“Allow me to make one request,” said Ulrica.  “Let not the king guess that you have suffered from these April changes.”

“Certainly not; and if your royal highness will graciously allow me to bask in the sunshine of your presence, I shall soon recover from the chilling effect of these April showers.”

“Well, I think we have played our parts admirably,” said Ulrica to herself, as she found time, during the course of the evening, to meditate upon the events of the day.  “Amelia will accomplish her purpose, and will not be Queen of Sweden.  She would have it so, and I shall not reproach myself.”

Princess Ulrica leaned comfortably back in her arm-chair, and gave her attention to a play of Voltaire, which was now being performed.  This representation took place in the small theatre in the royal palace.  There was no public theatre in Berlin, and the king justly pronounced the large opera-house unsuited to declamation.  Frederick generally gave his undivided attention to the play, but this evening he was restless and impatient, and he accorded less applause to this piquant and witty drama of his favorite author than he was wont to do.  The king was impatient, because the king was waiting.  He had so far restrained all outward expression of his impatient curiosity; the French play had not commenced one moment earlier than usual.  Frederick had, according to custom, gone behind the scenes, to say a few friendly and encouraging words to the performers, to call their attention to his favorite passages, and exhort them to be truly eloquent in their recitations.  And now the king waited; he felt feverishly impatient to see and judge for himself this capricious beauty, this world-renowned artiste, this Signora Barbarina, whose rare loveliness and grace enchanted and bewildered all who looked upon her.

At length the curtain fell.  In a few moments he would see the Barbarina dance her celebrated solo.  A breathless stillness reigned throughout the assembly; every eye was fixed upon the curtain.  The bell sounded, the curtain flew up, and a lovely landscape met the eye:  in the background a village church, rose-bushes in rich bloom, and shady trees on every side; the declining sun gilded the summit of the mountain, against the base of which the little village nestled.  The distant sound of the evening bell was calling the simple cottagers to “Ave Maria.”  It was an enchanting picture of innocence and peace; in striking contrast to this courtly assemblage, glittering with gems and starry orders—­a startling opposite to that sweet, pure idyl.  And now this select circle seemed agitated as by an electric shock.  There, upon the stage, floated the Signora Barbarina.

The king raised himself involuntarily a little higher in his arm-chair, in order to examine the signora more closely; he leaned back, however, ashamed of his impatience, and a light cloud was on his brow; he felt himself oppressed and overcome by this magical beauty.  He who had looked death in the face without emotion, who had seen the deadly cannon-balls falling thickly around him without a trembling of the eyelids, now felt a presentiment of danger, and shrank from it.