingers.  The queen-mother, surprised at her own emotion, whispered lightly that it was very warm, and while fanning herself she sought to dry her secret tears unnoticed.

Even the king was moved; his eyes were misty, and indescribable melancholy played upon his lips.  Voltaire was wild with rapture; he hung upon every movement, every glance of Amelia.  Words of glowing praise, thanks, admiration flowed from his lips.  He met the princess behind the scenes, and forgetting all else he cried out, with enthusiasm:  “You are worthy to be an actress, and to play in Voltaire’s tragedies!”