And thus it was to-day, on the fourth of July, when the king, who had passed the day before in great pain and distress, felt wonderfully refreshed and restored on awaking. He sent for the members of his cabinet at four o'clock in the morning, and worked with them until eight, dictating dispatches and lengthy administrative documents, which bore witness to the vigor of his mind. At eight o'clock he desired that his friends should pay him a visit, and conversed with them as gayly and wittily as in the long-gone-by days of unbroken health. He laughed and jested about his own weakness and decrepitude so amiably, that Count Lucchesini could not refrain from giving utterance to his delight, and hailing the king as a convalescent. "My dear count," said Frederick, shrugging his shoulders, "you are right; I will soon be well, but in another sense than the one you mean. You take the last flare of the lamp for a steady flame. My dear count, darkness will soon convince you that you are wrong. But I will profit by this transient light, and will persuade myself that I am well. Gentlemen, with your leave I will avail myself of the bright sunshine and take a ride. Order Condé to be saddled." "But, sire!" cried Lucchesini, in dismay. A glance from Frederick silenced the count. "Sir," said he, severely, "while I still live, I must be addressed with no 'buts.'" The count bowed in silence, and followed the other two gentlemen who were leaving the room. Frederick followed his favorite with a look of lively sympathy, and, as Lucchesini was about to cross the threshold, called him back. The count turned quickly, and walked back to the king. Frederick raised his hand and pointed to the window through which the sunshine and green foliage of the trees could be seen. "Look how beautiful that is, Lucchesini! Do you not consider this a fine summer day?" "Yes, sire, a very fine summer day; but it is to be hoped we shall have many more such; and if your majesty would be quiet for the next few days, you would, with increased strength, be better able to enjoy them." "And yet I will carry out my intention, you obstinate fellow," exclaimed the king, smiling. "But I tell you I will never recover, and I have a question to ask. If you had lived together with intimate friends for long years, and were compelled to take your departure and leave them, would you not desire to bid them adieu, and say to them, 'Farewell! I thank you!' Or would you leave your friends like a thief in the night, without a word of greeting?" "No, sire, that I would certainly not do," replied Lucchesini. "I would throw my arms around my friend's neck, and take leave of him with tears and kisses."