"The Berliners have sent our Queen a new carriage lined with her favourite violet," and Marianne smiled in gladness.
"Ach, ja," said her grandmother, who now spoke German. "We can do such things now, but formerly that monster Napoleon would not even permit us to celebrate her birthday."
And she told Marianne of the actor, Iffland, who had had courage on March tenth, her Majesty's birthday, to wear a bouquet of flowers in his theatre.
Marianne listened with great interest. She was altogether a changed girl, and tried always to think of other people.
"Thanks to our good Queen," her mother always was saying, "God be praised that Marianne tries now to imitate her, for she is the model for all German maidens."
At exactly the same hour that, fifteen years before, as a bride, Louisa of Mecklenburg had entered Berlin, the Queen appeared in her violet-lined carriage.
The Berliners cheered, but at the same moment their eyes filled.
It was their Queen and as beautiful as ever, some declared even lovelier, but she seemed like a rose whose stem is no longer erect. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes were washed with weeping, and about her mouth, trying so hard to smile as of old, they saw lines of sorrow.
"How we hate him! How we hate Napoleon!" and the people clenched their fists when they saw her.
With her were her niece, Frederika, the Princess Charlotte, now tall and beautiful, the old Countess, and jolly Carl.