"You are discreet—you are right. She is an admirable person."
"Extremely so; and very kind, though vain of the care and attentions of the marquis, and rather inclined to look down on other artists."
"She would feel much humiliated if she knew whom you are. The name of Rudolstadt is one of the noblest of Saxony, while the D'Argens are but country gentlemen of Provence or Languedoc. What kind of person is Madame Coccei? Do you know her?"
"As Signora Barberini has not danced at the opera since her marriage, and passes the greater portion of her time in the country, I have rarely seen her. Of all the actresses, she is the one I like the most, and have been often invited by her and her husband to visit them on their estate. The king gave me to understand, however, that this would greatly displease him, and I was forced to give it up, though it deprived me of much pleasure. I do not know why he acted thus."
"I will tell you. The king made love to Signora Barberini, who preferred the son of the grand chancellor and his majesty fears you will follow a bad example. But have you no friends among the men?"
"I like Francis Benda, his majesty's first violin, very much. There is much to unite us. He led a gipsy life in his youth, as I did. He has, like myself, very little fondness for the greatness of this world, and has preferred liberty to wealth. He has often told me that he fled from the Court of Saxony, to enjoy the wandering, joyous, and miserable life of the artists of the high road. The world is not aware that there are on the road, and on the street, artists of great merit. An old blind Jew, amid mountains and valleys, had educated Benda. His name was Lœbel, and Benda always spoke of him with admiration, though the old man died on a truss of straw, or perhaps in a ditch. Before he devoted his attention to the violin, Francis Benda had a superb voice, and was a professional singer. Sorrow and trouble destroyed his voice. In pure air, and leading a wandering life, he acquired a new talent; his genius found a new outlet, and from this wandering conservatory emerged the magnificent artist, whose presence the King of Prussia does not disdain in his private concerts. George Benda, his youngest brother, is also full of talent, and is, by turns, either an epicurean or a misanthrope. His strange mind is not always amiable, but he is always interesting. I think he will not be able to get in line, like his other brothers, who now bear with resignation the golden chain of royal favoritism. He, whether because he is younger, or because his nature is indomitable, always talks of flying. He is so terribly afflicted here with ennui, that it is a pleasure to me to sympathize with him."
"Do you not fear that this communion of ennui will lead to a more tender sentiment? This would not be the first time that love sprang from ennui."
"I neither fear nor hope it," said Consuelo. "I feel that it will never be the case. I have told you, my dear Amelia, that something strange is going on within my mind. Since Albert's death, I think of, and can love, no one but him. I think that this is the first time that love sprang from death, and yet this has happened to me. I cannot console myself for not having made one worthy of happiness happy, and this tenacious regret has become a fixed idea—a kind of passion—a folly, perhaps."
"It looks like it," said the princess. "It is at least a disease, yet it is a sorrow which I experience and understand, for if I love an absent person, whom I never shall see, it is really as if I loved one who is dead. But, tell me, is not Prince Henry, my brother, an amiable gentleman?"
"Certainly he is."