d'Argens would have wept had he seen it, and the stinging jest of
Voltaire have been silenced.

But neither the marquis nor Voltaire, nor any of his friends were at
present in Potsdam. D'Argens was in France, with his young wife,
Barbe Cochois; Voltaire, after a succession of difficulties and
quarrels, had departed forever; General Rothenberg had also departed
to a land from which no one returns--he was dead! My lord marshal
had returned to Scotland, Algarotti to Italy, and Bastiani still
held his office in Breslau. Sans-Souci, that had been heretofore the
seat of joy and laughing wit--Sans-Souci was now still and lonely;
youth, beauty, and gladness had forsaken it forever; earnestness and
duty had taken their place, and reigned in majesty within those
walls that had so often echoed with the happy laugh and sparkling
jest of the king's friends and contemporaries.

Frederick thought of this, as with folded hands he walked up and
down, and recalled the past. Sunk in deep thought, he remained
standing before a picture that hung on the wall above his secretary,
which represented Barbarina in the fascinating costume of a
shepherdess, as he had seen her for the first time ten years ago; it
had been painted by Pesne for the king. What recollections, what
dreams arose before the king's soul as he gazed at that bewitching
and lovely face; at those soft, melting eyes, whose glance had once
made him so happy! But that was long ago; it had passed like a
sunbeam on a rainy day, it had been long buried in clouds. These
remembrances warmed the king's heart as he now stood so solitary and
loveless before this picture; and he confessed to that sweet image,
once so fondly loved, what he had never admitted to himself, that
his heart was very lonely.