Von Armfeld giving the countersign, they entered the mansion, and ascended a handsome staircase. The house seemed to be buzzing like a beehive, all the rooms being lighted up, and officers at work in them. At the end of a long corridor was a small door, before which they stopped. Von Armfeld gave four peculiar raps on the door; a voice said, “Come”—and St. Arnaud and Gavin found themselves in the presence of the great Frederick. He was sitting by the fire and was wrapped in an old military cape. His face was cadaverous, his eyes sunken, and his whole appearance so changed by ill health, that St. Arnaud and Gavin would have had difficulty in recognizing him. But if they found recognition of the King difficult, the King found recognition of them impossible. He looked at them as if he had never seen them before, and motioning them to sit, consulted a little memorandum before him.
“Captain St. Arnaud of Major-General Loudon’s corps and companion, Sublieutenant Hamilton. I knew General Loudon. I might have had his services when he returned from Russia, but I frankly admit I saw not the man of genius under his unpromising exterior. At the blockade of Prague, his patent as Major-General, sent him by the Empress Queen, fell into the hands of some of my hussars. I had it returned to him, and was pleased to serve so gallant an officer.”
St. Arnaud bowed at these praises of his commander, and after a pause Frederick said negligently:
“Have you the Prince of Bevern’s letter?”
St. Arnaud rose, and taking the Prince of Bevern’s letter from his breast, handed it to Frederick, with another bow. It was a long letter, and both St. Arnaud and Gavin watched the King closely as he read. He had a speaking face, and as he read page after page of the letter his countenance grew more sinister. St. Arnaud gave Gavin a slight glance, which said plainly: “The Prince will get no help.”
After reading it over carefully, Frederick laid it down, and began to speak on the topic, apparently, the farthest off, in more ways than one, from Bevern’s letter that could be imagined.
“Did you ever study astronomy, Captain St. Arnaud?”
“Considerably, your Majesty. When I was at the College of St. Omer’s in France—for I had some education before I joined the army—I was much interested in it, and spent many nights at the telescope.”
“I confess, I knew very little about the science. There is a garden communicating with the one we have here, and in it is an observatory with a fine telescope. I have been troubled with sleeplessness this winter, and I have spent many hours, in consequence, studying the planets. I have found it singularly soothing. Nothing so reconciles one to the chances and changes of this life as looking through a telescope. There one sees the infinite smallness of triumphs; the utter nothingness of misfortunes.”
“True, your Majesty,” replied St. Arnaud, as composedly as if he had come all the way from Vienna to discuss astronomy. “Of course, the uppermost thought in every mind is whether those infinite worlds are inhabited or not.”