e laden-blossomed elder-bushes tapping against the
windowpanes, as if to offer a May-greeting to the lonely king. The
servant in waiting stole on tiptoe to the door of the anteroom,
listening breathlessly at the key-hole to the moving melody.

Even Alkmene suddenly raised her head as if something unusual were
taking place, fixed her great eyes upon her master, jumping upon his
knee, and resting her fore-paws lovingly upon his breast.

Frederick neither observed nor felt the movement of his favorite; his
thoughts were absent from the present--absent from the earth! They were
wandering in the unknown future, with the spirits of those he longed to
see again in the Elysian fields.

The wailing music of his flute expressed the lamentation of his
soul, and his eyes filled with tears as he raised them to the bust
of Voltaire, gazing at it with a look of pain until the melody was
finished. Then abruptly turning, half unwillingly, half angrily, he
returned the flute to the box, and stole away, covering his face with
his hands, as if to hide his emotion from himself.

"Now we have finished with the dead, and the living claim our thoughts,"
sighed the king. "What an absurd thing is the human heart! It will never
grow cold or old; always pretending to a spark of the fire which that
shameful fellow Prometheus stole from the gods. What an absurdity! What
have I, an old fellow, to do with the fire of Prometheus, when the
fire of war will soon rage around me," At this instant the door gently
opened. "What do you want, Muller? What do you poke your stupid face in
here for?" said the king.

"Pardon me, your majesty," replied the footman, "the Baron von Arnim
begs for an audience."

"Bid him enter," commanded the king, sinking back in his old, faded
velvet arm-chair. Resting his chin upon his staff, he signed to the
baron, who stood bowing upon the threshold, to approach. "Well, Arnim,
what is the matter? What papers have you there?"

"Sire," answered Baron von Arnim, "the contract of the French actors,
which needs renewing, I have to lay before your majesty; also a paper,
received yesterday, from Madame Mara; still another from the singer
Conciliani, and a petition from four persons from the opera."

"What stupid stuff!" growled the king, at the same time bestowing a
caress upon Alkmene. "Commence with your report. Let us hear what those
singers are now asking for."

"The singer Conciliani has addressed a heart-breaking letter