rquis, at least not in this sacred room, where
Cicero, Caesar, Lucretius, and Thucydides look down upon us from the
walls; where the voiceless books with their gilded letters announce to
us that we are surrounded by great spirits. Speak not of fame to me,
D'Argens, when from yonder book-shelf I see the name of Athalie. I would
rather have written Athalie, than to have all the fame arising from this
seven years' war." [Footnote: Ibid.]

"Herein I recognize the peaceful, noble tastes of my king," said
D'Argens, deeply moved; "years of hardship and victory have not changed
him--the conquering hero is the loving friend and the wise philosopher.
I knew this must be so--I knew the heart of my king; I knew he would
regard the day on which he gave peace to his people as far more glorious
than any day of bloody battle and triumphant victory. The day of peace
to Prussia is the most glorious, the happiest day of her great king's
life."

Frederick shook his head softly, and gazed with infinite sadness at his
friend's agitated countenance.

"Ah, D'Argens, believe me, the most beautiful, the happiest day is that
on which we take leave of life."

As Frederick turned his eyes away from his friend, they fell
accidentally upon a porcelain vase which stood upon a table near his
secretary; he sprang hastily from his chair.

"How came this vase here?" he said, in a trembling voice.

"Sire," said the marquis, "the queen-mother, shortly before her death,
ordered this vase to be placed in this room; she prized it highly--it
was a present from her royal brother, George II. Her majesty wished
that, on your return from the war, it might serve as a remembrance of
your fond mother At her command, I placed that packet of letters at the
foot of the vase, after the queen mother had sealed and addressed it
with her dying hand."

Frederick was silent, he bowed his head upon the vase, as if to cool his
burning brow upon its cold, glassy surface. He, perhaps, wished also to
conceal from his friend the tears which rolled slowly down his cheeks,
and fell upon the packet of letters lying before him.

The king kissed the packet reverentially, and examined with a deep sigh
the trembling characters traced by the hand of his beloved mother.

"For my son--the king."

Frederick read the address softly. "Alas! my dear mother, how poor you
have made me. I am now no longer a son--only a king!"

He bowed his head over the packet, and pressed his mother's