Frederick shook his head softly, and gazed with infinite sadness at his friend’s agitated countenance.
“Ah, D’Argens, believe me, the most beautiful, the happiest day is that on which we take leave of life.”
As Frederick turned his eyes away from his friend, they fell accidentally upon a porcelain vase which stood upon a table near his secretary; he sprang hastily from his chair.
“How came this vase here?” he said, in a trembling voice.
“Sire,” said the marquis, “the queen-mother, shortly before her death, ordered this vase to be placed in this room; she prized it highly—it was a present from her royal brother, George II. Her majesty wished that, on your return from the war, it might serve as a remembrance of your fond mother At her command, I placed that packet of letters at the foot of the vase, after the queen mother had sealed and addressed it with her dying hand.”
Frederick was silent, he bowed his head upon the vase, as if to cool his burning brow upon its cold, glassy surface. He, perhaps, wished also to conceal from his friend the tears which rolled slowly down his cheeks, and fell upon the packet of letters lying before him.
The king kissed the packet reverentially, and examined with a deep sigh the trembling characters traced by the hand of his beloved mother.
“For my son—the king.”
Frederick read the address softly. “Alas! my dear mother, how poor you have made me. I am now no longer a son—only a king!”
He bowed his head over the packet, and pressed his mother’s writing to his lips, then laid the letters at the foot of the vase and remained standing thoughtfully before it.