He rang the bell, and ordered the ministers to assemble for a cabinet council.

“I will work, and forget every thing else,” he said, with a sad smile, and he entered his cabinet with this proud resolve.

This time the king deceived himself.  The most earnest occupation did not drive the cloud from his brow:  in fact, it became more lowering.

“I cannot endure this,” he said, after walking backward and forward thoughtfully.  “I will put a stop to it.  As I am not a Ulysses, I do not see why I should bind my eyes, and stop my ears with wax, in order not to see this bewildering siren, and hear her intoxicating song.  In this sorrowful and pitiful world, is it not a happiness to meet with an enchantress, to bow down to the magic of her charms, and for a small half hour to dream of bliss?  All other men are mad:  why should I alone be reasonable?  Come, then, spirit of love and bliss, heavenly insanity, take possession of my struggling soul.  Let old age be wise and cool, I am young and warm.  For a little while I will play the fool, and forget my miserable dignity.”

Frederick called his servant, and sent for General Rothenberg, then took his flute and began to play softly.  When the general entered, the king nodded to him, but quietly finished his adagio; then laid the flute aside, and gave his hand to his friend.

“You must be Pylades, my friend, and banish the despondency which oppresses the heart and head of thy poor Orestes.”

“I will be all that your majesty allows or commands me to be,” said the general, laughing; “but I think the queen-mother would be little pleased to hear your majesty compare yourself to Orestes.”

“Ah, you allude to Clytemnestra’s faithless love-story, with which, truly, my exalted and virtuous mother cannot be associated.  Well, my comparison is a little lame, but my despondency is real—­deeply seated as my friendship for you.”

“How! your majesty is melancholy?  I understand this mood of my king,” said Rothenberg.  “It only takes possession of you the day before some great deed, and only then because the night before the day of triumph seems too long.  Your majesty confesses that you are sad.  I conclude, therefore, that we will soon have war, and soon rejoice in the victories of our king.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said the king, smiling.  “I do not love war, but it is sometimes a necessary evil; and if I cannot relieve my godmother, Maria Theresa, of this mortal malady of pride and superciliousness without a general blood-letting, I must even play the physician and open a vein.  The alliance with France is concluded; Charles the Seventh goes to Frankfort for coronation; the French ambassador accompanies him, and my army stands ready for battle, ready to protect the emperor against Austria.  We will soon have war, friend, and I hope we will soon have a victory to celebrate.  In a few weeks we will advance.  Oh, Rothenberg! when I speak of battle, I feel that I am young, that my heart is not of stone—­it bounds and beats as if it would break down its prison walls, and found a new home of glory and fame.”