"I will tell you. The king made love to Signora Barberini, who preferred the son of the grand chancellor and his majesty fears you will follow a bad example. But have you no friends among the men?"
"I like Francis Benda, his majesty's first violin, very much. There is much to unite us. He led a gipsy life in his youth, as I did. He has, like myself, very little fondness for the greatness of this world, and has preferred liberty to wealth. He has often told me that he fled from the Court of Saxony, to enjoy the wandering, joyous, and miserable life of the artists of the high road. The world is not aware that there are on the road, and on the street, artists of great merit. An old blind Jew, amid mountains and valleys, had educated Benda. His name was Lœbel, and Benda always spoke of him with admiration, though the old man died on a truss of straw, or perhaps in a ditch. Before he devoted his attention to the violin, Francis Benda had a superb voice, and was a professional singer. Sorrow and trouble destroyed his voice. In pure air, and leading a wandering life, he acquired a new talent; his genius found a new outlet, and from this wandering conservatory emerged the magnificent artist, whose presence the King of Prussia does not disdain in his private concerts. George Benda, his youngest brother, is also full of talent, and is, by turns, either an epicurean or a misanthrope. His strange mind is not always amiable, but he is always interesting. I think he will not be able _to get in line_, like his other brothers, who now bear with resignation the golden chain of royal favoritism. He, whether because he is younger, or because his nature is indomitable, always talks of flying. He is so terribly afflicted here with _ennui_, that it is a pleasure to me to sympathize with him."
"Do you not fear that this communion of _ennui_ will lead to a more tender sentiment? This would not be the first time that love sprang from _ennui_."
"I neither fear nor hope it," said Consuelo. "I feel that it will never be the case. I have told you, my dear Amelia, that something strange is going on within my mind. Since Albert's death, I think of, and can love, no one but him. I think that this is the first time that love sprang from death, and yet this has happened to me. I cannot console myself for not having made one worthy of happiness happy, and this tenacious regret has become a fixed idea--a kind of passion--a folly, perhaps."