“And a poet,” said D’Argens, in loving tones.  “I will now recall a couplet to the poet-king, which he once repeated to me, when I was melancholy-almost hopeless: 

     “’Nous avons deux moments a vivre;
      Qu’il en soit un pour le plaisir.’”

“Can you believe that we have not already exhausted this moment?” said Frederick, with a sad smile.  Then, after a short pause, his face lightened and his eye glowed with its wonted fire; a gay resolve was written in his countenance.  “Well, let us try, marquis, if you are right; let us seek to extend this moment as long as possible, and when death comes—­”

     “Finissons sans trouble, et mourons sans regrets,
     En laissant l’univers, comble de nos bienfaits. 
     Ainsi l’astre du jour au bout de sa carriere,
     Repand sur l’horizon une douce lumiere,
     Et les derniers rayons qu’il darde dans lea airs,
     Sont ses derniers soupirs qu’il donne a l’univers.”

The marquis listened with rapture to this improvised poem of the king.  When it was concluded, the fiery Provencal called out, in an ecstasy of enthusiasm:  “You are not a mere mortal, sire; you are a king—­a hero—­yes, a demi-god!”

“I will show you something to disprove your flattering words,” said Frederick, smiling.  “Look out, dear D’Argens; what do you see, there, directly opposite to the window?”

“Does your majesty mean that beautiful statue in marble?”

“Yes, marquis.  What do you suppose that to be?”

“That, sire?  It is a reclining statue of Flora.”

“No, D’Argens; that is my grave!”

“Your grave, sire?” said the marquis, shuddering; “and you have had it placed exactly before the window of your favorite study?”

“Exactly there; that I may keep death always in remembrance!  Come, marquis, we will draw nearer.”

They left the house, and advanced to the Rondel, where the superb statue of Flora was reclining.

“There, under this marble form, is the vault in which I shall lie down to sleep,” said Frederick.  “I began my building at Weinberg with this vault.  But it is a profound secret; guard it well, also, dear friend!  The living have a holy horror of death; it is not well to speak of graves or death lightly!”

D’Argen’s eyes were filled with tears.  “Oh, sire! may this marble lie immovable, and the grave beneath it be a mystery for many long years!”

The king shook his head lightly, and a heavenly peace was written on his features.  “Why do you wish that?” said he.  Then pointing to the grave, he said:  “When I lie there—­Je serais sans souci!” [Footnote:  Nicolai, “Anecdotes of King Frederick.”]

“Sans souci!” repeated D’Argens, in low tones, deeply moved, and staring at the vault.

The king took his hand smilingly.  “Let us seek, even while we live, to be sans souci, and as evidence that I will strive for this, this house shall be called ‘Sans-Souci!’”