In obedience to a look from Frederick, St. Arnaud went to the harpsichord and sang; and then it was Steiner’s turn, who roared out a German drinking song. Unlike the rest, Steiner was not at his ease before his King, although he tried hard to assume the air of unembarrassed gayety which prevailed among the rest. But it was not a great success. He knew the King too well to suppose that the graceful abandon of any evening spent in unexpectedly novel and agreeable company was a fair sample of his usual moods and methods. The rest, though, naturally pleased themselves with the notion that they would be extremely favoured by the King. Madame Ziska had already received a valuable mark of his good-will in the silver snuff-box, and expected to be sent rejoicing upon her journey. Gavin’s visions were so brilliant that he almost came to regard their capture as a lucky accident. He kept thinking to himself: “Yesterday I was a private soldier. To-night I sit with a king. Surely, that means a turn of good fortune.”
St. Arnaud, who knew more of kings than any of them, was not so sanguine, but even he would rather have been taken prisoner by Frederick than any other man in the Prussian army.
The evening passed delightfully. Frederick seemed to return to his early love for the French, and nothing could exceed the grace of his allusions to “my brother of France,” French literature, art, and all that pertained to them. The extent and variety of his information were extraordinary, and the charm of his voice and manner could not have been excelled. Gavin had the good sense to remain in the background; Madame Ziska’s manner, of respect, without obsequiousness, was as perfect as St. Arnaud’s, who had learned many things at courts. At last one o’clock came. The King, looking at his watch, rose, and Madame Ziska, immediately taking the hint, left the room. The King said: “It is time to go to work,” and Steiner picked up the writing-desk and prepared to move. “The worst of pleasant things is their ending. This room is yours gentlemen, for the night; and, as you see, you will have company outside the window and in the corridors. And I am prepared to accept your parole.”
An awkward silence ensued. Both Gavin and St. Arnaud remembered at the same moment that Gavin, not being an officer, was not entitled to his parole; while there were so few Prussian officers, if any, in the hands of the French, that St. Arnaud’s exchange would be a matter of time and difficulty. After a moment he said, with a profound bow:
“I am much indebted to your Majesty, but I prefer to take my chances as a prisoner of war.”
Gavin, who had determined to do as St. Arnaud did, bowed and said:
“Sire, so do I.”
Frederick scowled—kings are easily offended, even when they play at Haroun al-Raschid—and then said coldly:
“I shall then refer you to my chief of staff. I am under obligations to you for a pleasant evening. Good-night.” And he walked out, obsequiously preceded by Steiner.
St. Arnaud and Gavin were left alone. They had, however, seen a soldier standing in the corridor upon which the room opened, and outside they heard the steady tramp of the sentry’s feet upon the frozen snow, as he marched up and down. The candles were burnt to their sockets, and the darkness was only illumined by the red glow of the stove. In silence they wrapped themselves in their pelisses, and lay down, not to sleep, but to discuss in whispers their chances.