“Sire, you are the King of Prussia.”
CHAPTER III
At the announcement that the shabby man with the sparkling and speaking eyes and the soft and melodious voice was Frederick of Prussia, the greatest captain of the age, the two men concealed in the closet grew rigid with astonishment. They did not need his careless, but confirmatory nod to be convinced of his identity; but when he spoke it was to say:
“Yes, I am the King of Prussia. A great many people know me by sight—more do not. You are evidently one of the latter class.”
Madame Ziska remained standing respectfully, and answered Frederick’s last speech by saying:
“Your Majesty will not think me a flatterer when I say I knew from the moment you entered this room that you were no ordinary man.”
“And I knew,” said Frederick, with a faint smile, which transfigured his whole face, “that you were no ordinary woman when you faced half a dozen strange men as you did. I should like to have a regiment of men as cool as you are. How they would stand fire! Pray be seated. War is a tiresome business,” he continued, after Madame Ziska had resumed her chair. “But it is my trade, and a man must work at his trade. However, I like my tools—my soldiers.” Then, throwing himself back in his chair, he kept on, as if merely thinking aloud. “I am like the bourgeois—of whom I have no great opinion—I am absorbed in my trade. Time was when I had tastes; now ’tis nothing but whether I can beat Prince Charles as I did Marshal Soubise the other day. I like the work less as time goes on; but I like other things less still.”
“You still like music, your Majesty.”
“How do you know that?”
Madame Ziska rose, and stepping lightly up to him, with the utmost grace and quickness drew the pieces of a flute out of the pocket of his surtout, and deftly screwed them together, evidently knowing all about it. Then, putting the flute to her rosy lips, she played a little French air, to which Frederick listened enraptured.