That was, perhaps, not worthy of a cavalier, but it was not unjust.  You were forced to obey.  You came to Berlin unwillingly, that I confess; but you have this evening danced before the king of your own free will.  This, from your stand-point, was a great mistake.  You can no longer say, ’I will not dance before the king, because I wish to revenge myself.’  You have already danced, and no matter with what refinement of reason you may explain this false step, no one will believe you if the king raises his voice against you; and he will do this, believe me.  He will say:  ’I brought this Barbarina to Berlin.  I wished to see if the world had gone mad or become childish, or if Barbarina really deserved the enthusiasm and adoration which followed her steps.  Well, I have seen her dance, and I find the world is mad in folly.  I give them back their goddess—­ she does not suit me.  She is a wooden image in my eyes.  I wished to capture Terpsichore herself, and lo, I found I had stolen her chambermaid!  I have seen your goddess dance once, and I am weary of her pirouettes and minauderies.  Lo, there, thou hast that is thine.’”

“Sir, sir!” cried Barbarina menacingly, and springing up with flaming eyes and panting breath.

“That is what the king will say,” said Frederick quietly.  “You know that the voice of the king is full and strong; it will resound throughout Europe.  No one will believe that you refused to dance.  It will be said that you did not please the king; this will be proved by the fact that he did not applaud, did not utter a single bravo.  In a word, it will be said you have made a fiasco.”

Barbarina sprang from her seat and laid her hand upon the arm of the king with indescribable, inimitable grace and passion.

“Lead me upon the stage—­I will dance now.  Ah, this king shall not conquer me, shall not cast me down.  No, no!  I will compel him to applaud; he shall confess that I am indeed an artiste.  Tell the director to prepare—­I will come immediately upon the stage.”

Barbarina was right when she compared the artiste to a war-horse.  At this moment she did indeed resemble one:  she seemed to hear the sound of the trumpet calling to battle and to fame.  Her cheeks glowed, her nostrils dilated, a quick and violent breathing agitated her breast, and a nervous and convulsive trembling for action was seen in every movement.  The king observed and comprehended her.  He understood her tremor and her haste; he appreciated this soul-thirsting for fame, this fervor of ambition, excited by the possibility of failure; her boldness enraptured him.  The sincerity and power with which she expressed her emotions, commanded his respect; and while the king paid this tribute to her intellectual qualities, the man at the same time confessed to himself that her personal attractions merited the worship she received.  She was beautiful, endowed with the alluring, gentle, soft, luxurious, and at the same time modest beauty of the Venus Anadyomene, the goddess rising from the sea.