At eight of the clock on the evening of 15th May 1706, the main street of Stuttgart was crowded with a stream of coaches and foot-passengers. The cries of the running footmen: 'Make way there for his Highness the Duke of Zollern!' 'Room for the high and nobly born Freifrau von Geyling!' 'Let pass the coach of the gracious Countess Gemmingen!' 'Ho, there! for the Witgenstein's coach!' mixed with the comments of the rabble of sightseers, and the retorts of the substantial burghers who were piloting their wives and daughters through the mob. All these wayfarers were bound for the great dancing-hall in the Lusthaus, whither they were bidden by Serenissimus, the magnificent Duke Eberhard Ludwig of Wirtemberg, who had commanded a brilliant ball as commencement of a series of festivities. There was to be a grand hunt in the Red Wood, and finally court theatricals in his Highness's own playhouse. The beautiful castle gardens were illuminated with a myriad coloured lamps in the trees; the rose-garden had become an enchanted bower, with little lanterns twinkling in each rose-bush, and the fountain in the centre was so lit up with varied lights that the spray assumed a thousand hues. Hidden bands of musicians played in the garden, and, in fact, it was said that Stuttgart would never have witnessed such a brilliant festival. The Duke had travelled in many lands—to France, where the court had been so gay and fine before its King Louis xiv. became a death-fearing, trembling bigot, dragging out the last years of a dissipated life in terrified prayers. Poor Roi Soleil, become the creature of his mistress, Madame la Marquise de Maintenon! Still, though Eberhard Ludwig had not been in time to witness this first splendour, he had been able to learn in France of how fine feasts should be ordered. He had been in England too, though he could not have seen much there in the dull days of William of Nassau, or of good, ponderous Queen Anne; yet all travel teaches, and evidently the Duke had learnt its pleasant lesson well.

Wilhelmine sat in Monsieur de Stafforth's fine coach with Madame de Stafforth—a gentle, silent lady, whom Stafforth had chosen for her noble birth and yielding ways. She was perfectly unimportant; Stafforth never considered her, and the only person who was known to notice her was her Highness Johanna Elizabetha, who was, indeed, something akin to her in nature. Madame de Stafforth sat meekly on the back seat of her husband's splendid coach, leaving the place of honour on the front seat to her husband and his guest, rewarded sufficiently for her diffidence by a smile which her handsome lord threw her, as he lay back on the yellow satin cushions of his over-decorated coach.

It was but a step to the castle gate, and as Oberhofmarshall Stafforth might have walked through the Duke's private garden and gained a side entrance to the castle, and thence traversed the short distance to the Lusthaus, but he chose rather to drive through the crowd in order to arrive with ostentatious flourish.

The coach drew up at the entrance, and many curious eyes were fixed upon the Oberhofmarshall as he led his guest through the throng to the door of the disrobing room. Madame de Stafforth followed, and, being unable to push her way so quickly past the people, it was a moment or two before she rejoined Wilhelmine, who was removing her wrap in a leisurely way while the other ladies there eyed her rudely. It was very like the advent of a strange bird into a cage of canaries; the indigenous birds were all prepared to peck at the intruder. How willingly would they have torn out the strange bird's feathers! Wilhelmine appeared unconscious of this unfriendly scrutiny, though, in reality, she was disagreeably aware of it. Madame de Stafforth had torn the hem of her skirt walking through the crowded antehall, and she begged the attendant to sew it for her. Wilhelmine was obliged to wait, and nearly all the company had streamed into the dancing-hall before the two ladies were ready. Fate played Wilhelmine a nasty trick in this—a throw-back in fact; for when they reached the hall the effect of their entrance was hidden by the crowd, and his Highness Eberhard Ludwig had already left the daÏs before which the courtiers passed and bowed. Only her Highness Johanna Elizabetha remained to receive the salutes of the late arrivals.

Stafforth had hurried away; the Duchess was so unimportant, poor soul! and he could make his bow to her later in the evening. Besides, he had his duties to attend to: he must glance at the long supper-tables in the apartment adjoining the dancing-hall, he must see that all the arrangements were perfect. So Madame de Stafforth presented FrÄulein Wilhelmine von GrÄvenitz to her Highness Johanna Elizabetha, Duchess of Wirtemberg. The dull, amiable woman gave Wilhelmine her hand to kiss and turned away, indifferent, unconcerned. So little do we know when we first approach the enemies of our lives! With those we are to love it is often the same. We touch the hand which is fated to give life's gift of joy to us, and we pass on unconscious that Destiny has spoken. Sometimes we would barter a year of our life to recall that first touch.

Wilhelmine stood at the foot of the daÏs before the Duchess, who was exchanging moth-dull confidences with Madame de Stafforth. The crowd moved before the girl's eyes, and she felt bewildered, dizzy, in a dream, for she was unaccustomed to crowds. At length she saw Stafforth coming towards her. He looked very fine in his court dress: the long, blue silk overcoat richly embroidered in gold, the embroidered waistcoat of white satin, white silk hose, and blue satin shoes with high red heels and enormous diamond buckles. He carried the Oberhofmarshall's staff of office in his left hand, and on his breast shone the insignia of several high orders. His curled wig was much powdered, and his healthy, coarse face seemed to gain in refinement thereby, softened in outline by the white hair. Very fine was the bow he made as he said: 'Mademoiselle, may I entreat the honour of your hand for the pavane? Serenissimus dances in the same set. You know the pavane?' he added anxiously. 'His Highness is quicker to detect a fault in dancing than to pardon it.'

Wilhelmine had danced the pavane with M. Gabriel in the schoolhouse at GÜstrow, and he had told her that her dancing was perfect enough for the court of France itself; so she accepted Monsieur de Stafforth's hand without hesitation.

He led her to the middle of the dancing-hall, and stood beside her, waiting for the Duke to give the sign to the musicians to commence. It was scarcely correct for Wilhelmine to dance in the Duke's pavane before she had been presented to his Highness, but Stafforth told her that the Duke desired all presentations to be made in the pause after the figure dance, which was to take place later in the evening. Wilhelmine reflected that she would be at liberty to observe Eberhard Ludwig at her leisure during the dance. She looked round, but the Duke was not yet visible. Stafforth pointed to an alcove, telling her that his Highness was there talking to Madame de Geyling. At length the curtains of the recess were pushed aside and a tall figure appeared. Eberhard Ludwig, Duke of Wirtemberg, leading his favourite, Madame de Geyling, by the hand. A princely figure indeed, thought Wilhelmine, as she bent low in the elaborate courtesy with which the dancers greeted their Duke. He was tall and slight, dressed in ivory-coloured satin; his breast glittered with magnificent orders, the broad orange ribbon of the newly instituted Prussian order of the Black Eagle being the only variation in the uniform whiteness of his attire. He looked the very figure of a prince of romance, and the gentlemen who bowed before him seemed to be popinjays in their over-gorgeous clothes.

He stood for a moment, his blue eyes flashing round the circle of dancers, then he raised his hand in sign to the musicians to commence, and turning to Madame de Geyling bowed profoundly. The music rang out in the stately measure of the pavane, and the dance began: the ladies gliding, bowing, bending, their fans raised above their heads, then pressed to their bosoms as they bowed again; the cavaliers no whit behind them in elegance and grace. The court of Versailles itself had not danced better, for to dance badly meant disgrace with the Duke of Wirtemberg.

The pavane ended, and Monsieur de Stafforth led Wilhelmine to a seat near the daÏs, where she found Madame de Ruth resplendent in a green court dress. The two ladies settled down to await the beginning of the figure dance, in which the Duke himself was to take part. Madame de Ruth, voluble as usual, questioned Wilhelmine closely upon the events of the evening, and her face fell when she heard that the girl had not been presented to his Highness—nay, more, had danced near him without his deigning to notice her. 'Well, my dear, never mind,' said Madame de Ruth, 'the most victorious armies may suffer defeat at first.' As will be seen by this speech, the object of Wilhelmine's campaign was no longer a mystery, and the intriguers now spoke openly before their intended tool. She knew that her goal was Eberhard Ludwig himself, and the future seemed good to her since she had seen Eberhard Ludwig. Also it all spelt 'fine clothes, fine living, fine linen, gaiety, and perhaps power,' and as she had once said to her friend Anna Reinhard at GÜstrow, without these she could not imagine happiness. 'Mon enfant, it is serious though,' Madame de Ruth was saying, 'the Duke never looked at you? you are sure? Ah! he was staring at that odious Geyling, I dare swear! Lord God! how I hate that woman! She once asked me if I had any children, and when I said "no," she inquired if I had any grandchildren!'

Wilhelmine laughed. 'She might have grandchildren herself, I think,' she said.

'Yes, my child, if you scraped the paint you might find the grandmother beneath. Indeed, the Geyling is nearly as old as I am,' laughed Madame de Ruth, delighted at Wilhelmine's judgment of the woman whom she hated. 'But see,' she continued, 'here comes the figure dance.' As she spoke the doors at the end of the dancing-hall opened, and the musicians in the gallery began to play a lilting strain. Quite slowly through the gilded doors came a tiny figure dressed in wreaths of leaves and flowers, a golden bow in his hand, and at his side a miniature quiver filled with paper arrows. 'The Geyling's nephew,' said Madame de Ruth, 'and the only good thing about her! A charmingly naughty child, who they hope, however, will play his Cupid's rÔle to-night, though he is as likely as not to do exactly the reverse, for he is by nature a god of mischief!'

The child walked solemnly to the centre of the hall, and there began to dance a rapid skipping measure, waving his bow over his head the while.

The onlookers burst into applause. Then the music softened to an accompaniment, and boys' voices from the musicians' loft sang in parts.

'Bad verses, my dear,' grunted Madame de Ruth, 'yet a pretty air. They say the Geyling wrote the rhymes—that explains it!' But her grumble was lost to Wilhelmine, who was observing the entry of four rather lightly clad nymphs, who came forward in a graceful swaying line, encircling the child, who stood stock-still in the midst wondering, poor mite, if this long game would soon be ended. At length the four nymphs sank to their knees before the boy, holding out their arms to him, while the voices in the gallery warbled with ever-increasing rapture.

The child ran from one kneeling figure to the other: first to Mademoiselle de Gemmingen, then to Mademoiselle de VarnbÜller, to Mademoiselle de Reischach, and before his aunt, Madame de Geyling, the little fellow stopped and took his aim, with his bow and paper arrows. Everything was going admirably, never had this Cupid behaved so exactly as arranged. Already the Geyling was feigning to fall backwards in affected alarm, when Cupid whipped round saying, in a high childish treble, 'Non, ma tante, je ne te choisis pas, tu es trop mÉchante!'

An audible titter went round the audience, for the Geyling was universally disliked. Cupid now thoroughly entering into the mischief of the game, ran round the group of nymphs calling out, 'Ni toi! Ni toi! Je cherche une vraie reine!' He paused irresolute for a moment, then, catching sight of Wilhelmine's smiling face, he made a dash for her, exclaiming loudly, 'Je te choisis, jolie dame!' and he shot his paper arrow straight at her breast. There was a pause of consternation among the dancers; this upset all the plans; and how could an untrained stranger execute the elaborate step of the dance especially invented by his Highness's own dancing-master for this occasion?

There was commotion in the audience: men pressed forward to observe the scene, women fluttered their fans and whispered together, the three nymphs tittered weakly, while Madame de Geyling stood in the middle of the hall with heaving bosom and angry face. Madame de Ruth was laughing, and even the Duchess had risen from her chair and was leaning on Madame de Stafforth's shoulder, smiling and nodding. Wilhelmine had caught Cupid up in her arms, and he was laughing and shouting and sticking the little paper arrows in her hair. The musicians ceased playing, waiting for the chosen nymph to begin the 'Dance of Joy,' which preceded the entrance of the Duke in the character of Prince Charming.

Wilhelmine whispered to Madame de Ruth: 'What shall I do? I don't know the dance—the Duke would never forgive—advise me quickly!'

'Don't dance, but make the Duke notice you,' whispered the old woman.

The girl rose, Cupid still in her arms, and began to walk slowly across the hall towards the door whence the Duke must appear. The musicians, mistaking her for some personage of the masque, struck up the 'Dance of Joy.' Now Wilhelmine possessed immense dramatic perceptions, also she knew she could dance, so without hesitation she began to execute a long sliding measure in perfect harmony with the music, though it was, of course, an impromptu of her own. She danced half-way round the hall, holding Cupid high in the air in her strong arms. Meanwhile the Duke, all unknowing, appeared in the doorway in his appointed place. Wilhelmine glided up to him, and sinking on one knee with Cupid held up to his Highness, she said, 'Cupid has made a mistake, Monseigneur. He was always a blind god. Pardon, Monseigneur, and permit Sa MajestÉ l'Amour to choose again!' With that she set the child down and ran through the door past the Duke, who, astounded, remained standing holding Cupid by the hand. He heard the applause which had broken forth in the hall, and he saw the Geyling's furious face, and, realising that something unexpected had occurred, he came forward quickly.

'A mistake, Madame,' he said shortly as he reached the Geyling. 'Let us endeavour to obliterate it by your grace!' And he commanded the musicians to play the new dance, but he danced unevenly, constantly glancing in the direction of the door where Wilhelmine had disappeared. Madame de Ruth watched for a moment, and then, with a nod to Stafforth who stood beside the daÏs in evident perplexity, she turned and went to seek Wilhelmine.

The next day Stuttgart talked much of the handsome stranger whom Cupid had chosen to dance with the Duke, and conjecture was rife as to who she could be. Then it leaked out that she was to sing in the theatricals that night, and the curious, which means each person in or near a court, were on tiptoe with expectation.

Many looked for her at the stag-hunt in the Red Wood that day, and Madame de Ruth, who had the reputation of knowing everything, was fairly besieged by questioners. She told them so little, though in so many words, that they were all the more anxious to be informed further. But what part was the unknown to take in the theatricals? they asked among themselves. She had not been seen at the rehearsals—strange—but Madame de Ruth assured them that the mysterious one was indeed to sing that night.

The chosen piece was La Fontaine's Coupe EnchantÉe, a pretty thing, and even decorous enough for the hearing of Johanna Elizabetha; new too in Stuttgart, though Paris had already forgotten it.

You may imagine that the invited guests were in their places at the theatre in good time. Behind the scenes there was much bustle and confusion. His Highness Eberhard Ludwig, to say the least of it, was perturbed; he ran from dressing-room to dressing-room, knocking and inquiring if the players were there. When he came to the dressing-room set apart for Madame de Geyling the door was opened suddenly, almost knocking his Highness on the nose, and an angry face appeared through the door's aperture. One side of this face was painted for the stage, while the other was only adorned with the pigments with which the Geyling was accustomed to hide her ageing features. The Duke smiled: I regret to say he actually laughed, and this laugh provoked a torrent of angry words from the lady. His Highness retired discomfited, and there were whispers behind the scenes of how this must be one of the closing dramas of this lady's reign.

The curtain parted and the comedy began. At first the audience paid but scant attention to the play, but soon a severe glance from the Duchess silenced the whispering crowd.

Madame de Ruth's laughter led the chorus of approval at each subtle speech, and they said 'Ah oui! que c'est fin!' when she said it, for they did not trust their own judgment. The Duke of Zollern leaned his chin on the back of his hands, which he had crossed over the porcelain handle of his stick. He was not amused; he thought it dull, which it was. The Duchess paid no attention to the play; she was watching, in her ponderous way, the marked respect and affection which Eberhard Ludwig succeeded in showing Madame de Geyling even through his acting, and she suffered, this poor, dull woman. Madame de Stafforth sat near her, saying nothing as usual. Friedrich GrÄvenitz stood leaning against the pillar by the entrance to the parterre, looking handsome and sombre. La Coupe EnchantÉe went on its gay, subtle way, and was followed by an allegorical dance—a medley of gods and goddesses, of conventional shepherds and shepherdesses; a graceful enough conceit withal, but involved and not very amusing. At the end there came the only scene which appeared to interest her Highness Johanna Elizabetha: the little Erbprinz, her son, came on the stage dressed as Mars the God of War, and was greeted with homage from the other gods. Poor Johanna Elizabetha applauded and kissed her hands to him, while she recounted to Madame de Stafforth a hundred details of the child's health.

The curtain fell, and the audience prepared to depart. Disappointment was rife, for the stranger had failed to appear, and it seemed that the comedy was finished. The Duchess, who had been seated in the foremost row of chairs, was already moving away followed by her suite, when the musicians recommenced to play, and it was whispered through the assemblage that the Envoi had yet to be performed. Very slowly the curtain was drawn aside and a darkened stage disclosed. For a moment the music ceased, then took up a haunting melody as a tall, white figure approached down the almost unlit stage. It was a young woman in flowing, classic draperies—a goddess she looked; and after the mincing shepherdesses and their artificial, conventional mannerisms, this woman came as a breath from Nature's grandeur, young, forceful, untrammelled. She came right down to the half-lit footlights, and stood motionless during a bar or two of the music. And then she sang, and the audience, tittering curiously before, remained spellbound, awe-struck, as the first notes of that matchless voice smote upon their hearing. She sang of the sadness of the ending of comedies, of the regret which lingers in the remembrance of past laughter. In a couplet of passionate melancholy she asked, where are the roses of yesterday? whither vanish the songs of to-day?

Changing verse and melody to a soft rÉcitatif, she begged her hearers to give good favour to the evening's festivities. She reminded them that the merry company would soon disperse for many months; she wished them peace and happiness, and she prayed that another spring would find the company reunited once again. 'Mars, God of War, hold thy hand; touch not this fair country!'

In her singing she had struck that note of regret which never leaves an audience unmoved; she appealed to the sadness which lingers for ever in the heart of man, and, after the vapid brilliancies of La Fontaine's comedy, the strain had all the greater power to stir. Wilhelmine, an unseen spectator at many rehearsals of the theatricals, had calculated this to a nicety, with an artist's instinct for playing upon human nature and emotion.

There were women among the audience who knew that ere the following spring many of those they loved might be shot down by French bullets; there were men in the parterre who knew this, and a wave of emotion swept over the whole audience. To the singer herself all this hardly mattered; the human hearts were merely instruments upon which she played a melody; yet her receptive, finely strung being thrilled in response to the feeling she evoked; a half-sob rose in her throat and flooded her flexible voice with a passion of sadness. When the song ended, there came a moment's breathless silence, then the applause broke forth, and Wilhelmine knew she had achieved a triumph.

In the banqueting-hall Duke Eberhard's guests were seated at a magnificent repast. Five hundred ladies and gentlemen at long tables on a raised platform, while in the lower portion of the hall the burghers of Stuttgart were regaled with wine and cake. Her Highness Johanna Elizabetha sat at one table with her retinue; Serenissimus at another with his suite and closest friends, at his right hand was Madame de Geyling. Stafforth was seated at this table, Madame de Ruth was there also, Monseigneur the Duke of Zollern, of course, and Prelate Osiander. The Geyling discussed the comedy. Lifting her glass she toasted Eberhard Ludwig: 'I drink to your Highness from la Coupe EnchantÉe,' she murmured; but the Duke answered absently, and Madame de Ruth smiled when he asked Stafforth, 'Where is the goddess of sound? Has she vanished with her divine song?' He was told that the lady had retired to rerobe herself. 'Robe herself, you mean!' said the Geyling sharply, 'she had, in truth, little to remove!' She spoke quickly to the Duke in an undertone, but his Highness turned away and commanded Stafforth to present the singer directly she appeared.

The Geyling bit her underlip—there was a pause in the talk at the Duke's table.

At length a door near the platform opened, and Wilhelmine appeared. No one noticed her at first, and she stood for a moment hesitating in the doorway; then Madame de Ruth espied her, and, craving the Duke's pardon, she rose and went to Wilhelmine and, taking her by the hand, led her towards the Duke. It was necessary to pass the Duchess's table; Wilhelmine immediately recognised her Highness, and as she passed she swept Johanna Elizabetha a deep courtesy. It was gracefully done, and the neglected lady, unaccustomed to be treated with even ordinary consideration, responded by an amiable smile. As they approached the Duke, his Highness rose and came forward to meet them. He had seen Wilhelmine's spontaneous good manners and was gratified thereby. Nothing gratifies a grand seigneur more than the grand manner, and in return to Wilhelmine's inclination his Highness bowed as though to a queen.

'Mademoiselle, I am deeply in your debt,' he said; 'it would be banal to thank you for your divine music, yet permit me to say that I would willingly keep you for ever as my creditor, if you would but promise to make my debt the greater by singing to me again—and soon.'

'Monseigneur, you do me too much honour,' she responded, sinking to the ground in another courtesy.

'To a feast of the gods you would be welcome, Mademoiselle; but as we are not in Olympus, let me, at least, lead the Goddess of Song to my poor table for refreshment.' So saying, his Highness offered his hand and led her to his table. He presented her to Madame de Geyling, who gave her a bitter-sweet smile and paid her the compliment of turning her back upon her. The Duke plied his guest with food and wine, declaring that ambrosia and nectar were better fitted for her; he toasted her; he praised her; he exhausted his knowledge of mythology in her honour, calling her Melpomene, the tragic Muse, for had she not made men weep with her song that very night? Song, did he say? nay, hymn it was! She was Polyhymnia, singer of sublimity. He named her PhilomÈle, and desired the lute of Orpheus that he might play an accompaniment to her wondrous singing. He asked her in which enchanted ocean she had lived. 'Mademoiselle SirÈne, lurer of men's souls,' he called her.

Wilhelmine spoke little in answer to all this, but she acted her part well, smiling at him with glistening eyes. Indeed, she found no difficulty herein, for her heart had played a cleverer trick than ever her brain had devised—she was falling in love with Eberhard Ludwig of Wirtemberg. When supper was over the Duke rose, and, in defiance of etiquette, desired Stafforth to accompany Madame de Geyling, while he himself led Mademoiselle de GrÄvenitz from the banqueting-hall. They passed on to the terrace, above the outer colonnade of the Lusthaus, and stood together looking down on the garden, and the strains from the instruments of the musicians hidden in the bowers floated up to them.

'I hardly dare propose it, Mademoiselle,' said the Duke after some moments' silence, 'but the garden is very fair to-night; would you honour me by accepting my arm and taking a short stroll towards the fountain? Only a few minutes, the night is so beautiful—come and look at the stars with me!'

She hesitated; but the man's face was so noble, so open. Why not? 'Monseigneur, I know not,' she whispered.

'Mademoiselle, I entreat. If you knew how I hate these crowded rooms. I am a soldier, and I love the memory of those nights encamped in the open, when I left my tent and wandered alone beneath the stars. Forstner—you know Forstner? No? Well—a good friend, yet always at my elbow with rebukes and etiquette! Well—old Forstner used to chide me, saying it was not fitting for a reigning Duke to wander alone "like a ridiculous poet-fellow philandering with the stars," as he called it. Ah! Mademoiselle, will you leave the Duke here on the balcony, and come and look at the stars with the ridiculous poet-fellow? will you?'

Who could resist him, this man with the pleading eyes and deep, strong voice? And Wilhelmine, coming from Mecklemburg to make a career, had begun it already, God knows! by falling in love with the Duke. They went down the steps leading to the garden, and in silence walked along the path towards the fountain. The moon played white over the flowers, and the sound of the violins, harps, and zithers faded away in the distance. They reached an old stone seat beneath a beech-tree and sat down. Before them the fountain rose, like some shimmering witch in the moonlight.

'Sing me a snatch of some song, Mademoiselle,' said Eberhard Ludwig. 'There is no one near; sing to me once, to me alone—to the silly poet-fellow!'

'Nay, Monseigneur,' she answered tremulously, 'I cannot sing—my heart is beating in my throat somehow.' He looked at her in the moonlight.

'Mademoiselle de GrÄvenitz,' he said, 'I have never been so happy, yet so unutterably sad, as at this moment. I—I—Mademoiselle——' and his voice broke. He took her hand in his and, raising it to his lips, kissed it once, twice, then in a husky voice he said, 'We must go back.' He rose from the seat, offering her his arm. He led her up the dark garden-path and into the glitter of lights in the ante-hall of the Lusthaus, where Madame de Stafforth stood ready to depart, waiting for Wilhelmine. The Duke sent Stafforth for Mademoiselle's cloak, and when he brought it, his Highness himself wrapped it round her. As he did so, his hand involuntarily touched the soft skin of her shoulder, and Eberhard Ludwig flushed to the edge of his white curled peruke as he murmured: 'Au revoir, PhilomÈle!' and Wilhelmine daringly whispered back: 'Au revoir, gentil poÈte.'